As for me and my household, we will serve the LORD. // Joshua 24:15 With a puzzled look my friend said to me, “We invited your son over this afternoon, but he said you had a church thing . . .”  I could see she was trying to figure out what kind of church thing we’d be attending on a Saturday afternoon. In truth, our family was scheduled to go to Confession, and while I was flexible enough to look for a different Confession time, I wasn’t willing to miss the Sacrament entirely. It’s not unusual to have to navigate questions about why we don’t just skip Mass or the Sacrament of Reconciliation, especially with our busy family schedule. Or we’re asked why we won't see that movie or let our sons download that song. It’s a constant minefield trying to live in the world, but not of it, and, as a parent, trying to find a balance between too permissive and too restrictive. But what other choice is there? I believe that Jesus is the Son of God and I have made the decision to love and serve Him. The First Reading says it plainly: “As for me and my household, we will serve the LORD” (Joshua 24:15). That means that you and I will live our lives differently than the rest of the world. Sometimes, it’s not too difficult and we witness the fruit of our efforts. Other times it can be arduous, especially when we are ridiculed or lose friends or suffer strained family relationships. That is when we need to lean on Jesus more and ask for His grace to remain strong, while maintaining a spirit of charity and humility.  Are you serving the Lord in your words, thoughts, and actions? Or perhaps your heart is heavy from the cost of following Christ. Either way, open your heart and speak to the Lord about it.  Jesus, we desire to live for you entirely. Reveal to us any areas in our lives that are not serving You. Please strengthen us when we feel weak or scorned. We love You. Amen.

Philip said to him, "Come and see." // John 1:46 A good friend of mine has a pretty amazing conversion story. He was living a completely secular life among the rich and famous in Los Angeles, when an acquaintance invited him to attend an Easter Vigil Mass. Before that Mass was over, he knew he wanted to become Catholic. He walked away from his previous life entirely, converted, and he’s now a Benedictine monk! Today we celebrate the Feast of Saint Bartholomew (also called Nathanael in the Gospel). He was from Cana of Galilee, and became one of the twelve Apostles. Jesus famously praised him, saying, “In him there is no guile” (John 1:47), which is also translated, “In him there is no duplicity.”  Tradition says Bartholomew preached the Faith and won converts in India and Armenia. There he eventually suffered perhaps the most visually spectacular martyrdom of all the Apostles, being . . . skinned. Saint John Lateran Church in Rome features larger-than-life marble sculptures of each of the Apostles, and Saint Bartholomew’s is particularly memorable, as the saint holds a flaying knife and his own skin! He is the patron saint of Armenia, amongst other places, and of various trades that work with animal skins, including tanners, bookbinders, and shoemakers. But none of that would have been possible had not his friend Philip said to him, “Come and see” (John 1:46), and brought him to Jesus. That’s what happened to my friend as well. Both of their lives were forever changed by a friend’s invitation.  To whom in our lives could we say, “Come and see”? Maybe it’s an invitation to join us for Mass or Confession. Maybe it’s opening our home, having friends over for dinner, giving them a glimpse into what Catholic family life looks like. Maybe it’s sharing a spiritual book that’s been meaningful to us, or suggesting a faithful Catholic website. You never know how transformational one simple invitation might be.

I will put my spirit in you that you may live [ . . . ] I have promised, and I will do it, says the LORD. // Ezekiel 37:14 Road tripping with my three kids a few summers ago, we listened to the entire Chronicles of Narnia series by C.S. Lewis. In The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, the four main character children are nervous to meet Aslan, the great Lion who represents Jesus throughout the allegory. One of them asks whether Aslan is quite safe. The incredulous answer comes back from their companion: “'Course he isn't safe. But he's good.” Sometimes the imagery in the Bible is so familiar that I catch myself glossing over it, not thinking about what it would really be like. In today’s First Reading (see Ezekiel 37:1-14), God placed Ezekiel in a field of dry bones, spreading in every direction as far as his eyes could see. Imagine what it felt like to walk there, how unsteady and uncomfortable and horrifying it would be to tread on the bones of others. Now imagine the Lord has told you to prophesy and bring them back to life. The bones arise all around you, thousands of them, clattering together in a macabre cacophony before being covered with sinew and flesh. The sensory experience would be overwhelming. Can you imagine the smells? The chilling sight of hundreds of living bodies without souls? Ezekiel (in a vision, but still!) was basically surrounded by zombies.  And what is his stance towards the Lord? He waits as if saying, What next, Lord? What should I do next? Here’s my point: we expect healing to be tidy. We hope God’s plan will unfold in a predictable, measured way. But sometimes His way is noisy, messy, smelly. He asks us to obey Him one bizarre and horrifying step at a time. And when we continue to say yes, no matter how shocking the assignment, God works.  God will always outdo us in faithfulness. Ezekiel went from a field of dry bones to hope for an entire nation. Do you doubt that God can redeem the dry bones in your life? Keep walking forward in obedience and brace yourself: He may not always feel safe, but He is good.

He raises up the lowly from the dust; from the dunghill he lifts up the poorTo seat them with princes, with the princes of his own people. // Psalm 113:7-8 One of my favorite places to go to daily Mass is a beautiful church called the Church of Saint Mary—dedicated to our Blessed Mother. Set into the high altar piece above the tabernacle is a beautiful mosaic of the Coronation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. She is seated on a cloud in the center with her Son on her right and the Father on her left together holding a crown above her head, and the Holy Spirit as a dove hovers above her while little angel heads rim the upper part of the mosaic. One morning last summer, I sat in meditation with that image during Adoration. I was praying with the Parable of the Prodigal Son (see Luke 15:11-32), imagining myself in the scene coming repentant to the Father, intending to offer myself as a servant. In a single instant I felt the Holy Spirit showing me the Father throwing His cloak over me, calling me His daughter, but not just that—showing me that, like Mary, I am meant to receive the crown of Heaven, to be “another Mary.” She, the most perfect of human women, received the crown, so that we all would receive it with her. Sister, I don’t know where you are on your journey with the Lord, if you are struggling to pull yourself out of sin, feeling the drudgery of your daily life, or frustrated at your inability to be consistent in your resolutions. The Lord wants to wrap you in His cloak of mercy and place the grace-filled crown of daughtership on your head. I know the idea is daunting, but “[d]o not be afraid” (Luke 1:30) for the Lord to lift you up from the dust of your fallenness (see Psalm 113:7). Ask the Blessed Mother to embolden you with the faith to say with her in today’s Gospel, “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word" (Luke 1:38). And the “Holy Spirit will come upon you” (Luke 1:35) and transform your life into one of true daughterhood.

The Lord is my Shepherd; there is nothing I lack. //  Psalm 23:1 My companion and I arrived on mission to begin a branch house for my religious community. We drove a donated car across five states to an old rectory, set our bags down, greeted a few parish workers, and cleaned into the night. This was adventure enough, but when we went to rest, I realized we didn’t have pillowcases, sheets, or hangers, for that matter.  The next day, my phone lit up with an unknown number three times. I picked up on the fourth, not knowing the person on the other end would change my heart.  Miss Kelly’s voice was seasoned and tenacious, “Honey, I don’t have much, but I have more than you do. I know what it means to move with nothing. So, tell me what you need. I’ve got a pen and paper.” Stunned by her generosity, I struggled to keep up with her rapid-fire questions.  “Do you need paper towels?” “Yes.”  “Do you need hand soap?” “Yes.” And on she went.  Miss Kelly finally slowed down when I volunteered that we could use hangers. “Well, good. Alright then, Sister. Anything else?”  That day, I learned so much about love.  Over time, I learned how Miss Kelly fought for faith through poverty and her husband’s death. Years later, we finally visited her home and saw she was poor. I marveled at her giant heart. Over the course of our friendship, I grew in reverence for how she allowed God to expand her heart over decades. She embodied compassion—to suffer with. Her love for the Cross made her undaunted in befriending and helping us in those early months when everything was new.  Miss Kelly had a shepherd’s heart, which the Lord requires of those who lead His flock in the First Reading (see Ezekiel 34:8). She knew how to bear the heat of the day like the workers in the Gospel (see Matthew 20:12). She showed me how to love from my littleness and faithfully shepherd those He puts under my care. May the Lord bless us and teach us to live our vocations with His Shepherd’s Heart.

“Father, they are your gift to me.” // John 17: 24 (From Gospel for the Memorial of St. Bernard) I quickly opened the envelope addressed with my name and began reading the contents of the letter right there in the chapel. I was going to enter a Carmelite Monastery very soon and any amount of spiritual encouragement was like balm to my soul. This friend shared a quote that a priest mentioned in a homily: “The Lord gives back to us the gift of ourselves.” I only realized afterwards, while listening to the audio version of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux’s writings while in the convent—the Saint whom the Church honors today—that this quote was based on his writings.  In Chapter Five of his work On Loving God, he writes, “In the first creation He gave me myself; but in His new creation He gave me Himself, and by that gift restored to me the self that I had lost” (source). Before entering the convent I thought I knew who I was, that I had so much to give, that I had found what I was looking for. However, upon entering the enclosure of Carmel, all of my securities fell to the ground and only the Lord could restore what had been shattered in me: my dreams, my longings, myself. During that year in the convent, the Lord remade me and gave me back to myself.  The Father takes us and remakes us through the merits of His Son, restoring to us our giftedness, our dignity, the truth of who we are. Our identity as gift—as one meant to be given and received in love—takes on an even deeper meaning when we understand that Christ not only gained this for us through His sacrifice on the Cross, but that He did this as the Father’s will. The Father wanted to give us as a gift to the Son, but first gave the Son as a gift to us. And in the beautiful mystery and exchange of love that is the Trinity, Christ wants to give us right back as gifts to the Father. Sister, you and I were created on purpose, with care, as gifts to be treasured. 

Jesus said to him, “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.” // Matthew 19:21 It’s easy for me to check off boxes, to fall into the habit of doing what I am supposed to be doing for the sake of doing—even things like prayer or other spiritual habits. Of course these things are typically born of love, and often motivated by love, but they can also slip into a steady rhythm of doing—and it is in that mindless place that love can fade away. We become robotic, and automatic, and we fall out of touch with the source.  See, the rich young man in today’s Gospel had it all on paper (see Matthew 19:16-22). He followed the commandments faithfully, and he couldn’t understand what more he could possibly lack. But Jesus desired for him to see something deeper, something transcendent, something beyond action, the thing only born in a free act of love—to give up everything and follow. This sort of following is far beyond the physical. Perhaps, in the case of the young man, he was truly meant to literally follow Jesus in His traveling ministry—but for us, for you and me, our following takes place in a quieter, more hidden way. We follow when we stop to listen to a child in the middle of a hurried afternoon. We follow when we meet one another with a smile even when we don’t feel it inside. We follow when we set aside the task at hand to spend a moment in prayer. We follow when we sacrifice and when we struggle. We follow when we love. There is something deeper here than just acting like a believer, something deeper than doing all the right things. Am I really ready to lay down whatever is holding me back—my attachments, my habits, my vices, even the many good things in my life—so that I can offer myself completely in love to Love Himself. Am I ready to follow?

Let whoever is simple turn in here; To the one who lacks understanding, she says, Come, eat of my food, and drink of the wine I have mixed! // Proverbs 9:4-5 One of my favorite children’s books is about a young mouse named Marble. He lives in King Solomon’s palace and Marble’s father instructs Marble to listen to all he hears because King Solomon is such a wise king. A secondary character who steals the show with her proverb-dropping is the wise hawk named Wisdom. Now hawks and mice don't traditionally have easy friendships, but after a rather frightening beginning, little Marble is instructed by his parents that, if their old friend Wisdom is with him, he may leave the palace. Adventures and lessons ensue in the subsequent chapters about friendship choices, how we spend leisure time, and other important life lessons.   The character of the hawk is based on the biblical personification of Wisdom found throughout the Scriptures. In today’s First Reading, Wisdom is portrayed as a woman setting up her home and inviting others (see Proverbs 9:1-6). In both these examples, wisdom is represented as something or someone present and inviting. She sends out her maidens, inviting all who are simple and lack understanding to forsake foolishness and advance in understanding. Wisdom is pursuing the simple and humble among us, inviting us to something greater.  Even now Wisdom still instructs and guides. As we enter her house and open ourselves to her influence, she brings us closer to the Lord. It is not about growing in intelligence so that we can show everyone how smart we are—rather it is about growing in humility, docility, and obedience so that we may serve the kingdom of God. A desire to grow in wisdom is simply a desire to grow in understanding of God and His Will.  Wisdom is calling to each of us, ready to instruct and guide. How will you answer her invitation today?

Therefore I will judge you, house of Israel, each one according to his ways, says the Lord GOD. // Ezekiel 18:30 As a teacher, I enjoy the buzz of anticipation before a new school year, preparing to welcome new students, wondering what the year will hold for them and me. I imagine parents have similar thoughts as they send their children back to school, entrusting them to new teachers, partners in forming their children. It’s a time of year that comes with feelings of excitement and trepidation. I think parents and teachers feel a similar responsibility when it comes to forming the children entrusted to them. Much thought, work, and effort go into presenting truth, beauty, and goodness with love and care, desiring their academic and spiritual growth. Years of teaching, though, has taught me that I can desire every good thing for my students, I can give them 110 percent of myself in the classroom every day, come up with the best lesson plans, encourage them, support them, and provide everything they need to succeed, but their success is not just about what I do. They must consciously receive what is given and respond. So much of a person’s success (or failure) comes down to choosing to respond to everything that has been provided. Our Heavenly Father looks at us the same way, and He provides everything we need to grow into the Saints He created us to be—our job is to respond to that grace.  Similarly, we are not responsible for what the souls entrusted to us choose to do in response to all we provide for them. We are only responsible for providing it to the best of our abilities. Our responsibility is to have hearts open and ready to respond to the manifold graces given to us by a Father Who loves us more than we can imagine. In the end, we will be judged according to our ways, not theirs. Sister, today, surrender to the Father those people in your life whose decisions you feel responsible for, and beg the light to know how to receive more fully the graces offered to you, right now, to become a Saint. 

No one looked on you with pity or compassion to do any of these things for you. // Ezekiel 16:5 “It’s time for us to stop living like abandoned orphans.”  The accuracy of my husband’s description made me laugh. Our lives had been recently rocked by loss of family and support. The Lord Who had tenderly cared for us through a season of deep sorrow now prompted us to move forward in hope because of Who He is.  “You were neither washed with water nor anointed, nor were you rubbed with salt, nor swathed in swaddling clothes. No one looked on you with pity or compassion to do any of these things for you. Rather, you were thrown out on the ground as something loathsome” (Ezekiel 16:4-5). If you feel deeply understood by the opening lines of today’s First Reading, the Lord has a clear message for you. If you have ever felt abandoned, neglected, or forgotten by someone who was meant to love you, the Lord is closer to you than you can imagine.  The Lord is the One Who sees all your pain, coping, strategizing, and loneliness. He has never once abandoned, neglected, or forgotten you. Instead, as it is emphasized in the First Reading, He cares for you with immense, intentional love.  When we allow Him to hold us, we see that, in Him, we have all the love and support we require. When we offer our love in return, we become “exceedingly beautiful” because of His grace (see Ezekiel 16:13). “God is our Father. Mary is our Mother,” I affirmed in response to my husband. We smiled sincerely, because we knew it was the truth.  The anecdote to our heartbreaks and disappointments is the Savior. So what is your great need today? What tender places are stoked by those opening lines? Jesus has pity on you. He loves you; He is coming to save you.

He replied, “Rather, blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it.” // Luke 11:28 I was one of the last of my friends to get married. As someone who longed for motherhood from the time she was a teenager, watching friend after friend enter into the Sacrament of Matrimony and then have children was challenging. It was hard to avoid the comparison game. It was hard to not feel like I was “behind” on the timeline I’d created. And it was hard not to fall into lies from Catholic influencers stating, “Your life doesn’t start until you begin living your vocation as wife and mother.” The idolization of motherhood is a trap I’ve fallen into many times, both before and after having children of my own. Even within the Church, kids can become a status symbol, an indicator of who is a “good” Catholic and who is not. Motherhood has been twisted and misconstrued, and both secular and religious circles can fail to see it as gift.  So, it struck me right in between the eyes when Jesus’ response to the well-meaning woman in today’s Gospel, who is praising the Blessed Mother for mothering Him, is to gently correct her: “Rather, blessed are those who hear the word of God and observe it” (Luke 11:27-28). It wasn’t Mary’s motherhood that made her blessed or prepared the place in Heaven for her to be Assumed into—the Solemnity we celebrate today.* It was her listening and observing the Word of God that made her a Saint and the woman God chose to bear Christ.  Physical motherhood is beautiful and can certainly be sanctifying, but it is not the only path to sainthood and we should not believe the lie that our lives do not begin until we take a vow—whether in marriage or religious life. Our lives begin with Christ.  Sister, if you find yourself falling into idolization of motherhood or another state in life, I encourage you to turn to the Saints and read the lives of the diverse, holy men and women who are interceding for us as we strive to listen and observe the Word of God on our paths to Heaven.  *Don’t forget to go to Mass today! It is a Holy Day of Obligation for the Solemnity of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

“If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.” // Matthew 18:15 A priest offers his life in place of a father of a family in a concentration camp run by the Nazis. Both are unjustly imprisoned, but only one survives to tell the story. In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us how to deal with speaking the truth to those we are in conflict with or who have injured us. We are supposed to speak the truth first to the individual, then if need be, have witnesses to help us speak, then to have the truth known to the whole of our community and for the community to act together towards justice (see Matthew 18:15-20).  But what happens when our societies reject justice and truth and persecute people to the point of horrific genocide? How can we be a voice in the darkness when the time for words and civil discourse have been completely abandoned?  Saint Maximilian Kolbe, whose feast is today, provides an example for us. Saint Maximilian gave his own life to save the life of a Polish soldier from the starvation chambers in Auschwitz during the Second World War. In what must have felt like hell on earth, only the example of sacrificial love could rise above the evil that was taking place. It may have appeared as if Saint Maximilian only helped save the life of one man, but his example of holiness has reverberated through time and to a world broken by unfathomable evil.  If Saint Maximilian can offer his life for another in the face of evil with a courageous spirit, we too can speak words of truth with courage. We all have situations in our lives that need to have the truth spoken in love. It may even be within ourselves, to have the courage to listen to the voice of the Holy Spirit prompting our conscience to confess our sin. It may be approaching a sensitive issue with others in our lives with understanding and wisdom, but at the same time an unwavering commitment to the truth and charity.  Saint Maximilian Kolbe, intercede for us today; help us grow in love for Christ and His Church, and serve Him boldly in truth.

[T]urn and become like children. // Matthew 18:3 “LUNCH TIME!!” my little one blurted out as the bells rang during the time of consecration at Mass. I was shocked and a bit embarrassed that my son’s silly gesture was heard by those around us at such a special part of the Mass. My husband and I nervously locked eyes and couldn’t help but chuckle. I grew up surrounded by my faith. I attended parochial school, lived across the street from a church, and spent my summer in Catholic youth centers and camps. I remember the fun that came with being a follower of Christ, and was confident in it during my elementary school years. This is what I recognized in my son that day—obviously after some gentle shushing and explanation.  I sometimes wish I could recall the innocence that I had when I began to form my prayer life, the trust I had in this omnipotent God Who created everything—and Who wanted me to be a part of His creation. If I could experience this lightness in my faith once again, where I knew God loved me and I could talk to Him no matter what . . . Sister, there are many areas in our lives where we find ourselves in control or having more responsibility than we can handle at times. Juggling many obligations while trying to pretend that multitasking is an actual art. What it would be like to be little as we once were. In today’s Gospel, Jesus calls us to remember our childlike dependency on Him (see Matthew 18:1-5, 10, 12-14). He encourages us to be humble and turn from our ways of complicating our relationship with Him to become little again. This requires a change of direction if we trust Him enough to follow His invitation.  Our God takes delight in receiving us and finding us after we’ve gone astray. Take a deep breath and release the pressures of your relationship with Him. Be assured that He delights in your littleness, not in your ability to perform. At the end of it all, your truest identity is being His daughter. Allow yourself to turn and become like a child, once again.

Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting; the woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Give her a reward of her labors, and let her works praise her at the city gates. // Proverbs 31:30-31 (from Readings for Memorial of Saint Jane Frances de Chantal, religious) I had scooped out everything I could from the empty container that promised to give me long-lasting hydration and dewy skin. Washing my face with cold water and following up with my favorite skincare routine made me feel more ready to take on the day than a face full of makeup. The empty jar stared at me, forcing me to make a decision to either buy a new one or ditch it altogether. I accepted the challenge to forgo it. Afterall, Lent was approaching and I really wanted to offer something that was deeply personal to me.  It was bleak not to see my favorite skin care products waiting for me in my medicine cabinet every morning. I knew these items held empty promises; however, I missed opening the pretty containers, smelling the familiar scent of the creamy moisturizer, and applying it to my face.  Reaching for a pump of regular body lotion wasn’t the same feeling as my boutique apothecary glass jar. The layers of smooth silky cream made me feel complete, and, while I never considered myself a vain person, having a nice skin care regimen gave me great joy. Saint Jane Frances de Chantal, whose feast we remember today, once wrote: “To be faithful, we must live simply. Then being free from attachments, we are possessed by nothing. We live in such absolute openness to Divine Love that whatever pleases God becomes our heart's desire” (source).  Eliminating my pricey skincare routine was a muscle I needed to exercise, as futile as it may seem. Our interior lives may be marked by many tiny insignificant workouts like this with the hope that we may live out the words of Saint Jane Frances de Chantal.  Sister, how can you live more simply in the pursuit of holiness? Is there something small that you can start with? Today in prayer ask Saint Jane Frances de Chantal to intercede for you to do this very thing.

He got up, ate, and drank; then strengthened by that food, He walked forty days and forty nights to the mountain of God, Horeb. // 1 Kings 19:8 We rolled into town after a weekend of family reunioning—time spent with cousins, uncles, aunts, grandparents. Exhausted but our cups were full. And then it began—a sneaky norovirus had attached itself to a child and accompanied us home, and the inevitable began. All six of us were down within hours. I sat on the bathroom floor, the overwhelming list of what needed my attention running through my mind: pets and chickens fed, vacation laundry washed (and now sheets, too), and multiple children demanding aid in their distress. With my huge pregnant belly slowing me down, I called it quits.  “This is enough, O Lord!” (1 Kings 19:4) I felt like I was in an emotional, mental, and physical desert similar to Elijah in today’s First Reading (1 Kings 19:4-8). One thing after another was crumbling around me. And my strength had failed.  A friend reached out to ask how the weekend went, and I unloaded torrents of words depicting our present state. And without skipping a beat, she texted back: “I’ll be by with a plain dinner and paper towels—what else can I bring?”  Our temporal needs are important; my friend simply alleviating some of those on my plate gave me that bit of relief that allowed me to be strengthened enough to tackle the rest. As humans who are both bodies and souls, we need both physical and spiritual nourishment. I’m sure you’ve experienced how important a well-balanced, healthy breakfast helps you function, but what about feeding your soul with the Bread of Life that Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel (see John 6:41-51)? How often do we run to this “bread that came down from heaven” and partake when we’re spiritually starving?  I challenge you, sisters, next time you’re feeling overwhelmed, parched, and empty, make space for spiritual nourishment. Add a daily Mass to your week, sneak away to spend time in Adoration. Be receptive to the greatest gift the Lord offers to you: Himself. Let Him feed your soul with His Body and Blood.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat but if it dies, it produces much fruit.” // John 12:24 I grew up with six brothers and sisters. Our home was always a happy cacophony of activity.  I love my family dearly and wouldn’t trade a thing. But, in that environment, it took me a long, long time to learn that I was part-hermit, a true introvert, and far from being a liability, this was actually a great gift from God. For years, I thought there was something wrong with me because I craved silence and solitude far more than most. I had much lower needs for socializing than most of my friends and family, and I had to learn that this craving for quiet was how I was refreshed and renewed, so that I could go out into the world and do the work the Lord had for me. It makes complete sense. I lead retreats, offer spiritual direction, and write books. It’s not that extroverts cannot do all of those things well, but I wonder if it isn’t the introverts around us that teach the world how to pray, how to find stillness. Jesus tells us in the parable in today's Gospel that we need to die in order to rise again in fruitfulness (see John 12:24-26). The Christian life is made up of a thousand tiny deaths every day—to sin and to selfishness. But sometimes the way we need to die is to give up preconceived ideas about who we are, to discover who we are meant to be so that we can be free to develop and offer up our charisms. Extroverts have taught me a great deal: how to negotiate, how to stand up to a bully, and so much more. But once I stopped fighting my introverted needs, my spiritual life began to flourish in untold ways; it began to “produce much fruit” (John 12:24). How might the Lord be calling you to die? Are you fighting with your spiritual charisms or embracing and developing them? Ask the Lord if there are any ideas you are nurturing that need to fall to the ground and die.

“Therefore, stay awake, for you know neither the day nor the hour.” // Matthew 25:13 (from readings for Memorial of Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross) I became aware of a low rumbling sound as I awoke from a midday nap. The bed in the dim hotel room was moving.  I tried to open my eyes. On heavy painkillers for an infection, I was only vaguely aware that something was wrong. Must be an earthquake, I thought groggily.   And I fell back asleep. I don’t know how much time passed until I became fully conscious. Wondering if it had been a dream, I ventured to the nearby theme park to look for my family. It took just a minute for me to realize the rides had all been shut down. The park was closed.  Because of the earthquake.  The earthquake I had slept through. The weight of what had happened—and what could have happened—hit me. I was stunned that even an earthquake hadn’t shaken me awake. But the Gospel for today’s Optional Memorial of Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross reminds us that we are all capable of sleeping through even greater comings (see Matthew 25:1-13).  Jesus tells in the Parable of the Ten Virgins that all of them—both wise and foolish—almost sleep through the coming of the bridegroom. A sharp cry pierces the night, announces His approach, and warns them to make ready. Only the five wise virgins can re-light their lamps in time and accompany Him to the feast. But I suspect that amid the joy and celebration, their hearts would have been beating rapidly at this terrifying thought: I almost missed Him. How many times have we daydreamed or sleep-walked right through or past the coming of Jesus Christ into our lives? How many invitations has He extended to us that, drugged by distractions and our little mind-numbing addictions, we may have missed? How often have we been lulled into lethargy? Every hour is His hour. Every present moment is a little paradise full of Him. As Pope Saint John Paul II wrote in his play The Jeweler’s Shop, “The Bridegroom is coming. This is His precise hour.”   Lord, make us attentive to Your approach in the people, circumstances, and prayer we experience today.