Unaware of what I was going through, a friend sent me a picture of a kintsugi bowl with the message, “When I see you, I see gold.” Kintsugi is the Japanese art of bowl-mending. Artisans reassemble broken ceramic bowls and costly gold is set into the seams between the shards. The cracks are not concealed, they are accentuated—remaining a symbol of admiration, bestowing more value, emboldening strength. Today as we celebrate the feast of Saint Catherine of Siena, I can’t help but think of how accurately her life resembled kintsugi. Set against the brutal Black Plague in Italy, her witness emanated a rare kind of beauty, reminding us that God doesn’t merely fix us in our suffering, He restores us to usefulness, and by virtue of gleaming Grace, transforms the world around us. Early Life of Catherine Catherine was born Caterina di Jacopo di Benincasa in the spring of 1347. She and her twin sister, who died in infancy, were the twenty-third and twenty-fourth of twenty-five children. At the tender age of seven, Catherine was touched by extraordinary movements of the Holy Spirit and began to see visions of Jesus seated in glory with Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint John the Evangelist. The sense of affirmation that God was calling her to a life consecrated to Him was both powerful and permanent. As a child, Catherine was nicknamed Euphrosyne, which in Greek means “joy.” Though Catherine’s mother longed for a "normal" daughter, Catherine refused to be stereotypically feminine. At age fifteen, she frantically chopped off her hair to thwart pressures to marry and even dreamed of joining a monastery disguised as a boy. At sixteen, motivated by a vision of Saint Dominic, Catherine entered the Third Order of the Dominicans, the female branch known as the Mantellate.  Catherine spent many hermetic years in the confinement of her room, where she experienced spiritual union with God which she described as "mystical espousal" to Christ. It was in this encounter that she discovered true ‘joy’ in the face of plague and pain. It was in this solitude that she wrestled to gain dominion over her heart and fleshly impulses. It was in this intimacy that she experienced the all-consuming Divine fire that invades our hearts, transforms our lives, and turns the world upside down. Pursuing Truth with Love During Catherine’s era, the dark age of the Church was manifest. In a power struggle over dominance in northern Italy, the papacy had moved to Avignon.  In an age when women’s religious vocations were confined and apart from the world, it was Catherine who boldly informed Pope Gregory XI to leave Avignon and return to Rome. Often referring to Him as the "sweet Christ on earth,” she called him out in truth. “Respond to the Holy Spirit who is calling you,” she commanded. “Come! Come! Come! Don’t wait for time because time isn’t waiting for you.”  We don’t have to have a call like Saint Catherine’s to have experienced the sting of having to speak truth with people we care so deeply about. How desperately we want them to know Jesus, the only sure way to freedom. But because speaking truth in love can be so challenging (see Ephesians 4:15), we tend to either speak it with harshness or say nothing in so-called “love.” Catherine’s evangelical fervor overflowed not so much from what she spoke but rather from what God did in her interior life. She was completely docile to the Spirit. She understood that truth brings transformation, not by merely standing on podiums but by restoring from within. Truth penetrates to the degree all our faculties are surrendered in worship. Truth produces fruit when we seek reconciliation for the ways we fall short of Grace.  Catherine was unconcerned about making a mark as a woman in active service to the Church,  and was more consumed by Christ's love for her to be a woman who serves.  In the Church of the twenty-first century, in which one finds fractures of sexual abuse and financial corruption or manifestations of dishonesty and raw ambition, Catherine’s love for a sinful Church is not easy to embrace. Yet it was this love that brought clarity and conviction, rallied support for change, and unified Christians in service.  Are our words and actions seasoned with truth and love?   If we are criticizing the Church more than we are praying for her, we are not speaking truth, we are not serving in love, and we are not reflecting Christ.  {formbuilder:OTk3ODc=} “I see Gold” It is hard to grasp the strain the “Black Death” put on the physical and spiritual fabric of Siena. The illness seemed to strike through breath and sight. People went to bed perfectly healthy and were found dead in the morning. Yet, despite it all, Catherine stayed and served. Her devotion to the sick was as contagious as the Plague itself. In the midst of poverty, terror, and stench, Catherine spread the aroma of Christ, often risking her own life. I have often pondered over Catherine’s witness, especially last year. It seemed like the pieces of my life were so destroyed that they weren’t just shattered: they were ground to dust. I found myself taking the familiar path of self-protection, retreating from pain, even glamorizing the gouges of my circumstances. But it is precisely here that Christ met me personally and profoundly and used my suffering to reveal more of Himself to me. He was the gold that bound my broken pieces, lovingly, painstakingly putting them back together. Where my heart was ground to dust, He created a new one, filling every crack with His light and life.  Interestingly, in kintsugi, before the artisans begin mending, they hold the broken pieces in their hands and honor them. This is what God was calling me to do: to honor the broken pieces of my heart, to entrust my sorrows to His Sacred Heart, to relinquish my pain to His wise plan and to trust that He was at work in the darkness.  Though all I saw were broken places, people saw gold.  At the heart of Catherine's service was the image of a bleeding Christ, the Redeemer—ablaze with fiery charity, eager sacrifice, and unqualified forgiveness. In The Dialogue Jesus told her, "Your love should be sincere: you should love your neighbors with the same love with which you love Me." Catherine had astounding spiritual manifestations, but she understood that being seated with Christ in the heavenly places did not mean lolling about in mystic ecstasies. It meant being brought down from ineffable glory into the valley to be crushed in service. It meant asking God to use her in whatever way possible to mend the brokenness she saw around her. Sisters, we each have our own private stories that have shattered us. Mankind is fallen and we are all broken. But in the slain Lamb of God, who now stands (Revelation 5), we can encounter both the beauty and power of One who died and yet is living. In Him, our broken pieces remain an important part of our history. In Him, their redemptive value is extended to those who do not know how to confront their pain and only see broken pieces.  God wants to heal your broken places with golden lines. Will you yield to His beautifying work so others can see gold . . . so people can encounter our gracious Redeemer?  Rebuild My Church  It is no coincidence that Saint Catherine was declared a Doctor of the Church in 1970, on the feast of Saint Francis of Assisi. Saint Francis’s call from God to “Rebuild my Church” continues to echo through the generations. Today, on her feast day, Catherine urges us women to return to our spiritual boot camps and become houses of prayer. She urges us to return to intimacy, to pursue truth and become who God made us to be, so we can go forth and set this world on fire.

 “rest” This word reverberated in my stomach and tied it in knots. I had come to the end of another week, exhausted, once again. Ministry work, household chores and school schedules toppled over juggling health challenges. Somewhere along the way, lines between ministry and family time were constantly crossed. Trying to be “sold out for Jesus” I had become “worn out for Jesus.” My strength had failed and my spiritual maturity had plateaued.  Unsurprisingly, in that season, I encountered many Church leaders wondering the same thing. Too many of us had fallen for the Teach. Serve. Work. Reward. Repeat cycle.  The outcome? I found myself constantly equating work with my worth, measuring my family life by how many dinners we went to and my spiritual life by how many mission trips I animated.  The only time I felt I had done enough was when I was running on empty.    During those mind-numbing months, I was confronted with the mess of my own devising. Clearly, I had made an idol of exhaustion. Clearly, it was time to reclaim Sabbath rest. The Rhythm of (Sabbath) Rest “Let there be light”, God spoke to the void in the beginning. And, God created rhythms (Genesis 1:12)  When Adam entered Eden, he stepped into the rhythm of day and night, seasons, and tides.  Between those rhythms, God added one more - a seventh day of the week (Genesis 2:1–3), a pattern reflecting His own character, a rhythm Adam was called to imitate, take pleasure in and find fulfillment with.  It is alarming how our lives have become increasingly rhythm-less. In a culture that sees stillness as laziness and rest as sloth, our evenings and mornings have lost their meaning and our refusal to rest is leading to breakdowns in mental health, broken relationships, broken families, and substance abuse.  Is it any wonder why God gave us the Sabbath?  In ancient Israel, Sabbath began from sundown on Friday evening until sundown on Saturday evening. Unlike most of us, where day begins with our alarm clocks ripping the predawn darkness, for the Hebrews, day began in the night…. with God.  In this night, since the beginning, God spoke, worked, created, and renewed, while man slept. When man awoke, he participated in God’s creative work. He woke up in a world he did not make. He was given a salvation he did not earn.  Man does not rest from labor. Man, labors from rest. In other words, Sabbath emerges from the very life and being of God. It is a testament of God’s covenant love. It is a reminder that we belong because we are already accepted. It is freedom from the incessant demands of technology and productivity. And, it is an invitation to expand our hearts for God’s inexhaustive presence so His Divine life can flood our souls, invigorate our spirits and empower us to witness to Eden’s lost world.  {formbuilder:OTk3ODc=} Let My People Go  I had toiled more than 80 hours a week in that season. No boundaries. No rhythms. No rest. In my role as ministry leader, I felt compelled to be available to everyone. Every crisis was my crisis. Every complaint, my problem. What more, I was bombarded with the ever-surging, ever-present self-care trend, offering me a myriad of solutions ranging from therapeutic ads to lattes, teas, and oils.  But, outside God’s presence, my feeble attempts at ‘rest’ — whether that implied sleep-ins, days off or entertainment, felt like seeds planted in granite. I sowed, dug, and watered but the soil of my soul couldn’t hold the seeds.  I was looking for rest but reaping restlessness instead. When the Hebrews were commanded to "observe" the Sabbath day (Deuteronomy 5:12), they knew what that meant. Being slaves for 400 years, they did not know what it was to rest. Hence, the command to take a day each week was a clarion call to live free, live higher, and to leave behind lesser loves.  Mark Buchanan, in his book The Rest of God writes, “In some ways, the whole point of the Exodus was Sabbath. Let my people go, became God’s rallying cry, that they might worship me. At the heart of liberty—of being let go—is worship. But at the heart of worship is rest.” Only a worshiper can turn the work of his hands into an offering.  After regular meetings with my spiritual director, frequenting the confessional and returning to the heart of worship, I was able to take a step back and breathe a sigh of relief. By cutting back on ministry tasks, cultivating worship and introducing silence I was able to experience God’s invigorating rest. Rest Has A Name At the end of last year, I reflected on Matthew 11:28, ‘Come to me all who are burdened and heavy laden and I will give you rest.’ The word ‘rest’ was revelatory. I clung to it as my word for 2023. I understood that in order to enter this rest, I must leave behind pride and self-reliance - this fierce tendency to control my burdens and meet everyone’s needs. I must acknowledge that I don’t need the tag of ‘good mom, wife, leader’ to earn God’s favor. My restlessness cannot be solved by a spa day or a sweet latte or an array of spiritual activities. It begins at soul-deep level, where my deepest ache and weariness abides…. this place where Jesus most desires to enter.   True rest flows not from a weekly pause, but from a Person – Jesus, who is our Rest. He is our living, saving, Seventh Day. The refreshment He provides isn’t dependent on our circumstances or our schedule but simply on our obedience to “come” to Him.  Sister, are you tired? Worn out?  “Come”, Jesus says. No one is excluded. He promises not to lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you; simply an opportunity to be refreshed and be tethered to him.  Rest Fosters Fruitful Relationships So often, we subconsciously believe that serving others at the cost of our wellbeing is saintly.  But that is not the Gospel. Jesus Himself went into the mountains and prayed alone.  He never acted out of rhythm, was never controlled by busy schedules nor lived to serve people’s expectations.  How can I love others without recognizing God’s love for me? How can I see the needs of my community without admitting my own needs?  Before we can contribute to revival, we must first be refreshed. Our busy schedules create satellite relationships. But when we truly rest, we intentionally make room for others. In keeping the Sabbath, we see ourselves for who we are, and we see ourselves as integrated parts of a community. In our rest, we allow others to rest. In our rest, we foster fruitful relationships. In our rest, we allow marriages to flourish. In our rest, we teach our children that grace is real. In our rest, we remember that we do not cause the grain to grow, and that our greatest fulfillment does not come through the acquisition of material things, but only through abiding in Christ.  In all these years of ministry, I am yet to encounter a spiritually thriving person who accidentally keeps a Sabbath. Sabbath is intentional. It is commitment. It is a rhythm of Grace. Sister, I need a story that plays out differently than work, reward, repeat. I need a story that speaks - Blessed. Fruitfulness. Rest. What about you? As we begin Lent tomorrow, my prayer for you is that Sabbath-rest becomes an undeniable reality this year, a refreshing gift waiting to be unwrapped, a confirmation that you are never alone and a testament of God’s abiding rest, especially during seasons of weariness.

In Something Beautiful for God, the British Journalist Malcolm Muggeridge wrote about an exhilarating experience while filming a documentary on Mother Teresa in 1967. The film crew had arrived at the "Home for the Dying" but were disappointed to encounter a dimly-lit building with small windows. Despite the challenges, the pictures were processed. Muggeridge wrote that they were “bathed in beautiful soft light.” At the time, Muggeridge was a religious sceptic who possessed a corrosive wit for mocking precious beliefs. But the light that emanated from Mother was so real, so tangible, that it beckoned the prodigal within, convicting him to pick up the shards of a lost life, illuminating his way home. The Call to the Light Today, on the feast of Saint Mother Teresa, we are invited to awaken to this Voice that beckons us to “come be my light” just like it beckoned the petite Albanian nun whose heart burned with radical love for the unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. This light led her to the poorest corners of Calcutta and it shone on rotting bodies of the dying, those with seeping wounds, and those who were deliberately shunned by society. Mother Teresa’s witness teaches us that it is not enough to just receive light. We must become light. We must be so bathed in this luminous mystery that we don’t just expose invading darkness but overcome it with the brilliance of God’s grace. Saint of Darkness The Christian Faith is built on presence. We long to see signs of the cloud by day and the pillar of fire by night. We wait for the still small voice. We sing, we pray, we weep at His feet. Nothing is more devastating than Divine absence. Nothing is more overwhelming than the weight of unanswered prayers hitting a ceiling of brass and bouncing back. Nothing is more wounding than thinking God’s promises come to pass for everyone else… but us. In Come Be My Light, a collection of private letters to her spiritual advisers, Mother Teresa spoke of this absence of God even as she ministered to those missing from the radar of compassion and care. She was indeed a light, but experienced little of the illumination of God’s comforting presence. She spoke of "dryness," "darkness," and "torture.” She spoke of a night so dark, so long, that lasted 50 years. "If I ever become a Saint—I will surely be one of darkness, I will continually be absent from Heaven—to (light) the light of those in darkness on earth," she wrote. What do we make of this painful predicament? Her confessor, Father Neuner, explained that this spiritual desolation did not arise from sin or failure on Mother’s part nor could it be fixed by any human action. The dark night is an assurance that God is present still, even if hidden. It is a form of suffering exemplified by Christ Himself when He cried out on the Cross; it is a sure sign of a deep-seated longing for God, a thirst for at least a ray of His light. We cannot long for God unless God is present within our heart. The Gift of the Dark Night Today, we are invited to think deeply about these spiritual realities. We live in a here-and-now world, driven by feelings, wired by sight. We look for quick fixes and we refuse to wait. We are lured by spotlights and we struggle to encounter Christ in the destitute and diseased because we are fixated on the glorified Lord, not the suffering Savior. Mother Teresa’s dark night is a comforting assurance for those who struggle in life’s deep trenches and have to overcome their darkness by crying out, "Lord, I believe, help my unbelief." The dark night is a gift God lavishes to share in the redemptive and transforming work of the Cross. It is a tool God uses to identify more deeply with the hungry, the naked, the homeless, those unheard and unloved, and those who live without worth and dignity. Beneath the pain of Divine absence ran a deeper river of joy—Mother was in the center of God’s will as she served the poorest of the poor. If she didn't feel Christ's presence the way she would have hoped for, she encountered Him in those Jesus ardently sought for and loved. Friend, what about you? How can we offer our "dark night" in exchange for Christ’s gleaming grace? What if, instead of resisting the Holy Spirit, we released our grip and invited the Lord in in a way He deems fit? What if, in some paradoxical way, our dark night is a gift to the world, perhaps even to our own home? Missionary to the Unwanted Prior to the pandemic, a friend from church invited me to join her to a shelter that housed run-away domestic helpers. These were women who’d been abused, stripped off their wages, and cheated of their labor contracts. Some were stuck without a passport for years, others had not seen their family, and still others were holding caterwauling infants in their bosoms, soothing them to sleep. The sight was staggering even as it was sanctifying. That evening I shared my conversion story. I testified of the hope I had found in Christ Who embodies our brokenness and I proclaimed the message of the Resurrection. There was silence at first, then tears, and then a burst of praise. We connected. We shared about our cultures, our countries, and our children. Our stories found common ground in the crucified Christ. Sharing in Another's Pain In Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life, Henri Nouwen says, “Simply being with someone is difficult because it asks of us that we share in the other’s vulnerability, enter with him or her into the experience of weakness and powerlessness, become part of uncertainty, and give up control and self-determination.” Our willingness to become “displaced,” is central to our experience of the Gospel and of our transformation within. When we do not intentionally "cross the street" toward someone who is different, hurting, or in need, our hearts become cold and closed and our empathy muscles atrophy. We are then reduced to a mere building, not the body of Christ that we are. Mother Teresa dressed the leper, carried the crippled, and picked up babies from bins, even amidst stark cynicism and criticism. She taught us compassion in action. She showed us that the biggest disease in our times today is not leprosy or AIDS but the feeling of being rejected. Today, she challenges us to refute the secular throwaway culture and step forward and “be the change” we want to see in this world. Do Something Beautiful Perhaps it’s become a cliché in our culture to say, “I’m no Mother Teresa!” in response to some extraordinary act of charity. Oddly enough, Saint Teresa of Calcutta would agree. She wouldn’t want people to be exactly like her, but to accomplish God’s unique will in their lives. She said, “What I can do, you cannot. What you can do, I cannot. But together we can do something beautiful for God.” Each of us, with our own unique gifts, our own stories, and our own history can touch people in ways others cannot. We can find "our own Calcutta" right where we are. We can do something beautiful for God. Sister, where in your life is God calling you to do something beautiful for someone? In God’s economy of grace, every contribution matters. Even in every detail of parenting or teaching, sewing, and scrubbing, baking, calculating, or studying, we participate in God’s illumination. Today, the light that bathed this great Saint is upon us invigorating our shadows, and sending us forth as luminous witnesses (see 1 Peter 2:9) to a world hungry for love and thirsting for Hope. Will you let the light of Christ lead you?   [bctt tweet="Saint Teresa of Calcutta // A Saint in the Darkness #BISblog //" via="no"]   This post contains affiliate links. Thanks so much for supporting the ministry of Blessed is She!

Holocaust survivor and Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel, in one of his essays, relays his experience in Auschwitz. A Jew was being executed while the rest of the camp watched aghast. As he hung on the gallows, struggling in the throes of death, an onlooker muttered under his breath, “Where is God?” At that moment, Wiesel says, a voice within resounded, “There, on the gallows, where else?” There is something especially galling about the innocent being killed. Our hearts freeze when we hear news of lives lost by the ruthlessness of indifference. Yet, what is it about men and women, who though stripped of everything, except the bare reality of existence, can find in such darkness, a flickering flame of hope? How is it possible for hearts to burn with intense charity, even as mercilessness hangs as thick as a fog? The Feast of Saint Maximilian Kolbe Today we celebrate the feast of Saint Maximillian Kolbe, patron of prisoners and living testimony to the shining light of Christ amidst the darkest moments of human history. When the Nazis invaded Poland in 1939, Maximilian Kolbe was serving as a priest. He was immediately arrested and taken to Auschwitz where he was stripped of any vestige of his former life, his habit taken away and replaced by a prisoner’s striped uniform. One day, in 1941, in retaliation for the escape of a prisoner, ten men in Maximilian’s cellblock were chosen randomly to be executed. One of those men cried out, “What will happen to my wife and my children?” Moved by his plight, Maximilian volunteered to take his place and the substitution was allowed. What followed were weeks of unimaginable horror. The prisoners were stripped naked, forced into a bunker, and deprived of food and water. Two weeks later, impatient that prisoners were not dying fast enough, Maximilian and four others were executed by carbolic acid injections. Leading to this death, eyewitnesses recounted Maximilian’s countenance as one bright and radiant, burning with unparalleled zeal as he sang hymns and encouraged fellow prisoners. This same light is infused in our Baptism. This light does not take us out of this world, to some illusionary shores of safety. This light propels us forward in courage, into the shadows and gallows of our modern Auschwitzes, so we can cast light, so we can show the way home to those lost in darkness. Prophesying Hope This May, I visited my mom for the first time in two years. During the pandemic, her dementia had steadily progressed. Though I’d seen glimpses of her delusions while we video-chatted, nothing prepared me more for what I would see face-to-face. She didn’t recognize me. Her once exuberant countenance was now consumed by confusion, the plaques and tangles of dementia not only choking away old memories but also piercing her dignity, even her very soul. My dad described it as the "most bitter and most humiliating of all chalices"…. yet not in the absence of Hope. Sometimes the weight of our world can feel like the darkness of Auschwitz. Immersed in some unfathomable tragedy, hanging under excruciating gallows of life, we might find ourselves like Elie Wiesel’s comrade, wondering where God is. We may look at our demented loved ones, and wonder if suffering has any meaning at all. We may be tempted to settle, to compromise, to extricate pain from what seems opposed to our immediate, temporal happiness. In such times, St. Maximillian calls on us to prophesy hope. It is hope that enabled him to trustingly walk forward, even in the face of death. It is hope that grounded him in the promises of Christ. It is hope that protected him from the temptation of thinking life's tragedies are but random coincidences, outside of Providence—only hope in the Risen Christ. This season has unleashed hope for me in new ways. It has taught me to speak life even over what seems dry and dead. It has given me courage to see beyond the frail body of my mother to a vision of God flooding her with eternal consolations. I believe that my mother, even at her foggiest, remembers that day follows night. The light is stronger still. This is hope. Greater Love, Everyday Those few days at home were a catalyst for change. I discovered the gift of the present moment. With unexpected medical complications and continual changes in daily routine, my spiritual life was tossed upside down. I had no time for quiet mornings or personal prayer. I felt exhausted wondering if an active spiritual life was even possible for those plagued by such sicknesses. Until I saw my dad. His daily sacrifice for my mother, being fully present to her needs, taught me that our seasons, though devoid of religious activities, could still be richly inundated with spiritual fruit. His faithfulness encouraged me not to be weary of doing little things for the love of God, who regards not the greatness of the work, but the love with which it is performed. His witness inspired me to see everyday as an opportunity to practice “Greater love has no one than this, that a person will lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13). What does it mean to "lay down our lives"? We may be tempted to recall heroic acts of Saints like Maximillian Kolbe and wonder if such holiness is even possible in our everyday moments? We may wonder if serving our spouses and children even counts, as these take place in the confinement of our own home. Yet these are the very places Christ calls us to "lay down our lives," and practice "greater love." Each day of our lives contains within it the possibility for sacrifice. Each day is an opportunity to lay down my need to understand why things happen the way they do. I can lay down my fears about being validated by what I do. I can lay down my desire to prove my worth, and lay down my pride that begs me to build walls. Each day, I can lay down my life. Each day, I can practice greater love. Sister, where is Christ calling you to greater love? Perhaps in sleepless nights while you soothe a fussy child? Perhaps patiently responding to repeated requests from your teenager? Perhaps giving up free time so your spouse can have his? Remember, Maximilian’s greatest acts didn’t emerge from a vacuum. Like Mary, his fiat was perpetual, a result of a lifetime of being conformed to Christ through prayer and sacrifice... each day. Only by consistently practicing self-denial by taking up his cross daily could Saint Maximilian be conformed to Christ to such a degree that, in that pivotal moment, he was able to imitate Christ on the Cross, laying down his life, so another might live. No More Night Sister, we live in a world where Rachel weeps for her children, where loved ones go mute and where sickness leaves us shell shocked. Our tendency is to become so overwhelmed in the aftermath of these horrors that we lose sight of the sky above infused with heavenly light, reflecting Him Who willingly went to "the gallows" on our behalf, He Who, in the place of unimaginable horror, proclaimed peace to the prisoners. It is this Risen Christ that Saint Maximillian Kolbe radiated and followed. It is this Christ whose unceasing whisper beckons us, re-directing our earthly pilgrimage toward shores of our lasting city, where one day, “night will be no more,” for God Himself will be our light (see Revelation 21:23). For those in Christ Jesus, the last word will always be light. As for now, we lament, we stand in the gap, we press on forward, we turn to Saint Maximillian Kolbe, we pray for greater love, we lay down our lives.   [bctt tweet="Saint Maximilian Kolbe // A Prophet of Hope #BISblog //" via="no"]

Tolkien’s short but poignant work "Leaf by Niggle" offers fascinating insights into the intersection of our personal and professional lives. Niggle’s vocation involves painting leaves. But he battles against his own inertia as various chores and inconveniences keep him from finishing the painting to his satisfaction. When Niggle passes from this life, he discovers that the leaves he was painting are, in fact, embedded in lush forests, mountains and streams of Heaven. Tolkien's theory of vocation concludes fittingly: a worthy vocation contributes not only to financial well-being but ultimately to new creation. How might this change the way we see our work as spiritual calling? The Feast of Saint Joseph the Worker The feast of Saint Joseph the Worker is a powerful reminder of the real purpose of our work. In response to “May Day,” Pope Pius XII instituted the feast in the 1950s to encourage devotion to Saint Joseph, in whom he saw a perfect model for dignifying human work. When God created Adam and Eve, He made them imago dei (in the image of God). Being image-bearers means reflecting what God is like. Throughout the creation account, we see God at work: cultivating, creating, caring, and forming. When Adam sinned, the ground was cursed. But it was a curse eventually seasoned with grace. Our carnal nature looks to work to fulfill us but grace rescues us from the logic of profit, from the fever of consuming. Grace allows work to form us, mold us, and mature us. Grace fuels communal love. By cultivating the garden, Adam fed and clothed his family. The produce of the land was to be shared with the poor, the orphan, and the widow. From Saint Joseph, we learn how the ultimate act of our labor is love. And love gives, it suffers, it sanctifies work. The Dignity of Labor Labor Day is a much-needed break from what we refer to as our "jobs." We take time to recuperate and recreate. We sleep a little longer. And while that is all good, for Christians, Labor Day invites us to deepen our understanding of labor in light of the Gospel. Work has changed considerably since the Industrial Revolution. With much advancement in technology, it is no secret that the next generation describes a time when machines will completely take over man’s brains... possibly also their hands. Man will act as a substitute machine and life will be no more than humanoid... unless we know what man (woman) is... unless we know where the dignity of our work comes from. During World War II, the future Pope Saint John Paul II worked in a limestone quarry. In his poem titled “The Quarry” he speaks deeply of his anguish, his daily struggles, and how the temptation to give in to anger, resentment, and despair lurks within our workplaces each day. By the sweat of his brow and tears down his cheeks, this heroic worker taught us why we labor and where our dignity comes from: not in the size of our paychecks or the weight of our accolades, but simply as children of God. The dignity of our labor flows from our innate humanness, from the command of God to join Him in His creative endeavors. In his encyclical Laborem Exercens (On Human Work) he wrote: …the basis for determining the value of human work is not primarily the kind of work being done but the fact that the one who is doing it is a person… Think about how many people worldwide are victims of slave labor or trapped under work that enslaves? How many have turned this great gift into a seductive and merciless idol? The Heart of Our Labor In choosing Saint Joseph as the patron Saint of workers, the Church draws us to the heart of our labor. It is never self-serving or self-protecting. It is always outpouring and overflowing. Work united to Christ is redemptive (see CCC 2427) and Saint Joseph shows us how. The humble carpenter of Nazareth was dedicated, not addicted. He did not seek an identity through his work. He was not a workaholic. He sweated, got dirty, and even experienced tedium at times; but because He was in communion with Christ, His work became an expression of worship, a channel of love, and a window through which the Light of the World could shine. When Mundane is Meaningful A close friend recently gave birth to twins. Her typical day now includes waking up at dawn, diapering and feeding one child while clothing another, doing loads of laundry, cooking and putting the kids to bed all before plunging into bed herself, exhausted. Beneath that exhaustion is deep lament. She gave up a high paying job. Her work now is difficult and repetitive and, in some ways, unrewarding. She lives in a cycle of mundane tasks. She feels trapped. She suffers silently. Perhaps you are in a place where the word "ordinary" immediately indicates purposelessness, a sense of being undone? Perhaps work for you feels like punishment, something you cannot escape, a necessary evil you must endure to gain something you desire? In her book, Glimpses of Grace, Gloria Furman writes, “Theology is for homemakers who need to know who God is, who they are, and what this mundane life is all about.” Isn’t our biggest fear as homemakers found in feelings of not being relevant? We need faith like Saint Joseph to trust that God doesn’t merely “know what’s best for us,” but that He is what’s best for us no matter what our circumstances are. The One for Whom We Work God is present as we unload the dishwasher or balance the budget. God sees little things like changing diapers or cooking meals. God uses our hands, our feet, and our homes as spheres of His influence. God chisels us through ordinary moments to conform us into Christ likeness. We exist in the "already, but not yet" time in God's redemptive history. We desperately need the Holy Spirit to see with new eyes and hearts for the monotonous aspects of our daily work. We need new vision to embrace work not just as a means for money, but as a mission to ask: In my daily interaction with my work, how can I emerge a better person? How can I become more attentive to my family, my next door neighbor? In Christ Alone Isn’t it remarkable that there are no written words about the daily ins-and-outs of Saint Joseph’s carpentry business? Yet we know that Saint Joseph was a good steward of the earth, family, and neighbor. He sacrificed. He persevered. He labored in love. Together with Mary, he shared a single common center of attention: Christ. Outside of Christ all our impressive labors, careers, bank accounts, reputations, and legacies are grand nothings. But in Christ, even the most tedious toil is reversed and redeemed. In Christ, there is hope for those who are unrecognized, those battling daily chores, those abused at work, those for whom no room is given for advancement or opportunity to learn. In Christ alone is true rest. And while we, with creation, groan for a world that’s coming, we live in the knowledge that we don’t have to labor and overcome by our own strength. What Niggle discovered after his life, we discover now: that Christ has redeemed work for all humanity. He is alive and making all things new. In His Resurrection we can live in the eternal now. We can turn to Saint Joseph, under whose patronage and intercession we are being renewed, being made a "new creation."   [bctt tweet="Saint Joseph the Worker + the Meaningful Mundane #BISblog //" via="no"]   This post contains affiliate links. Thanks so much for supporting the ministry of Blessed is She!

A few months ago, I overheard my daughter Kristen talking over the phone with her friend. She beamed as she relayed how I had accepted her not-so-good grades with calm and composure. She explained that she was expected to work hard and give it her best shot, but that it was okay if things didn’t turn out the way she’d hoped for. That felt good. But it wasn’t always this way! When Kristen began pre-school, I felt compelled to see her succeed. The impulsive perfectionist within me believed success in school meant success in life. But all through kindergarten, Kristen couldn't hold a pen nor read or color as a child her age should. I panicked. I worried. And I beat myself up. Why isn’t she like the other kids? What’s wrong with me? Am I Enough? A recent survey revealed that 60% of 13,000 moms interviewed experienced deep guilt in the first year of parenthood. The pungent idea of "not enough" in our earn-your-way-up culture has a well-intentioned way of saying, "Life is hard, but you’ve got this because you’re a strong independent woman." While that may seem uplifting to women, it is not the full truth. We were made to be flawless crowns of creation. We were meant for higher things than just “enough.” We were meant to live in perfect harmony with God. But sin encroached creation and we became distorted versions of ourselves. We are not enough—not in ourselves. When we’ve tucked the kids in bed and still have laundry to do, when we’re lying awake at night but have that report to complete, when we’re toggling between the manic and mess of motherhood, it’s okay to recognize our "not-enoughness" before a God who desires to pour out nothing but endless reserves of His grace. Illusions of Control Over the years, I began to understand how my unrealistic expectations were, in fact, false illusions of control. I began to recognize dysfunctional patterns resulting from the way I was parented. As I came to grips with this humbling reality, I encountered a freedom to profess a larger truth: it is okay that I am not enough. Creating expectations of how life should turn out can open our hearts for disappointment. This is where Satan would want us to entertain that dangerous thought: Where is God in all this? We can end up justifying and distancing ourselves from God, reducing our relationship with Him merely to items on a checklist. I prayed, I served, I cooked, I cleaned. But do I want a life that is safe, predictable, and goes by the book? Or do I want a story that pushes me to rely on Him? As a mom, I am not always discerning enough to know what is the highest good of my children. But I can rest knowing that God does. My children know how to push my buttons, but God isn’t fazed by pushed buttons. When I mess up, I don’t have to brush away my sin with self-glorifying platitudes. I can run, I can turn to Him in my not-enoughness to find more-than-enough grace and mercy to carry on. Mothering a Prodigal A few years ago, parents of a young man visited our home. The mother sketched years of heartbreak recounting her oldest son’s waywardness. My heart broke as she lamented over her prodigal’s wasted years. Guilt loomed large as she remembered how fervently she had prayed for him and how she had doubled all her efforts to see him return to the heart of God. But the truth is: our protecting, trusting, hoping, and persevering don’t exempt us from living with grief and concern. There is pain this side of eternity, a result of the Fall and not necessarily our failure. The oft-quoted words of Proverbs 22:6, “Train children in the right way, and when old, they will not stray,” is not an exemption but an exhortation to be consistent with our plea before Heaven, an invitation to go deeper as intercessors. The addictive lifestyles, moral abandonment and anaemic faith are reasons for worry. I know, as a mother, how tempting it is to fix everything. I want to protect. I want my children to encounter Christ and radically change the world. But as noble as those thoughts are, I also know that faith is a personal journey. I cannot protect at all times, but I can pray. As we prayed that evening, the fog lifted and this grieving mother was able to see past the immediacy of her pain and capture instead a glimpse of her son as a searching and wandering soul whom Jesus loved dearly. She resolved to stop focusing on her son's choices and start focusing on God's compassion for Him instead. And she (and I) recognized that she needed to subsume her role as tormented mother under that of being a trusting daughter—waiting, leaning, surrendering—before a God in whose presence there is extravagant love. A Mother Who Understands Mary’s traditional title Theotokos or “God-bearer” underscores what Scripture tells us: Jesus is both Divine and human. The Holy One had her DNA and blood running through His veins. This great mystery invites us to ponder deeply on what it means for a woman to bear God—a task not just reserved for mothers but anyone who desires to carry Jesus, to become a vessel of God’s goodness to the world. When Mary said yes, she was overshadowed by the Holy Spirit and brought to the deepest levels of her poverty. Mary understands unmet expectations. In Mary, we see a woman braving the harshness of pregnancy, taking the arduous trip to Bethlehem and battling the terrifying flight to Egypt. In Mary, we see a mother light up as she watches Jesus grow in wisdom, heal the sick, and raise the dead all the while knowing that the "sword" she has treasured in her heart all these years will soon be cast out: the Cross will come. Mary’s choice to “bear God” is not without suffering. And neither is ours. Every day, children with the best sort of spiritual and moral instruction run away from home, become alcoholics, get addicted to drugs, break windows, and commit suicide. Every day the stones within our walls cry out with stories of losses and longing, for healing and for deliverance. The suffering we bear is real, but so is our glorious responsibility as mothers. We are part of a reality beyond the borders of our homes and the peripheries of our desires. We bear the suffering of others. We suffer with mothers estranged at refugee camps, we unite with those grieving beside frail sick bodies and we join with those on the margins—the vulnerable, the elderly, the homeless, the broken-hearted—bearing God, bringing Hope, living in trusting expectancy. The Sum of the Father's Love There is pain on this side of eternity. There is hope, too. We don’t have to wait until eternity to see with eternal eyes. Our King stands before us now, holding our drooping hands, strengthening our feeble knees, comforting our broken hearts. He is for us. He is with us carrying us through all the mysteries of motherhood even when we cannot see. Kristen is now several inches taller than me. I quake with gratitude seeing how loving and strong she’s turned out—a work of Grace, not my doing. She is not the sum of her "grades," she is the sum of the Heavenly Father’s love for her. I can rest in this truth. And I can find comfort knowing that in embracing my daily, cumbersome, inefficient crosses, I only join Him, whose burial culminates in glorious Resurrection. It is He who does exceedingly abundantly more than I could ever hope or imagine (Ephesians 3:20). How have you faced unmet expectations in motherhood?   [bctt tweet="Navigating Unmet Expectations in Motherhood #BISblog //" via="no"]

If you want to know how Valentine's Day can make single women feel, watch 30 Rock. In the 13th episode of the hit American television series, the unattached Liz Lemon goes to great extremes to avoid Valentine’s Day... even if it means sedation via oral surgery. Better to be unconscious than lonely. Singleness’ greatest sorrows are secretly reinforced every February in the souls of the not-yet-married and those who stare into the abyss of probable disappointment on the most polarized holiday of the year. The chick flicks, charming cards, and chocolate hearts only accentuate further sadness, shame, and spite. Why am I still single? Am I unattractive? Am I unlovable? Lack, Longing, and Love You’ve probably heard this before: "God loves you." But what does this mean, especially on Valentine’s Day, when our lack is heightened and our longing for love further fueled? Lack can drive even the most legitimate feelings into lecherous longings. Lack can trigger insidious insecurities causing us to stumble under the tyranny of “If only....”, all the while masquerading an aching heart. This is where Satan does his victory dance. Satan wreaks havoc in the hearts of women, magnifying their inadequacies, controlling their emotional appetites, and distracting them from the all-consuming, never-ending love of God. Longing for romance, companionship, and marriage isn’t wrong nor is the feeling of loneliness without it. However, when we are in a state of weakness, verging on the precipice of discouragement, these longings can consume us and quickly become dangers. Through meaningless relationships we end up exploiting others to satisfy the security we crave without seeking to love them above ourselves. The cheap pleasures of pornography serve as band-aids and good things like movies and chocolate become alluring escape routes to combat feelings of discontentment. What am I doing that’s feeding my expectations? Do I believe the “if only” lie? But the truth is, regardless of what your relationship status on earth looks like; nothing changes your heavenly destiny. The purest form of love isn’t found in Cupid’s invitation, but in the Father’s unparalleled, unchanging affirmation of you as a beloved daughter. God whispers to us—especially in our longing—setting in motion the surges of our heart. Singleness isn’t a status; it is a throbbing ache for what ultimately satisfies. In bitter-sweet surrender before the Lover of our soul we are awakened to a love that meets all lack and a grace that exceeds all expectations. Free, Favored, and Fruitful Last year, a single friend visited me broken and beaten under the age-old lie: the longer you stay single, the lesser chance you have to find someone good. She looked upon her singleness as a burden. A cross. A thorn in the flesh. God’s refining fire. As she watched friend after friend get hitched, she was convinced that she was worthless and wasn’t going to be whole until she found “the one.” She confessed that she had succumbed to the subconscious lie that she couldn’t experience real wholeness outside of marriage. Sure, marriage is a gift, but it is not the end goal. The maturity that comes from marriage is unique, but so is the gift of divine development available to single people. As much as God loves marriage, He didn’t design it to bear the burden of an eternal purpose. From the beginning, marriage has been the lens through which we experience and express a far greater union—with God, His Son, and His Holy Spirit. The key to experiencing true freedom is walking in the newness of the Spirit (see Galatians 5:16). It is turning away from the desires of the flesh to fill ourselves with new fruit—love, peace, joy, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self–control (see Galatians 5:22). Perhaps the greatest sorrow of the single life is putting off pursuing the produce of the Spirit until marriage. We foolishly think finding love will mysteriously unlock these fruits. In reality, none of these fruits are reserved only for marriage. They’re the produce of conversion. They’re the fruit of faith. They’re the labor of love. When we expect a groom to make us fruitful, we’re only looking for love, joy, and peace in the wrong places. Let this Valentine’s serve as a fitting reminder that we are favored not because of what we own and who we have by our side on Valentine’s Day, but because we are His beloved. We are created to bear fruit because we are His. The grand mission of life is not marriage. It is fruit-bearing. Instead of seeing the single life as a myriad of agonizing incompleteness, why not see it as a soulful endeavor to wholeness? Instead of seeing it as a shameful waiting room, why not see it as a gracious gift to pursue sanctity and holiness? Instead of waiting for love, why not resolve to give love, to foster the fruit of the Spirit? The Single Salty Life Legend has it that Emperor Claudius in the third century outlawed marriage, believing that his young male soldiers’ sticky family ties would impair their commitment to protecting his borders. Saint Valentine intervened and married the couples in secret. While Emperor Claudius demonstrated self-love, Saint Valentine directed his love towards others. His love was not mere affection but a willingness to die rather than deny Christ. His life bore rich testimony to Christ’s love, a love that overcomes all things—even death. Pope Benedict XVI wrote: Our life now belongs to Christ; it is no longer to ourselves... At His side, and indeed, drawn up in His love, we are freed from fear. He enfolds us and carries us wherever we may go—He who is Life itself! // April 7, 2007 By virtue of our Baptism, the integrated Catholic life isn't anything murky or undefined but one of great adventure, defined by great belonging. A life poured out. Your single life does not have to be a makeshift affair. It can grow into a great quest for compassion, creativity and boundless charity if you allow it. You can press into the wild ride of sisterhood. You can dream dreams and build bridges. You can leave lasting legacies. You can demonstrate that a single salty life in Christ is undoubtedly possible in a self-seeking, self-reliant world. The world hungers for your story. The Church needs your spirit. What interests you? How can you pour out your life in service of others? What if you allowed your single life to be interrupted by needy children, distraught mothers, sick women, and the lonely elderly? His Power in Our Pain Maybe the women’s community at your parish is only restricted to wives and moms. Maybe you’re tired that all people care about is your relationship status. Maybe you’re angry that people make assumptions about your past because you are single. But what if you used this opportunity to reorient your thoughts and redirect your gaze? What if you thanked God for the desires that wreck your heart for happiness because this only means you are fashioned for transcendent gains? What if you chose to see your "light and momentary affliction"—on Valentine’s Day or otherwise—as a stepping stone to sainthood, to prepare you for the heights of Heaven, to be satisfied in such a way that cannot fully be attained on earth? Sister, the luminous Resurrection isn’t something that only happened 2,000 years ago. It is a palpable, present-day reality. The same power that toppled open the empty tomb is the same power that is here, even now as you read, transforming your pain, fueling you forward. You don’t have to numb your aches or drown out your sorrows through television drama. You, (we) can take our sadness to the Cross and dwell on His sacrifice. We can seek His satisfaction, savor His tenderness and seize the glorious opportunity to become part of the most grand, romantic, eternal love story ever known.   [bctt tweet="When You're Dreading Valentine's Day... #BISblog //" via="no"]

It’s springtime in the Middle East and my 10-year-old recently planted seeds in our garden. He frequents the sun soaked ground for signs of life, but they are nowhere to be seen. We anticipate a bountiful harvest, but for now, the seeds are buried and there is "death."

I couldn’t stop fidgeting from joint aches as I desperately searched for padded pews at Mass that day. My body needed Him. My body needed His Body.

What if he can’t fight this...? I wondered. My closest friend’s six-week-old baby boy was diagnosed with a rare terminal illness and dreams for their long awaited first child were tragically shattered. Our community rallied around them as this tender infant battled surgery, chemotherapy, and blood transfusions, including one week on the ventilator. But of all things that could have occupied her heart that evening, she was thinking of me.

"Hoping against hope, Abraham believed, and thus became the father of many nations." // Catechism of the Catholic Church 1819 No statement better summarizes Abraham, the "archetype of hope" unto whom God promised to make a great nation (see Genesis 12:1-4). But ninety-nine years passed and Abraham still had no heirs (see Genesis 17:1-2), yet he continued to "hope against hope" (Romans 4:18).

It was a busy day at work when the phone rang. The tone of my husband instantly spelled dreadful news. “I’ve been arrested,†he said.

We visited our new neighbors recently. Among other things that adorned their living room, a large card table filled with tiny puzzle pieces occupying a dainty corner as children beamed with ecstatic eagerness. Apparently assembling complicated jigsaw puzzles was winter tradition. As candid conversations waltzed their way through salty savories, a sudden sigh erupted. Three puzzle pieces had gone missing. Until those were found, the puzzle remained merely a puzzle, not the picture promised on the face of the box. Emphatically we joined in the search, traversing floors underneath tables and checking crowded corners—finally concluding that the puzzle company had produced a defective product. That evening, I remembered how accurately the Gospel describes our human condition. We are meant to be "complete," like a magnificent picture displaying God’s glory to the world; but something has happened, leaving us with missing pieces and lots of holes. Missing Pieces, Unmistakable Grace In the Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul, we are awakened to one of the most remarkable revelations Paul had: the razor-sharp recognition of his own missing pieces. For a long time, Paul was trained to live as if nothing was missing in his life—nothing, until he encountered the irresistible Risen Christ. “The Conversion on the Way to Damascus”, an extraordinary painting by Caravaggio, poignantly captures that moment. Paul, then Saul, is breathing murderous threats and is on his way to Damascus to carry out violent campaigns against Christians (see Acts 9). But he is interrupted, almost bedazzled by heavenly light, overtaking his steps, knocking him to the ground. Caravaggio emphasizes Saul’s helplessness. He has dropped his sword and is groping upwards, blind, vulnerable, defenseless. The horse’s body blocks our vision, protecting us from surrounding distractions, inviting us to the centre of the moment as it unfolds. The light falls on Saul and we see him fully: a man beyond picking, a man "beyond conversion." Who will deliver me? Paul would cry out recalling that apocalyptic moment. It was not a still small voice. It was a roar from the Hound of Heaven. In a single moment, all the missing pieces of his life were exposed. In a single moment, they were unmistakably held by Grace. The Language of Love It is interesting to know that Paul had no reason to hate Christians before he became one. No Christian had ever slandered him or seized his possessions. Paul’s loathing of Christianity was a war within, a stronghold of doctrine, a religious fortress he had to overcome through the school of love. Zeal is good, but zeal in the absence of love is fruitless. Think about how many wars have been waged for the glory of God, how many bloody crusades have been committed under the guise of religious reformation. How many people have left our churches because we have not labored in love? How often we forget that conversion is the work of the Holy Spirit (see CCC 1989). The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, and peace, which are the very wealth we bring to our communities. In his Apostolic Exhortation Evangelii Gaudium, Pope Francis warned us of being less worried about the enemies “out there” than the enemies within—vices and vicarious habits that have turned into idols, thirst for knowledge and power that threaten our faith. He defines conversion as “openness to a constant self-renewal born of fidelity to Jesus Christ.” How we need His Spirit daily. How we need conversion again and again. Death and Life A couple of years ago, we lost a dear member of our team because we were quick to discipline with truth. While I do not condone what happened, I learned how easy it is to be gracious over our own missing pieces; but fail in charity towards others or those who meet our evangelical fervor with reluctance and resistance. The acid test of faith is love. And love is patient. Love forgives. Love endures. Unless I surrender all the pieces of my heart to this love, unless I die daily, pride will dominate my zeal and derail my witness. I am called to reach the lost, but only through the language of love. Saint Paul died in a love that nothing could break or exhaust. He forgave men their heinous deeds, speaking truth, loving them to the very end. He died in a victory, sealed and heralded by Christ’s Resurrection, this victory which offers us the glorious opportunity to rise to new life daily. Thorns, Thistles, + Triumph God moved powerfully in Paul’s life and, as C.S. Lewis said, surprised him with joy... and with suffering. Despite his qualifications, Saint Paul was self righteous and self-reliant. He had given his brilliant mind and persuasive talents to the blasphemy and persecution of Christians. But Paul met Christ in His post-Resurrection glory and was radically transformed. He would then recount all his credentials as complete garbage in exchange for knowing Christ. Saint Paul had a complete change of heart. He became utterly dependent on grace. He learnt to be content with weakness. In one of his autobiographical passages, after relaying great visions and revelations, including an experience of rapture to a third heaven, Paul speaks of a certain "thorn" in the flesh. He prayed three times for God to remove it but was answered with: My Grace is sufficient for you; my power is made perfect in weakness. // 1 Corinthians 12:8 Some theologians suggest that this thorn was some physical ailment or moral struggle. Others imply spiritual wounds or stigmata. Still others like Saint Chrysostom refers to it as a "personal" enemy, perhaps someone he trusted, who sought to slander and discredit him (see Timothy 4:14). The amazing claim Paul makes is that God gave him his thorn. And God gives us ours. Henri Nouwen says: Christ, the source of our peace, is found in our weakest places, when we feel most broken, most helpless and most vulnerable. Think about this: God loves us. Not some imaginary version of us. God loves us especially in our weakness. Purposeful Pruning God allows the weeds, thorns and thistles to persistently pop up and prick us, for His purposes, for our growth as disciples. Thorns are gateways for compassion and community. And these thorns remind us of His brow, sweat and blood mingled, falling to the earth for our salvation. On days when "thorns" bleed deep, and scars remind me of defeated moments, I remember the triumph of the Cross and turn to Jesus, who crucifies my shortcomings and replaces them with Himself. I learned to love the "thorns" God places; to embrace the redemptive pain they bring. I realize these are lessons I can learn only in the deep trenches of life. Complete in His Image Is there a piece missing in you today? Remember, nothing can separate you from His love, He who chose you before the world began. How kind is our redeeming God whose heavenly light exposes our missing pieces, whose mercy recovers and renews them, whose love intends nothing but to "re-complete" us so that one day we shall no longer be a puzzle but a splendid, perfected, glorious masterpiece reflecting His image. No missing pieces. Only grace. This is why we press on. This is how we overcome!   [bctt tweet="Saint Paul's Missing Pieces #BISblog //" via="no"]   This post contains affiliate links. Thanks so much for supporting the ministry of Blessed is She!

Soon after Saigon fell to the North Vietnamese Army in 1975, thousands of civilians were imprisoned. One of these was Saigon’s newly appointed archbishop, Francis Xavier Nguyen van Thuan, seized on August 15th.

My mind froze trying to grapple how a friend—someone who knew me so intimately—could betray me. I often chide and say that if there ever were a binding contract for pastoral ministry, the fine print would warn the undersigned that ministry is hazardous, that it would subject them to expressions of animosity, slander, and betrayal. In my grief, I whispered, "Lord, I need hope again!"

A few years ago, a colleague at work asked, "Why does the Catholic Church spend so much money on expensive cathedrals when half of the world suffers in poverty?" I wasn’t surprised. As an atheist turned Catholic, I have been there and wonder how many find themselves in the same dilemma today. How can we witness the greatness and grandeur of our history in a secularized world? That afternoon, we spent some time over coffee, reasoning and relaying our hearts and I have never been more grateful for my conversion. Today, as we commemorate the Feast of the Dedication of two of the greatest churches in Catholicism—the Basilicas of Saint Peter and Saint Paul—we pause to remember why our churches are so ornate, exquisite, and transcendent. They point us toward Heaven and they remind us of our deepest identity as sons and daughters of an eternal God. Celebration of Life For you have made the whole world a temple of your glory, that your name might everywhere be extolled, yet you allow us to consecrate to you apt places for the divine mysteries. // from the Rite of the Dedication Throughout history, the church building has been understood as a sacramental image of Heaven which gives a foretaste of the heavenly liturgy. The Book of Revelation gives a mystical vision of Heaven, calling it the “New Jerusalem,” a radiant, jewel-like city filled with heavenly beings singing God’s praises in the eternal liturgy. This image provides the model for every earthly Church building which, as Vatican II reminds us, manifests the “signs and symbols of the heavenly realities” through the medium of the arts: architecture, paintings, statues, stained glass, and so on. But the church isn’t just a building. It is a place of divine encounter. It is a place of refuge. Here, we enter as thirsty pilgrims to drink from the Fount of Living Waters. Here we are transformed by the Eucharist, the “source and summit” of our Christian life. Here, we celebrate what it means to be "Catholic" as the Body of Christ. Here we are dismissed, as priests, prophets, and kings to change the world. A Standing Testimony The architecture, grandeur, and splendor of our churches are testimonials to history, faith, and sacrifice. They are reminders that we are "living stones" built into a spiritual house (see 1 Peter 2:5), reflecting God’s glory on earth, pointing people heavenward—His people, people like Peter and Paul, people like you and me! Fallen but Not Defeated It is hard to walk the streets of Rome and not be moved thinking about the tender love that beckoned these passionate followers of Jesus Christ. Peter, called the "rock," was known for his impetuous nature. How could an ordinary fisherman of Galilee—let alone someone who denied the Lord—find himself as Vicar of Rome? Likewise, Paul, formerly Saul, made his name as a persecutor of Christians who vehemently opposed the Church. Yet, all of the New Testament comes alive because of his prolific writings and witness. Peter and Paul are key witnesses to the reality and veracity of Jesus Christ. They remind us that the starting point of the Christian life is not our worthiness, it is grace. Despite their flawed past and abrasive personalities, Peter and Paul were not defeated. Both men went on to become key figures in early Christianity and great Saints. How many times might Peter have thought back to his denial? How many scruples might Paul have felt remembering how many he had hurt? Humanly, they had failed. Yet, they encountered a love greater than failure and so can we. Our Redeemer lives. In the economy of His Grace, nothing is wasted but all is redeemed and transformed, even our worst sins, even our most foolish mistakes. Unity in Diversity It is no secret that Peter and Paul were often at loggerheads with one another. When Peter’s lapse in judgment at Antioch separated him from Gentile believers “fearing the circumcision party” (see Galatians 2:12), Paul moved forward and “opposed him to his face” (see Galatians 2:11). But he didn’t do so to score points, he genuinely desired for Peter to know the truth. He desired his greater good. Pope Francis reminds us, “Unity is possible only when Christians are able to shift the focus from themselves, to the Word of God who demands to be heard, accepted, and witnessed in the world.” How different would our communities look like if we made unity our priority? How many today are wounded with pride and envy simply because they have elevated the "I" above the "we?" How often do we forget that God’s call for our life did not begin when we had all the answers? Isn’t it from this posture that we make room for people to be messy? There will Always Be Conflict Interpersonal conflict doesn’t go away with inattention. It festers. Our conflicted times are not meant to increase earthly comforts, they are meant to shake our self-righteous confidence and turn our gaze towards Heaven. Saint Peter and Saint Paul served the Lord in very different ways, yet they were united because of their encounter with redemptive love. This love propelled them toward one another, not away. Despite their differences, Paul specifically called out to Peter of all the Apostles (see 1 Corinthians 15:5), admiring him, and Peter referred to Paul as "our beloved brother"(see 2 Peter 3:15). The Church doesn’t need activists; she needs apostles. She needs witnesses. This doesn't mean we have to be great friends or agree with people who have contradictory views just so we avoid conflict. Rather, it means that we recognize the intrinsic value of the human person before us who demands our kindness and patience. Rather than gossip, we can choose dialogue. Rather than competition, we can choose cooperation. Rather than focusing on our differences, we can celebrate diversity. Rather than seeing theological and ecclesial differences as barriers to growth, we can use them as catalysts for engagement, enrichment, and empowerment. The Bond of Peace The Church in all its diversity is one because the Holy Spirit makes us one. Only the Holy Spirit can break barriers and build bridges. Only the Holy Spirit can heal our wrecking wounds. Only the Holy Spirit can give us power to be living stones. Where is God calling you to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace? Tombs of Triumph Peter and Paul were martyred about the same time (67 A.D.) during Nero’s persecution in Rome. Saint Peter’s Basilica is built over his tomb and Saint Paul’s Basilica, “outside the walls” of Rome, is built on the site where Paul was murdered. These are not just tombs, these are stories of triumph. Despite persecution, despite martyrdom, despite the fire and plague, the Church stands and God wins. Sister, regardless of your past, regardless of how your present looks, this is not the end of the story. Christ the cornerstone is not a dead stone! He is alive! And in Him, we come alive, we rise above our ashes, we triumph over our trials and we propel forward. Peter and Paul could not have known the future—but they knew Christ, their Hope and Resurrection. Nero thought he had won when Peter was crucified upside down and Paul was beheaded. Instead, he had crowned them with exquisite crowns of martyrdom and raised historical monuments over their remains. Why Our Churches are Beautiful It is these jewels that adorn our churches and make them beautiful. It is this sacrifice that gives purpose to our pilgrim journey. It is this "dedication" that reminds us that we are a work in progress—a grand masterpiece being built into a spiritual house, laden with exquisite stones of victory that far outweighs all the riches of the world.   [bctt tweet="Peter + Paul: Saintly Polar Opposites #BISblog //" via="no"]

"Forgiveness is letting the prisoner go free, only to know the prisoner is me" is an adage that could not be truer in Corrie ten Boom’s life. In her book, The Hiding Place, the Dutch Christian writer describes her experience in Amsterdam during World War II where she and her family hid Jews from the Nazis. One day, after an informant reported them, her family was seized and deported to the concentration camp. Corrie never saw her father again, and her sister died in the camps. Years later, Corrie travelled throughout Europe speaking on the forgiveness of God until she experienced a moment that forever changed her spiritual life. After one talk, a man approached Corrie to thank her for her message on forgiveness. Corrie immediately recognized him as one of the guards from the concentration camp, and memories of the brutal camp came flooding in. “Will you forgive me?” he said, extending his hand. But Corrie’s arm stayed frozen, her blood draining ... remembering, reliving. She whispered in her heart, “Jesus, help me! I can lift my hand. I can do that much. You supply the feeling.” Immediately something like warm current began to flow in her shoulder, then down her arm, eventually ending into their joined hands. “I forgive you, brother, with all of my heart,” Corrie reciprocated. The prison doors were flung open. What Forgiveness is Not How can I forgive this? How do I forgive someone who’s not even sorry? Who among us hasn’t been hurt, angered, or wounded? We wrestle in prayer, wanting to forgive but find ourselves licking old wounds again, frustrated with our failed attempts to truly forgive. I believe we often resist forgiveness because we lack understanding of what it means. We equate “forgiving” with “forgetting” assuming we have to let our offender off the hook and forgo justice while we suffer. Other times, we confuse loving with liking considering forgiveness as complete only if we have "joined hands" in reconciliation. Such an inaccurate view on forgiveness can be very damaging. Do I have a right to feel anger or hurt? Absolutely. The Catechism reminds us: It is not in our power not to feel or to forget an offense. // CCC 2843 In other words, God doesn’t suggest we forgive and forget as a way of ignoring our broken hearts and allowing for gaping wounds to fester. It simply means He is leading us to something greater. This higher calling demands our decision. Therefore, forgiveness is a decision—a decision that opens doors to our healing, to our own freedom. Rewrite the Script A few years ago, a close friend’s betrayal left me hurt, embarrassed, and angry. Not only was I judged falsely, I was also slandered in the community. I held on to Jesus’ admonishment to forgive as we are forgiven, but found myself withholding love. Cynicism dressed like a security guard, protecting my pain. On some level, judging him made me feel safe. "I will forgive only when you are sorry." One evening, I was led to Matthew 5:23-24: So when you are offering your gift at the altar, if you remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your gift..." Oh I knew this verse so well, yet the reality of prison doors had never been more poignant. The word “reconciled” in Greek means "commanded to go." In other words, you initiate the action. I was suddenly seized with the inescapable painful realization—I was living under the tyranny of another’s sin. I was waiting for my offender to extend his hand, while I kept mine frozen. Like the unforgiving servant (see Matthew 18: 21-35), I was grasping at the collar of my offender, losing sight of my own debt. I was holding him imprisoned. I was holding myself imprisoned. God Has to Do It That week in all of my anger and brokenness, I cried out to God. As I vented my pain, I heard in my heart, “I need you to forgive so he and you can change." How contrary this was to my own script. God’s healing for both sides had begun. It had begun the moment I had desired to re-write the script, reverse the lies and choose love all over again. As I stretched my hands heavenward, I felt it – the rush and rain of the Holy Spirit, cleansing my heart, shifting my perspective, loosening my grip. My heart was exposed but it was stretched, for more mercy, more healing. I could trust the unchangeable God to turn my great affliction into a game changer. A week later, I met my offender. Though I desired reconciliation, he did not. But in that moment, I discovered something powerful. People can hurt us, but they can never take away our peace, freedom, and joy. Freedom isn’t conditional on them wanting our forgiveness, only in our willingness to live free. I extended my hand, then an embrace, and walked home... free! Ongoing Journey of Healing It was not until that moment that I realized how insidious the roots of unforgiveness are, how they make the heart so impervious to God’s mercy (see CCC 2840), how they convince us that we can only be happy if our offender pays. Forgiveness isn’t a destination; it’s a doorway to healing. This healing is an ongoing journey that may possibly end only in the grave. But for healing to be active, it requires both our intent and God’s power. As we ‘choose’ to forgive daily, we tear down illusions of hurt and heartlessness. We learn to crucify the flesh and its strongholds. We die to pride, selfishness, and all things that prevent us from seeing another human formed in God’s image. And we discover God’s Kingdom found in poverty, in meekness, and in the least likely places. Are You Struggling to Forgive? We can be so hard on ourselves when there is no closure. But don’t we deserve so much more than the pleasure we get out of our grievances? This irrational pleasure not only distracts us from God, it derails our witnessing. Henri Nouwen reminds us that we are "wounded healers" who need to heal our own wounds before we can witness to heal others. My own ongoing healing consists of studying specific Scriptures on unforgiveness, frequenting the Sacrament of Reconciliation, learning from the Saints, and listening to people’s stories. If you have a spiritual director, talk over your grief with him/her. If you don’t have one, talk to a priest. I also recommend writing a letter to the one who hurt you, even if you don’t share it. Journaling can be therapeutic in so many ways. Like Corrie, we must depend on the Holy Spirit for our healing. He alone can turn our “injury into compassion” and transform our “hurt into intercession” (see CCC 2843). It takes vulnerability to face our wounds. It requires humility to cry out like Corrie “Jesus, help me." Sister, God isn’t done writing your story. If you allow Him to, He can weave all your life’s injustices into greater good (see Romans 8:28). Remember what Jesus did for you will always be greater than what has been done to you. In His Resurrection, Christ retained the scars of His wounds so He can accompany your broken road, so He can release you to freedom, so He can bring you home. I whisper a prayer as you make the choice to extend your hand.   [bctt tweet="What to Do When You Struggle to Forgive #BISblog //" via="no"]   This post contains affiliate link. Thanks so much for supporting the ministry of Blessed is She!