MEL

For the Son of Man will come with his angels in his Father’s glory, and then he will repay everyone according to his conduct.

Matthew 16:27

There is no doubt that some of us lead more privileged lives than others.  Read any nonfiction work about war or genocide and that becomes abundantly apparent.  So, at what point will atonement take place for these discrepancies?  Some would say Heaven, but the same people might tell you that Heaven is an equal opportunity employer, regardless of your resume.         

The teacher in me wants to walk into church and see the objective written in big, bold letters on a whiteboard.  The pesky student in me want to ask, “Is this for a grade? How many points is this worth?  What will happen if I don’t do it?” 

Is the bare minimum to get into Heaven really as simple as accepting Jesus Christ as your Savior?  If so, what kind of extra credit do the saints receive in comparison to all those 59.5 percenters that barely squeaked by?  Asking for a friend…

No, but in all seriousness, the parameters of Heaven are currently living rent free in my mind these days.  Not because I want to do the bare minimum, but because I want others to be encouraged NOT to.    Since we live in a society based on extrinsic rewards, I really want us all to get on the same page about the sales pitch. 

I have been reading and reflecting on this topic today and this is what resonates with me.  I do believe that all believers will be granted the gift of eternal life in Heaven, regardless of what they did in this lifetime.  However, I cannot believe that the rewards will be equal.  I believe our levels of joy will differ based on the suffering we endured on earth, and the effort we put forth in living God’s word.   

My child, you will be able to enter into me to the extent that you go out of yourself.

The Imitation of Christ, Book 3, Chapter 56, Section 1

I view it as the harder we work to live like Jesus, the closer we become to Jesus.  In turn, the more we connect to Jesus and the more joyous Heaven will be when we enter. 

Throughout history, there have been acts of evil so horrific in this world that we can barely bring ourselves to acknowledge there existence.  So, what does that say about the degree of suffering for those that lived them?  For some of us, following God’s word is relatively easy because we do not face any opposition in doing so.  For others, standing up for what is right is met with tragic consequences.        

For no one can lay a foundation other than the one that is there, namely Jesus Christ.  If anyone builds on this foundation with gold, silver, precious stones, wood, hay or straw, the work of each will come to light, for the Day, will disclose it.  It will be revealed with fire, and the fire [itself] will test the quality of each one’s work.  If the work stands that someone built upon the foundation, that person will receive a wage.  But is someone’s work is burned up, that one will suffer loss; the person will be saved, but only as through fire

1 Corinthians 3:11-15

So, here’s the motivation.  Our salvation is a gift from God, we need do very little to earn it other than accept our Savior Jesus Christ. However, if we continually work to become the best versions of ourselves, living God’s word, even when it is hard, our Heavenly rewards can be unimaginable.  What’s the downside if I’m wrong?  There is no downside.  The more we look to God in leading us in our earthly lives, the more gracious they will become. 

Maybe you don’t buy into the varying levels of the celestial experience, but if Heaven is like a free concert, do you really want to risk sitting up in the nosebleed section? 

In John 16:24, Jesus stated, “Ask and you will receive, so that your joy may be complete”.

Frankly, I don’t want to tell you this story but it’s late and I’m tired and I don’t really have anything else left in my arsenal to write about tonight, so here we go.    

I confided in my bestie that I secretly hope this blog leads to more than my faith, but a career.  If only you knew how slowly I typed that sentence.  The past few years I have discovered the joy that writing brings me and have often thought about how I could make a career out of it, but never really knew the path.  When I had the idea to write for 40 days for Lent, I started thinking maybe I could have it all.  A dream job as well as a dream relationship with God.  If nothing else I expect that having a better relationship with God will lead to a happier, more productive life in general. 

My friend and I will often use the phrase, “Put it out in the Universe,” as a way of encouraging each other’s positive imagery.  I also believe that our biggest obstacle in achieving our dreams, is simply believing in ourselves.  Nonetheless, more on the concepts of shame, vulnerability, and guilt later.      

If I can be as bold as to believe that God is leading me in achieving my dream, it is the following passage my mind keeps repeating. 

“But I came to learn that God never shows us something we aren’t ready to understand. Instead, He lets us see what we need to see, when we need to see it. He’ll wait until our eyes and hearts are open to Him, and then when we’re ready, He will plant our feet on the path that’s best for us…but it’s up to us to do the walking.”
― Immaculee Ilibagiza, Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust

Kind of a “Help me, help you,” proposition from God.

So there, now you know my dirty little secret, my ulterior motive in all of this.  Let me showcase my clever writing under the guise of religious purity. 

But still, if you never ask, the answer will always be no.  So therefore, I will be bold, put it out in the universe, risk embarrassing myself and see what happens. 

Go ahead, plant my feet Lord, I promise I’ll do the walking. 

These days I seem to be trapped in a vicious cycle of gratitude, guilt and fear.  There’s a reason I have watched all six seasons of Schitt’s Creek at least three times.  Sitcoms are my sweet spot.  Where I can unplug without having to worry about the stress of viewing anything sad.  I typically won’t watch or read anything if it has a R-A-P-E scene.  Yes, I spell the word because it is too horrible a concept to even speak freely.  I have never liked hearing tales of misfortune (not like anyone really does) but especially after London died, I have taken extra caution to shield my heart from exposure to sadness. 

When my shelter is broken and I am awoken to the realities of the utmost suffering, I of course feel a surge of gratitude.  Yes, my daughters died, but at least it was of natural causes.  At least my children were afforded medical care.  At least they weren’t victim to savage violence.  Not all mothers are so lucky.    

After my gratitude comes a wave of guilt.  My heart breaks for the mothers who cannot meet their children’s basic needs of food, medicine, and safety, through no fault of their own.  The mothers whose children are living in unsafe neighborhoods or war-torn countries.  Why them and not me? 

After the guilt comes the fear.  Is my turn coming?  What other suffering is waiting for me in my lifetime?  Will I meet an even worse fate?  The unknown is terrifying.  It makes me feel like sprinting as fast as I can through life, until I am safely in the end zone and can be assured the worst is over. 

For me it doesn’t matter.  I have no fear of dying, for 50% of my children are already on the other side waiting for me.  I fear what every mother fears, her children’s suffering.  I do believe that when it is our time, the angels come and take our hand before we feel any pain.  But what about before that moment?  The journey to death is not always quick and the suffering and fear can set in long before. 

I had a student who asked me once if I had a nice childhood.  I hesitantly told her yes knowing she didn’t.  She responded, “What’s that like?”  A girl who was dealt such an unfair hand in life, yet somehow fought to remain kind and good.  I will never forget her. 

Again, why her and not me? 

I look at my sons and how blessed with love and security they are.  Then my heart breaks thinking of all the children in the world who do not have a safe, loving home.  In pours the guilt and then the fear. 

So how do we do it?  How do we enjoy our blessings and fortunes knowing we live in a world filled with murder and corruption?  It is not a rhetorical question I really want to know.  Sometimes I feel like I need to suffer for a sense of solidarity.  I used to be comforted by the endgame, Heaven.  The notion that Heaven and Hell made everything equal, gave everyone the atonement they deserved.  My biggest fear is that’s not true. 

All any of us are trying to do is make it through this crazy thing called life.  For me, I need it to make sense, if only to me, if only in my head.  That is part of my goal in my writing daily for the 40 days of Lent.  To push myself to explore my faith, to understand, to ask the uncomfortable questions.  For some of us will have a long time to wait until we learn the answers on the other side, and personally I’d like to break the cycle before then.              

This week’s Sunday Reflection on the Hallow App focused on learning how to pray.

As a little girl I remember laying in bed at night and saying the Our Father, Hail Mary and Guardian Angel prayer, (always in that order).  I remember talking to God, and that the last thing I said was always, “help me fall asleep quickly.”  What I also remember is not being able to fall asleep if I didn’t pray.  If I were tired and told myself I would skip my prayers, it just didn’t work.  I always ended up saying them before I fell asleep.  I’m not sure when this phenomenon faded in my life, but I can tell you that at some point growing up, I lost it.   

Father Jeff spoke today about how as Catholics we are often not taught how to pray but how to repeat.  We memorize many prayers but that doesn’t necessarily mean we know how to pray.  He tells us the three pillars of prayer are to be consistent, persistent, and personal.    

I can tell you since London died, I have really struggled with how to pray.  Like I have been searching for clarity to pray in a way that made sense to me.  I prayed for London to live, and she did not, therefore I felt like I could never pray in a way that was asking God for something ever again.  That leaves out a lot.  The only powers of prayer I believed in for a long time were that of comfort and peace. 

I felt like while listening to Immaculée Ilibagiza pray in her book, Left to Tell, I was learning how to pray again.  Immaculée was definitely consistent, persistent and personal in her prayers.  I took note of how she talked to God throughout the day, asking him for specific guidance.  She didn’t just ask God to save her, she asked Him to blind the killers, put an idea in her head, use her as His instrument.  She was an active participant in her conversations with God.    

What she said at the end is what resonates with me the most, “The love of a single heart can make a world of difference.  I believe that we can heal Rwanda and our world, by healing one heart at a time.” 

Suddenly it all made sense to me: Love.  Praying for love is something I can passionately believe in.  I now believe that in praying for love we can lessen the hatred in people’s hearts.  We can productively change the world for the better. 

While reading about the Rwandan genocide I kept thinking about the apparitions of the Virgin Mary to the children at Fatima in Portugal 1917.  The Our Lady of Fatima Miracle prophesied many crimes against humanity.  Mary called on us for acts of prayer and sacrifice to save souls, emphasizing praying the rosary. 

Thinking of the awful atrocities of humanity throughout the world are what would defeat me the most.  Now I realize I should take that as my calling of what to pray for.  Sometimes when I watch the news it seems like this world never learns and we just continue to hurt each other.  Although someone told me once that he studied a timeline trajectory of humanity and we are in fact getting kinder, even if it doesn’t always seem so.  Perhaps if we can all learn to pray a little better we could use our love to drive out the hate a little faster.

I fell in love with weekday Mass the summer my son MJ was born.  It has a completely different energy than a Sunday mass.  More somber and serious than joyful and celebratory, but in a good way.  At least in a way that matched my spirit towards prayer. 

Honestly, the idea of going to a Sunday service makes me cringe.  I truly believe I have PTSD when it comes to that.  I think I pushed myself too hard to go to church after my daughter London died.  If there was a little girl close by or the priest said a homily that made me feel neglected, I would burst into tears.  I just felt so lonely, so unseen.  Still, I fought through it and continued to force myself to go.  Mainly to light a candle for London.  Then the pandemic hit, and I delivered my stillborn daughter.  Since then, I have used Covid as my excuse but ultimately, I just cannot bring myself to go.  Too much pomp and circumstance, too many people.

Part of the reason I fell in love with weekday Mass was because my father and I made a habit of taking my son once a week.  At the end of Mass, we would light a candle for my daughter and go grab a cup of coffee.  Those quiet morning spent together have been one of my happiest memories with my dad.    

Then there were the days when I walked to that 7:00 am Mass.  The simple pleasure of being out in nature in the early morning before the hustle and bustle begins its almost a religious experience in itself.  The world so quiet, so easy to clear your mind, so many opportunities for God to find a connection to you. 

However early, back then it was relatively easy for me to make it to 7:00 am Mass.  My infant son was awake early in the morning anyways so I would simply get ready after he woke me up.  Since then, it has been more of a challenge with his sleep schedule changing.

Recently though I decided to bring MJ to church with me on my daughter’s birthday.  He impressed me with how well he sat through the Mass being not quite four-years-old.  After Mass I thanked him for going with me and he said, “Thank-you for taking me Mommy.”  Be still my heart!  So now I have made it a point to try to take him to weekday Mass once a week.  It can be our special mommy and me time.  Hopefully, as he grows up, he’ll look back at these weekday Mass memories with the same fondness I do.  Then who knows, maybe he will be taking his little one to weekday Mass one day.