"Why do you call me, 'Lord, Lord,' but not do what I command? I will show you what someone is like who comes to me, listens to my words, and acts on them. That one is like a man building a house, who dug deeply and laid the foundation on rock; when the flood came, the river burst against that house but could not shake it because it had been well built.” // Luke 6:46-48 “You could try IVF.” I stared at my friend, unsure of how to respond. “I know, you’re Catholic,” she continued. “But you can just go to Confession. If you want a baby, this might be the only way.” She was right. I knew that. I’d thought the same thing myself. My biological clock was about to strike midnight, and my hopes of becoming a mother were quickly dying. But I also knew IVF was not an option for me. I wanted a baby. But I wanted Jesus more. And doing what I believed to be wrong with the presumption that I could just go to Confession afterwards, would be betraying Him twice over. “No,” I replied, finding my voice. “If God wants me to be a mom, I’ll be a mom. And if not, He has something better for me.” That no to IVF was the hardest no I’d ever uttered. It required more than knowledge of Church teaching.* It required that I be like the Biblical homebuilder who “dug deeply and laid the foundation on rock” (Luke 6:48).  Digging deeply was what I had been doing for years. It’s what I had been doing as I strove to know my Faith, do God’s will, and walk daily with Him. I had been maturing as a disciple, learning to do the right thing, even when it felt impossibly hard.   Someday, God will call you, too, to do something that feels impossibly hard. Your ability to do as He asks will be a grace. But it also will be a grace built upon a hundred smaller yeses and nos. It will be a grace given not in an instant, but slowly, as you do the long, hard work of growing in virtue and building a relationship with Him. Start doing the work now. Don’t wait. If you want God, and not just the gifts He gives, dig deeply. Build your life day by day on the Rock. Then, when the storm comes, not only will your faith survive, but after it passes, you will witness a dawn whose glory is beyond your imagining. *The Catholic Church understands that infertility is a great cross and supports the use of NaPro Technology to treat the underlying causes of infertility. To learn more about NaPro visit the Pope Paul VI Institute. For more on why the Church condemns the use of IVF, see this article from the USCCB. 

“Then every scribe who has been instructed in the Kingdom of heaven is like the head of a household who brings from his storeroom both the new and the old.” // Matthew 13:52 I need to clean out my fridge. I’ve been needing to clean it out for some time. I won’t even say how long. It’s mortifying. But with three children, ages three and under, some household duties go on the back burner. And while they do, mold grows. Not everything in my fridge is moldy, of course. Some items are fresh and fine. A few more, I’m not sure about. I’ll pull those items out and see if they pass the smell test. What’s good can go back into the fridge. What’s bad will go out with the trash. This purging of food is a practice as old as history. Jesus even talks about it in a parable, referencing the “head of a household who brings from his storeroom both the new and the old” (Matthew 13:52). It’s a homey, domestic parable until you realize the food stores are a metaphor for our souls. Jesus is calling us to examine the good and the bad in our hearts, the old ideas and sinful habits to which we cling. Unfortunately, I have plenty of those: my judgmental spirit, which forms fast opinions about others’ hearts; my vanity, which spends far too much time worrying about strangers’ opinions; my anger, which flares fast and hot in the face of situations I cannot control; my foolish pride, which expects perfection from my imperfect self. All of that has to go, for in Heaven, there can be no dirty fridges. There can be no dirty souls. Only the holy can stand before God. Everything in us not of God must be cast out, either here in this life, through our efforts, made effective by grace, or in Purgatory, through passive suffering. The saints say here is better. Here, we can do more to detach ourselves from sin. And the sooner we let go of that sin, the sooner we can know the fullness of joy that comes with life in Christ and trust, like the Psalmist, that, “I will sing praise to my God while I live” (Psalm 146:1). It can be painful to take an honest look at the less than beautiful parts of your heart. But look you must. Each night, do an honest assessment of how well you’ve loved God and others, and each morning beg Christ for the grace to love better. Clean the fridge now, so you can truly rest in Him later. [bctt tweet="Clean the fridge now, so you can truly rest in Him later. // Emily Stimpson Chapman " username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

“Feed my lambs . . . Tend my sheep . . . Feed my sheep.” // John 21:15, 16, 17 I am a writer. My business is words. Words are both the tools of my trade and the product I send forth. I use them to help people know Jesus and understand the teachings of the Church. I also use them to help people know themselves and understand the dignity of every human person. Nathanial Hawthorne once said, “Easy reading is damned hard writing.” And it’s true. Crafting engaging, compelling, and clear sentences takes work. Having the courage to write about subjects that touch people’s deepest wounds, prejudices, and convictions takes even more work. But none of it takes as much work as living out the words I write. Telling people to practice patience is one thing. Being patient with my three-year-old who has gotten into the dish soap for the tenth time this week and poured it all over the kitchen floor is another. Reminding people that Jesus calls us to forgive others and bear wrongs patiently is simple compared to turning the other cheek and biting my tongue when a stranger insults me online. Waxing poetic about human dignity is a walk in the park compared to putting down my phone and focusing on the people in front of me, treating them as the images of God that they are. Words are easy. Actions are hard. Which may be one reason why Jesus repeats His question to Peter in John 21. “Do you love me?” Not simply as a reminder of the three times Peter denied Him, but to stress that love must be shown through actions: “Feed my lambs . . . Tend my sheep . . . Feed my sheep” (John 21:15, 16, 17). Words are good. But they are never enough. We prove our love for Jesus not simply by saying, as Peter said, “Yes, Lord, you know I love you,” but by doing as Peter did—following Our Lord, obeying Our Lord, and caring for those entrusted to us by Our Lord. It’s our actions, more than our words, which make us disciples. It’s our actions, more than our words, which make us His. So, as you go about your day today, ask yourself, “Who are the lambs Jesus wants me to feed? What is the work He calls me to do?” Then, feed the sheep, do the work. And by His grace, your life will bear fruit greater than you can imagine. [bctt tweet="It’s our actions which make us disciples. // Emily Stimpson Chapman" username="blessedisshe__"] listen to today’s devotion

The older I get, the less I claim to know. The world, with all its complicated brokenness, has undone so much of my certainty, and discerning how God is working in the brokenness often confounds me. Especially when it comes to my boys. I have two of them now—neither born of my body, but both completely and utterly loved by me. When I look at them, I see God’s mercy. I see decades of praying and hoping and longing fulfilled. I see joy. But I also see sorrow. I see the sorrow of their birth mothers, who carried them in their bodies but couldn’t carry them in their arms. I see the tragedies that forced two beautiful women to make an unbearable choice. I see families forever missing one of their own. I see my boys’ sorrow, too. They are loved. They are wanted. They are safe. They know nothing but joy right now. But there was sorrow before, when they were taken from the only home they’d ever known, and there will be sorrow again, as they wrestle with questions of identity, family, and culture. I don’t just see all this occasionally. I see it all the time. Answered prayers and unanswered prayers. Fulfillment and loss. Joy and tragedy. It runs and climbs and shouts before my eyes every moment I’m awake. Living in this tension would be impossible, if not for the Cross. When I cast my eyes there, I’m consoled. For I remember God is always with us, working in the brokenness to lead us to life. In ancient Israel, God used the cruelty of Joseph’s brothers to save His people. On Calvary, He brought the world’s greatest good out of the world’s greatest evil. And now, in my home, He works through my boys’ adoptions to lead every person involved to Himself. It’s that way for you, too. Whatever tension you live in, God is with you; nothing is outside of His Providence. So, cling to the hope that someday, when you see what God has done in your present sorrow, you too will shout, “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone, by the Lord has this been done, and it is wonderful in our eyes!” (Psalm 118:22-23). listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="God is always with us. // Emily Stimpson Chapman " username="blessedisshe__"] What tensions do you sit with today? Stop by the tabernacle if you can or find livestream Adoration on the web; bring it all to Jesus.  

When did you decide to stop trying for children of your own? Where’s his real mother? How much did he cost you? By now, two years into motherhood, I’ve grown used to these words. I hear them so often, surprise would be silly. But every time, my heart quickens and my face reddens. How can people be so insensitive? How can they not see that my precious son, whom I adopted at birth, is my own, that I too am his real mother—the one who holds him, feeds him, chases him, teaches him, tickles him, and prays with him? Most of all, how can they not see that he is a person, not an object, priceless and beyond cost? I want to correct, reprimand, and let my inquisitors know how their words cut. At the very least, I want to complain on Facebook and get some sympathy. But I don’t. Because the words aren’t spoken with malice. People don’t mean to give offense. They mean well. Or, at least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe. Bearing wrongs patiently is the spiritual work of mercy that comes least naturally to me. I’m a redhead. I run hot. I crave justice. But, “the LORD is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and of great kindness” (Psalm 145:8). And I want to be like Him. So I’m trying. I’m trying to give people the benefit of the doubt. I’m trying to assume the best of intentions and not make rash judgments. I’m also trying to not return insult for insult and offense for offense. I’m not giving up on fighting for justice for others, but I am learning to endure injustices done to me, seeing them as opportunities for solidarity with Jesus, Who suffered the world’s greatest injustice with total love and zero complaints. Again, this doesn’t come naturally to me. It doesn’t come naturally for most of us. But Jesus says, “[I]f anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also” (Matthew 5:39). His ways are so not our ways. We’ve seen where the world’s ways lead, though, from hurt to hurt to hurt. Isn't it time we try a different way? listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="Isn't it time we try a different way? // Emily Stimpson Chapman" username="blessedisshe__"] Go deeper into the corporal and spiritual works of mercy with our study on them.

I married at 41. I became a mother at 43. For decades, the blessings poured out so freely on other women were denied to me. That cross was heavy, but I mostly managed. Except for in church on Sunday mornings. At Mass, surrounded by smiling couples and beautiful babies, I felt the full weight of my cross. I was alone. I was barren. And I didn’t think I fit in. While families around me hugged and kissed during the Sign of Peace, I stood by myself, hugging no one. Afterwards, mothers chatted while their children played, but no one talked to me. Like so many single and childless women, in church I felt invisible and ignored. There, like nowhere else, I was tempted to resentment, bitterness, and self-pity. As the years passed, though, I learned to fight those temptations by looking up and to the left. There, in the rich reds and blues of nineteenth-century stained glass, I would see the Virgin Mary, assumed into Heaven and blazing with glory. She too had lived unseen and ignored by the world. But unlike me, she didn’t resent her littleness. She rejoiced in it. She saw it as an opportunity for God to do a great work in her. “He has cast down the mighty from their thrones,” she sang, “and has lifted up the lowly” (Luke 1:52). Looking at her in that stained glass window taught me to do the same. It reminded me that to be the unseen one, the humiliated one, the rejected one is also to be the blessed one. It is to receive an invitation to hide from the world with Jesus and Mary and find my worth not in the opinions of men, but rather in the opinions of God, Who always sees me, always loves me, always treasures me. God feels the same way about you. So never despair when you feel the sting of the world’s rejection. Instead, rejoice with Mary. Run with her to Jesus’ Sacred Heart. Hide yourself there. And know that all who hide with Jesus, like Mary, will rise with Jesus. Not to earthly greatness. But to heavenly glory. listen to today’s devotion [bctt tweet="Rise with Jesus // Emily Stimpson Chapman" username="blessedisshe__"] Find a new book to learn about Our Blessed Mother today!