Sunflowers

Sunflowers…….

My goodness, I think I could sit and stare at a single sunflower bobbing its head in a field all day long with a smile on my face. They are by far one of my favorite flowers. To some they are merely glorified weeds, but to me they are magnificent.

It isn’t their beauty that captures me, but rather their resilience and persistence. They grow in the most desolate and harsh of locations—on the sides of the road and in dusty, weed-strewn fields. They can grow in masses in bountiful fields but aren’t afraid to pop up fearlessly as a solo entity in the middle of an abandoned dirt plot. And no matter the conditions, whether being whipped by passing cars or being choked out by dry and barren soil, sunflowers always turn their heads to face the sunlight above with a confidence and optimism that I can’t help but admire.  

It should come as no surprise then that I chose to incorporate sunflowers into my wedding bouquet last year. When I think about what it takes to build and maintain relationships….whether it be with friends, family or your spouse….I think of all the same qualities that I see when I look at sunflowers. You have to be persistent, resilient, hopeful and always be looking upwards in faith to the source of everything we have and need in this life. And with all the bumps and twists in the road that Andy and I have overcome so far, it only seemed appropriate to include sunflowers into our special day. Though I’m quite sure I’m the only one who knew why. 

Ever since our wedding, however, I find myself needing reminders of what sunflowers represent to me….not just about surviving love and relationships….but about surviving life as a whole.

In the past few weeks I have bowed my head in dismal prayer on more than one occasion for the sake of several friends who are presently suffering serious and life-threatening ailments. I don’t believe there is a single person on earth who deserves to suffer the things they are dealing with, but it always seems like it’s the very best of us who are struck down by the greatest hardships. As strong as my faith in God is, these are the kinds of moments when I find myself stumbling the most. 

The times we are living in—filled with the suffering of so many—are difficult times indeed. I often find myself not wanting to get out of bed and start another day because it seems as though nothing good lies ahead. I am overwhelmed by the suffering of those around me, particularly those I am close to. I feel useless when it comes to helping them and feel that offering up supportive words is superficial and does little to improve their circumstances.

The truth is, there is little most of us can do for people suffering physical illness—both in our lives and around the world. We have to trust a lot of that work to doctors and medicine. About the only beneficial thing we can do—for ourselves and those suffering around us—is to be like sunflowers.

We have to be resilient and not let grief and fear overcome us. We have to be persistent in our fight alongside our friends and family and let them know that we will never give up on them. We have to be hopeful that healing and peace will eventually come. We have to fight the urge to flee or shrivel up from the burden of being caregivers or supporters but instead keep our faces turned towards the light---be that hope, determination or faith in God. 

In the neighborhood I recently moved into, several new homes are still under construction and a few dirt lots still patiently await buyers. With the summer heat and rains, weeds have begun sprouting up all over the place. I hate their ugly appearance and the depth to which their roots so quickly dive. And I’ve spent a good deal of my summer pulling and hacking away at the weeds in my yard to get rid of them. But a few weeks ago while I was tackling some more weeds in the back yard, I glanced over to my neighbor’s yard. As bad as our yard is, his has become a veritable jungle of spiky green masses. But there in the middle of all the ugliness, was a single sunflower stalk rising up above the weeds. And it made me smile. 

Like I said earlier, sunflowers themselves are considered by many to be just another weed. But there’s a brightly colored bloom on the end of them that suggests otherwise. They suggest that there is more than meets the eye and that something beautiful can be harvested from anywhere, no matter how dismal. 

As the weeks have gone on, I’ve noticed more and more sunflowers sprouting up on other lots around us. I like to think that they’ll encourage people to look past the weeds and see the potential beyond them---they’ll see the future home for their family. But regardless, they are daily reminders for me of my need to stay strong and hopeful even in the midst of so much pain and sickness. Being a sunflower won’t cure my friends of their illness but it will help me stay and fight beside them. And it might even encourage them to become sunflowers themselves. And sunflowers, it seems, are entirely unwilling to ever give up or give in. They choose only to see the light and all of its promises before them. 

    

Sisters for Life

Growing up, I frequently received surprised looks and sympathetic words for my so-called “disadvantage” in life when people learned that I was an only child…..devoid of any siblings.

“You must get so lonely.” 

“Don’t you wish you had a brother or sister to play with?”

Those were phrases I grew quite accustomed to hearing. But I was always quick to respond to them with a confused look and the deliberate shaking of my head. Their concerns, while appreciated, simply didn’t make any sense to me. And they certainly weren’t any concern of mine.

I’m a strong believer in the phrase, “Family isn’t always blood.” And while my parents may not have given me any siblings, God had blessed me over the years with several individuals who have loved, supported, and taken care of me to such a profound extent that they’ve become indistinguishable from the family I’m bound to by blood.

In particular, God has been especially generous to me in blessing me with so many sisters to call my own. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about seven ladies in particular who have shaped my whole being and the way I see the world. 

 

 

I have to start with my very best friend since kindergarten…..Miss Jamie. Jamie and I met on the very first day of kindergarten at Four Georgians Elementary. Something between us just clicked. From learning our ABCs and building rock forts to twirling about in tutus and bombing around the mountains on four-wheelers, we’ve been building memories for roughly 25 years. Jamie is the only person whose phone call I’ll answer at 2 a.m. after she’s pitched all of her boyfriend’s clothes out the window.  She knows how important it is that I get my chocolate orange each year at Christmas and she’s definitely the only person who supported the over 3,000 wedding photos I demanded be taken. She can out-burp any boy, has the most contagious laugh and has more fearless ambition and drive than anyone I know. We got lost in the Nature Park together and walked several miles back to our cabin after burying our four-wheelers in a swamp. Together we’ve belted out Spice Girl melodies, played dress up, and taken hundreds of selfies before “selfies” was even a word. She’s been my biggest cheerleader, my partner in crime, and my sister for life. 

 

There’s my sister-in-law Maureen. Maureen is my opposite in nearly every respect, but that’s exactly why I consider her such a badass. I first met Maureen when she was still a little curly haired, brace faced middle schooler on my first trip to Arizona with my future husband. Over the last 10 years though I’ve watched her blossom into a radiant, fun-loving girl with more confidence and muscle strength than practically every other girl I know. She isn’t afraid of hard work, being the center of attention or out-playing the boys. She’s outspoken, tenacious and a natural born leader. I’ve got no doubt she will one day go on to be the next CEO of a major company…..either that or spend her days sailing the seas on a private yacht. 

 

Holly is my quieter sister-in-law but the one I have a feeling I’ll grow the closest to down the road. She shares the same natural “brave” hair as me, which is how I knew we were destined to be family. Holly is quiet and sweet but has a tinge of sass you definitely don’t want to mess with. She’s passionately driven and goal-oriented but knows how to squeeze in a bit of fun and laughter each day. She’s devoted to her family and friends and does her best to help everyone around her. I admire her passion for numbers and am grateful to have someone to finally explain all of that Shawshank money laundering to my curious mind. From the first day I met her 10 years ago to watching her walk up and accept her college diploma one month ago, I have been nothing but grateful to know her and am extremely proud that she’s now officially my sister.   

Tara is the random gorgeous girl who plopped down next to me at Starbucks one night and didn’t stop talking to me for at least two hours. She’s the only person who understands the life or death importance of getting mini donuts from the county fair each year. She loves baking even more than me and is the only person I could’ve recruited to make 200 cupcakes with me in a single baking session one afternoon. Tara is one of the most compassionate, supportive and loving people I’ve ever met. She’s devoted entirely to her faith, which is why I chose her as my Godmother for my baptism at 27 years old. And when you get her away from her kids for a night, she’ll surprisingly be the last one rocking the night away on the dance floor. Every minute with Tara is a special one.

 There’s Michaela. Now, I’ve lost track of exactly how many years Michaela and I have been friends….but I believe it all started one day in middle school when she sat down next to me in the cafeteria at lunch. Michaela is one of the rare individuals who has taught me to never give up on myself or anyone else for that matter. She’s my favorite pumpkin pie Blizzard loving, Pirates of the Caribbean watching, tennis warrior, Starbucks coffee date ever! And did I mention, that she’s also the only person in the universe who would study abroad in France for an entire year but still make time to dial the likely 46 digits necessary to reach Montana by phone to check in on me. 

 There’s also my cousin Samantha. Sam is my adventurous, free-spirited, Montana-girl-at-heart bestie who just so happened to also find her passion in life in writing. Sam was the one who helped me name the goldfish in my grandparents’ pond, practiced her fouettes next to me in ballet class, and has more personal style that Miss Carrie Bradshaw. She’s the only person who regards our family’s tradition of eating Chinese food on Christmas Eve as completely sacred. She can juggle raising two pigs for the fair while also rocking a sky-high pair of stilettos. And somehow she landed a dream job working at a classy resort in the Bahamas. I’m only slightly jealous.    

 

Then there’s Sarah. While not pictured in any of my wedding photos as one of my bridesmaids, she is most certainly one of my sisters. She’s simply the rebel pirate of the group who knew that the best seat at the wedding was several feet away from all the chaos and flashing cameras and several feet closer to the funfetti wedding cake. Sarah is my mermaid-loving, sushi eating, truck driving, sailor swearing, mean girl of a sister who once sat right at my side when we had one of the greatest office bitch show-downs of all time. My day simply wouldn’t be complete without one of her frantic, neurotic or complaining text messages…..or a cat picture or two.

These seven amazing women are not the only special ladies in my life but they are the ones who have stood with me through thick and thin. They’ve loved me when I’ve been unlovable. Had my back when everyone else turned away. Cheered me on through all my wild endeavors. Helped me eat more sushi, ice cream and chocolate than I care to think about, and just been an inspiration and blessing to me each and every day. 

I never felt like an only child growing up because I was surrounded by so many wonderful sisters. They are the strong, ambitious, gorgeous women that God delivered to me one by one because he knew they’d serve me better than any sister by blood. I am grateful for every one of their smiles, hugs, and laughs…..I am grateful they chose me just as much as I chose them.  

  

                                                                                               

A Lifetime of Service

Earlier today it was brought to my attention that a golden retriever by the name of “Bretagne” passed away at the ripe age of 16 years old. Having experienced my own loss of a family dog a mere six months ago, the news of any dog passing onto their next journey is heart-wrenching for me. But as the news about this dog’s death spread furiously across every major new station in the country today, I realized that her story touched not only my heart but the heart of millions of Americans.

Bretagne was not just any golden retriever….she was the last known surviving 9/11 search and rescue dog.

Bretagne and her owner, Denise Corliss, were fresh graduates from Disaster City, a search and rescue training center in College Station, Texas when they were deployed to New York shortly after the World Trade Center attacks in 2001. They joined hundreds of other search and rescue teams—including about 300 other dogs—sent from around the world to search for survivors at Ground Zero. They worked 12 hours a day for two straight weeks. 

After 9/11, Bretagne and Corliss were called to action at several other national disasters, including Hurricanes Katrina, Rita and Ivan. Bretagne retired from her dedicated service call when she was about 10 years old. In her retirement, Bretagne helped with the training of other rescue dogs as well as became a fixture at a local elementary school’s reading program. 

While I am well aware that there are hundreds of dedicated and hard-working dogs bravely serving our country and its citizens every single day in an abundance of ways, it was the video that introduced Bretagne to me today that left a lasting impression. 

Suffering from kidney failure, the decision was made to put Bretagne down today at a local veterinary hospital in Texas. Bretagne walked into the hospital on her own down an aisle comprised of two dozen firefighters saluting her. After she passed, Bretagne was draped in an American flag and carried back out to a second round of salutes. Video of this loving tribute has rapidly been circulating worldwide throughout the day. 

I have learned that there are two distinct types of people in this world: the people who know, understand, and can’t live without the love of a dog……and those to whom a dog will always just be a pet. But regardless of the ranking you place on the furry four-legged animals, there is something about Bretagne’s story and how it commanded such respect and admiration up until the very end that you can’t help but appreciate it.

To every dog out there, whether it be a service dog, hunting companion or just that contagious smile that greets you at the end of every day…..thank you for your unconditional love, loyalty and dedication to every life you came upon.

And to every dog owner who has confronted the ruthless brevity of their best friend’s life, just know that they are waiting for us and will be reunited with us someday. But until then, let us all try to lead our lives with an ounce of the unconditional love and dedication that our dogs always showed us. 

Abandonment

With downcast eyes, I smudged a kiss on the chipped white paint of the door. In a hushed tone only my insides could hear, I muttered “thank you,” as I turned to go.

A few weeks ago I closed the front door for the very last time and walked away from the place I’d called home for the past six years. As soon as I was in my car driving away the tears started trickling down. My husband and I had just purchased a beautiful, newly built home to start our life together in, but in that moment, the only home I could think about was the one I was losing—the one I was seemingly abandoning to start the next phase of my life. I was excited and distraught all at the same time to leave my little condo on Overlook Boulevard. 

One of the most profound statements made to me during my college career took place during my capstone seminar class my senior year.  My capstone class was where we workshopped sections of our theses or other current writing projects. During one particular class my professor, Dr. Ron Stottlemyer, discussed the writing process with us. He acknowledged what many of us knew already, which is that writing is a brutal process requiring countless rewrites, throwaways drafts and painstakingly tiny edits. But then he said something I had never considered before…..and have never since forgotten. He explained that a piece of writing can be edited and rewritten indefinitely. The only way a piece ever gets finished is when the writer consciously decides to abandon it.

 

ABANDON. That word clung to the crevices of my mind like briers to your pant leg after roaming about a summer field. It was simple but perfectly illustrated the truth behind the craft. Seven years since graduating I’ve finally come to realize that Dr. Stottlemyer’s words on the inevitable abandonment of a writing piece likewise apply to most every other aspect of life as well. 

One of the only certainties in life is that it is dynamic and ever-changing. Sometimes the change it brings is like an unwelcome guest thrust into our lives without any semblance of notice or invitation. Other times, change is something we choose for ourselves out of hope or desperation. Either way, change compels us to leave things behind……be it fears, regrets, expectations, relationships, jobs, homes or loved ones passed on. Since most of us are creatures of habit by nature, we often fight against losing these things. We usually don’t feel ready. We don’t think we are done yet with those things, places and people that we’ve grown so attached to. We aren’t ready to take the risk….to leave behind the pain. We want one more opportunity, one more photo taken, one more hug, one more kiss, one final word. We want closure of some sort because we think it will help us move forward without wanting to look back.

The truth of the matter though is that nothing is ever really finished. We never get the amount of time with someone we want or deserve. Some hurts never fully heal. Some dreams never leave us even if they never come to fruition. But there comes a time when we need to abandon pieces and people of our life and who we used to be because doing so is the only way to move forward in life. 

While the word “abandonment” tends to bear a negative connotation, I now view it through a different lens because of my professor. The word abandonment carries with it an inherent sense of free will and decisiveness. When you abandon something, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you no longer care about it or want it in your life. Abandonment is simply recognition that you want to take a step forward instead of staying in one place. It means you want something more….something that will better you more than what you currently have. It means you haven’t surrendered yet and that you’re still curious about the next adventure.

Some things in life can last indefinitely if we let them…..much like writing a poem or novel. But we want to eventually turn the page and reach the next chapter. More importantly, we want to be able to look back someday and see a beautiful and complete story. Sometimes abandonment is the only way to finish our story. Each sentence and chapter doesn’t have to end perfectly. The breaks in our life don’t always have to be clean. We might never fully be finished or ready but sometimes we just have to smudge in that period so we can begin the next sentence.  

The Stanley Cupcakes!

With the exception of an embarrassing one-season stint of basketball during 6^th grade, I grew up with little conception of what it was like to be part of a team. As an only child, I learned how to play games by myself by creatively improvising the roles of the other characters. The only major activity I participated in was ballet, which is primarily an individual sport. And as I’ve grown into my career as a writer, working alone has not only become an occupational necessity but the way I actually prefer to do things.  So yes, the notion of being on a team, particularly in a competitive setting, had always been completely foreign to me.

A few weeks ago, however, I experienced for the first time the immense pride and sense of comradery that can only come from being on a real team. I had both the privilege and challenge of playing in my very first hockey tournament. 

Even after four seasons of playing hockey, I had never thought much about elevating my game to the next level. But when I was approached by a few other guys I regularly played with about playing in the Wyatt Winfield 3 on 3 Memorial Hockey Tournament, it was an opportunity I couldn’t pass up. I loved the idea of playing on a real team with matching jerseys and battling competitively for the chance at a trophy.

It didn’t take long to build our seven person team and the best part was that all of us started out playing together in the novice league. We were friends just as much as teammates. And all of us signed on for the love of the game, not because we boasted any extraordinary talents on the ice. True to my usual unconventional form, I was the only girl on the team. But it I didn’t feel out of place in the least. I was grateful to be included and excited to be playing alongside friends while also helping to further stake a claim for women in the sport.

The first chore in preparation for the tournament was crafting a unique and memorable team name. Brilliant ideas were initially thrown around like the “No Regretzkies,” “Toe Dragons,” “Scared Shotless” and “Ice Holes.” But we eventually settled on the best name I could ever possibly imagine…the Stanley Cupcakes! I absolutely love anything having to do with cupcakes and was both stunned and highly amused that it was a guy who came up with the name. It was perfect!

Just moments after the team name was decided, our logo began taking shape. It was sinister with just a twinge of cutesy innocence. And of course, it being a cupcake was the icing on the top. Tournament aside, our jerseys were going to be wickedly awesome and I couldn’t wait put mine on. We even ordered enough jerseys to have complementary embroidered beanie hats thrown in with them. We were going to be the most legit looking team on the ice.   

After weeks of designing the jerseys, complete with names and team numbers, and taking advantage of our weekly games to buff up my stick handling and skating skills, the tournament finally arrived. With my Bauer gear bag slung over my shoulder and donning my Stanley Cupcakes’ beanie, I headed for the rink.

 

I arrived fairly early since I wanted time to stretch out beforehand. As I leaned up against the boards to stretch out my calve muscles, the nerves began to set it. The feeling brought me right back to my very first game of hockey four years ago. My legs were heavy and unsteady that first night as I awkwardly clutched my freshly wrapped stick in gloved hands. My heart drummed in my chest as frozen clouds of breath spurted out from my lips in the chill of the rink. I stood right in the very same place against the boards wondering how the hell I had gotten into the situation.  But eventually, I took those first steps onto the ice and gave it my all every minute afterwards.

This time around, I had a little more confidence and knew what I was doing but that didn’t dismiss the jittered nerves of playing in my first tournament. But then something happened that obliterated the nerves and made me smile inside. The other members of my team started rolling in one by one and nearly every one of them was likewise wearing their Cupcakes beanie. It was such a small thing, but it made me realize that no matter how the tournament went, we were going to start it and finish it together as a team. 

The tournament games were comprised of two 15-minute periods and were played cross-ice with three games being played simultaneously. I figured the structure and time frame would make the games a breeze compared to our normal hour long games. I was horribly wrong.

By the end of the 5^th minute, the sweat was already coursing down my face inside my helmet. My breath was labored and I longed for a bench to sit on to rest my legs. Even though we signed up as a novice team, we were severely miss-matched with our first opposing team. We could tell they had all played together for a long time. Every cross-over of their skate blades and pass across the ice was so exquisitely timed and coordinated with the other players that it was mesmerizing to watch….almost like a dance. Most of the time it felt like we were just large black cones on the ice that the other players practiced skating around. 

Goal after goal was flung into our net, seemingly without effort. Sometimes it felt like our only beneficial move was to stand guard in front of our goalie to protect him. I watched as the energy and motivation drained from my team members. That’s when the image of each of us wearing our Cupcake beanies returned to me and filled me with adrenaline. Every second I stood on the sidelines waiting for my next shift, I screamed out words of encouragement to the other players. I wanted them to keep fighting and not give up no matter how tough the situation was. I’m not sure if it helped at all but, in that moment, those other guys were my team and family, and I wanted them to know I had their back. 

 When the final buzzer sounded, I don’t think any of us wanted to look at the score board to see how bad the damage was. We lost 15-3. Before that game, I had never seen double digit scores in a hockey game. We were poorly matched but knowing that still didn’t take away the sting of the blow of losing. 

Things didn’t get a whole lot better in the next three games, but we continued to rally and do the best we could to pressure the other teams. The one bright spot was that we did get to play against some other Helena players later that weekend that we knew and had played against before. We didn’t win any of those games either but we kept the scores a lot closer and even had a few laughs or two on the ice.

As our Captain, Jimmy, later put it, “Well, we didn’t win a single game all weekend, but we looked darn good losing!” And we did….we truly did. All of us decked out in our black jerseys emblazoned with our cupcake logo made us not just look coordinated—but unified. We looked like a team and had battled together as a team through four brutal games of hockey. We were exhausted and defeated feeling by the end but I think we all knew we had skated our hardest and tried to have a little fun along the way. And that’s really all that mattered. 

My Easter Story

If you had asked me a few years ago what my favorite holiday of the year was, Easter would’ve undoubtedly been at the very bottom of my list. For me, Easter used to just be the holiday that always awkwardly fell on a Sunday and on which it was permissible to eat a basket full of candy and chocolate without fear of receiving judgmental glances. Some years, if the Montana winter had dissipated enough, I donned a pastel colored dress and accompanied my grandmother to church in the early morning. Easter afternoons used to be filled with egg hunts at my parents’ house where I hoped to uncover the golden egg with the money rolled up inside. That’s what Easter used to be for me.

But two years ago, that all changed….

In 2014, I received the greatest gift and blessing of my life when I was baptized into the Catholic Church during the Easter Vigil Mass. In the weeks and months leading up to my baptism I had the real meaning behind Easter explained to me in a new and profound way. But once I experienced first-hand what is perhaps the most beautiful sacrament in the Church, I truly FELT the meaning behind Easter. 

 

Since that glorious evening, Easter is no longer just a holiday for me…or even merely a date of remembrance of Christ’s crucifixion. For me, Easter is the day I was saved and called to the highest purpose of my life. It will forever be a time of year now when I recall the grace and forgiveness I was granted—even though I didn’t deserve it—and was shouldered with a cross and inner light to bear for the good of myself and humanity the rest of my days. 

Last Friday, I was given an incredible opportunity to further extend the light of Christ within to those around me. I was emailed by the musical director of my church to ask if I would give the reflection for the last evening prayer service of Lent. Her words made me tear up because it was the kind of opportunity I always knew I wanted but wasn’t sure I’d ever have. I couldn’t write back quickly enough to tell her I was all in for it. 

Pope Francis called for 2016 to be a Jubilee Year of Mercy, so the overarching theme of the prayer services this year centered on mercy. I thought to myself initially, “my lord, where do I even begin to explain all that I have come to know about mercy.” But as always, after staring at the blank screen for countless minutes and praying for divine intervention, I began typing. Once I did, the words flowed out of me with such a fierce determination that I could not stop them. 

Being a writer I crossed out, deleted, rewrote and hung my head dozens of times in the process of crafting my reflection. Even up until a few hours before I was to deliver it at church, I was still tweaking things. But when I finally walked up to the podium to speak to my brothers and sisters of St. Mary Catholic Community, my words were confident, reflective, and peaceful as they rolled out from my lips.

At the end of the prayer service, I received a round of applause from everyone in the church. It’s rare to hear applause at church so I greatly appreciated it. But what happened in the subsequent minutes though was the real reward. I fully expected people to tell me I had done a good job. But I received far more than that. After the service concluded, several people rushed their way over to me and the first words out of their mouths were “Thank You.” Thank you…..those were certainly words I never expected to hear. I wasn’t even quite sure what to say back to them. But those two little words were the greatest affirmation for me that not only was my story heard and appreciated, but it had changed something in them…..even the older church ladies that I didn’t expect to take anything away from the thoughts of a new and very young Catholic. 

The next day, I had the privilege to serve as a lector during the Palm Sunday service. While processing outside with our palm branches for some readings, an older lady stopped me to tell me how impressed she had been with my reflection the night before. Not only had my speaking abilities shown through to her but my words caused her to pause in her own reflection—a reflection on her own baptism….69 years earlier. Her baptism had taken place decades before but she still seemed to remember it like it was just yesterday. I wondered how long it had been since she’d really thought about that day prior to hearing me speak about my baptism. I wonder if what I had said had called to mind the memory. 

Her last comment to me was, “It must’ve been very hard for you to share that story.” But I smiled and told her “no.” Sharing personal stories about failure, tragedy and transformation are not the difficult part for me. What is difficult is having such stories bottled up inside you…..stories that you believe could transform the lives of others if you were only given the opportunity to share them. 

Sharing my story of coming into the church was a liberating experience for me. I could’ve stood up in front of the church for hours telling them about all the ways God has intervened in my life and saved me. But I was content with my 15 minutes or so. In the two years since my baptism, it was the greatest moment of public ministry for me and further inspired me to continue on the journey I was called to with the waters of rebirth. 

Below is the full text of the reflection I gave on Friday, March 18. I hope that you find something to take away from it. If nothing else, I hope it inspires you to share your own greatest stories with others. They are some of the most powerful scriptures we have after all.

          I’m Lacey Galen and I’m a parishioner and lector here at St. Mary as well as a former RCIA Candidate. When I first received the email from Eileen asking if I would give the reflection for tonight’s service I was incredibly honored. But then when I saw who some of the other speakers were each week listed in the bulletins, I started wondering why on earth she’d chosen me. I knew I was going up against professors from my alma mater at Carroll College and others who seemed to have impressive credentials and backgrounds in religion and spirituality. Then there was me.  With as young as I am and as recently as I’ve joined the church, I wondered what I could possibly have to say to further shape people’s minds on God and particularly his mercy?

            But I believe that each of us has a unique story to share and something to teach about life, God and mercy—even those people who haven’t fully found God yet. And it’s critical that we all share our stories because there is something to be gained from each of them. So while I am no great scholar or expert on Catholicism or God or anything in between, I do have my own story about experiencing God’s mercy first hand in a way that most Christians don’t remember. And I feel very proud to be able to share part of that story with you tonight and how it forever changed me.

            This past fall on September 12th I was blessed to marry a man, right here in this beautiful church, who is not only my best friend but has also been one of the biggest saving graces of my life. Our wedding day was the second time I walked down the aisle of this church in a white gown and pledged my life and all that I am—all the good, bad and broken parts of me—to someone greater than myself. The other occasion came a year and a half earlier on April 19, 2014, when I was baptized into the Catholic Church at 27 years old….right in that font in the back here that we dip our fingers into each time before Mass.

            If you ask most Christians they will tell you they were baptized as infants and have absolutely no memory of the occasion. I feel so sad for those people sometimes because I am now among the blessed few who have full recollection of that actual and profound moment in my life and faith journey when God’s grace and spirit first descended on me.

            I had wanted to be baptized for a long time and over the course of a few years I began recognizing God’s calling in me. But I waited until it felt right….until I knew it was entirely my decision and that it was what God truly wanted for me. I read a quote once that said that “Waiting to come to the Lord when you get your life cleaned up is like waiting to go to the ER when you stop bleeding. He doesn’t love some future version of us; he loves us in our mess.” That quote really sums up a lot of how I reached my decision. 

             Just before approaching Deb here at St. Mary and telling her I wanted to be baptized, I had reached a place of profound shame over the mistakes I’d made in my past and the person I was starting to become as a result of them. I felt broken and lost from many of the struggles and burdens I’d encountered in recent years. While I’d always believed I could fix things on my own, I slowly began to realize that God was the only one who could ultimately heal me and guide me into becoming a better person and living a better life.

            There was no grand epiphany or epic event that finally called me to the church. I just knew one day—all the way to my bones—that it was time. And from the moment I officially spoke the words aloud to Deb that “I want to be baptized,” I grew more reassured of my decision and of God’s calling in me with each passing day.

            Just a few weeks before Easter I underwent my first scrutiny in preparation for the Easter Vigil. One of the first remarks I remember Father Richard saying as I stood up in front of the whole parish was “God has chosen you for baptism.” The moment I heard those words I was struck by the immense truth behind them. God CHOSE ME to be initiated….not the other way around. I had simply been receptive enough to hear his call and trusted him enough to answer it. 

          The night of the Easter Vigil two years ago, will always hold the place in my heart as the best night of my life. When I first stepped into the font, everything and everyone around me disappeared. When Father Richard pushed my head underwater, all I remember was hearing his words of “I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” The water covered my face and head and with each plunge under I felt a greater sense of peace enter my heart. When I rose up after the third time, I kept my eyes closed and felt the water run down my face. I didn’t want to open my eyes because I wanted to breathe in and feel that moment for as long as possible. When I did finally open my eyes, Father's hand was extended down to help me up from kneeling down in the font. I didn't look up to see that it was Father's hand, and truthfully, a piece of me in that moment felt like it was Jesus' hand outreached to help me up into my new life.   

  
            When I first walked down the aisle in my white rope after changing, I felt like a halo of light must’ve been surrounding me for all the happiness I felt. When Father anointed my head with oil and confirmed me, I felt like all of the scattered and broken pieces of my life were fused together in an unbreakable bond. When I went up and received the Eucharist for the first time, I finally felt the significance of that sacrament and was reminded in a profound way of what Christ did for me. Truly feeling His sacrifice made me want to work so much harder in my own life moving forward to prove to him that His sacrifice was worth it…..that giving His life so that I might live was worth it.
 

            I was told many times by members of my RCIA team that coming into the church would not be the end of my journey but merely the beginning. I had a glorious 12 hours of so after my baptism of feeling utterly at peace with myself and the world and truly feeling God’s forgiveness and love for the first time in my life. But in the nearly two years since I’ve come to realize just how much the work has really only begun for me.

            The feeling of having over two decades of sins washed away in one night is something I could never fully convey to anyone. And it’s one of the big differences of being baptized as an adult. As infants we have original sin forgiven but I experienced 27 years being forgiven in an instant. But I quickly learned that my baptism wasn’t a cure all for my brokenness and sinful ways. I was not perfect still and many of the sins I hoped to have washed away forever from my life with my baptism I continued to struggle with. But there was a difference this time around. This time, I had the spirit of Christ within me. 

            While I’ve suffered plenty of failures in the days since my baptism, the one thing I have not failed to do is to turn to God every day of my life….whether it be in prayer, attending Mass or confession or Adoration or simply crying out for assistance. And slowly, with all of those practices becoming an integral part of my daily life, God has healed me in the ways that my baptism didn’t fully do. From the moment his spirit first descended on me, He has never left me or stopped helping to mold me into the best possible version of myself. 

            It would have been very easy for me to get baptized and then say, well wonderful! Now I’m forgiven and saved and part of the church…my work is done. I could’ve just decided to do the bare minimum and attend Mass—when it was convenient, made my annual visit to confession like I’m told I’m supposed to do and skipped meat on Fridays during Lent and called it good. But my baptism, and the fact that it happened as an adult, made me see how much of a lifelong conversion I had begun and that I owed it to God and the rest of the world around me to continue the work that he had started. To not just become robotic and stagnant in my new faith but to continue moving forward and constantly improving myself and the ways in which I serve those around me. 

            Each of our baptisms, whenever and however we experienced them, do not just join us with God’s love and mercy, they join us with his death on the cross. The death he suffered so that we might have another chance to lead a different life. We are called then through our baptisms to honor his sacrifice for us every day after. 

            The task is not always easy but it is simple. All we really must do is choose God every day—though our actions, thoughts and words….through how we love and forgive others….in how we love and forgive ourselves. I was told by a priest once in confession that God loves us so much that he has always given us the freedom to make our own decisions. 

            What we have to learn and strive to do then is to choose God every day, in every single thing we do regardless of our current situations in life. We have to choose him when we are sick or hurting, when we are busy or preoccupied. We must chose God whether we’ve done good deeds or sinned repeatedly. We must choose him whether we are understanding and accepting of the hardships he has put on our shoulders or whether we are fighting to understand why life must be so hard sometimes. Because the fact is that whatever God leads us to he will always lead us through with his abundance of mercy and love when we trust him to do so.

            Most every week when I find myself sitting in the pews here during Mass my eyes are fixated on the crucifix behind the altar. I never understood Catholics’ fixation on the seemingly morbid display of Christ on the cross prior to joining the church. And now it is the one image I cannot bring myself to look away from. It is a depiction of the greatest mercy in the history of the world. We must learn to never take that mercy Christ showed us for granted. 

 

            Tonight’s reading from Paul’s letter to the Philippians is especially meaningful for me and truly conveys my current state in my faith journey. In choosing to answer God’s calling and be baptized I “accepted the loss of all the things and ways of living that I’d grown accustomed to and thought were good enough as well. I consider all of it rubbish now as Paul put it compared to the righteous things and new ways of living I have gained through Christ. While I now have the spirt of Christ within me, I still have yet to attain, however, perfect maturity (again, as Paul described) but I continue my pursuit in the hope that I may possess it someday. 

            Mercy--whether received through baptism, reconciliation, forgiveness or kindness from others, or any other means--calls us to forget what lies behind but instead strain forward to what lies ahead. I continue my pursuit toward the goal, the prize of God’s upward calling in Christ Jesus. I hope the rest of you will do the same. 

    

Extinguishing Doubt

It’s said that the greatest pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do. This has always proved true for me. It’s actually an inside joke between my husband and I that if he wants to get me to do something he simply suggests it’s beyond my capabilities to do it. He, of course, knows this will kick my stubborn nature into high gear and I’ll go and do it if for no other reason than to wipe the taunting grin off his face. But throughout the years I’ve come to realize that the truest pleasure is not, in fact, derived from doing what others say you can’t…but from doing what you’ve convinced yourself you cannot do.

In recent months a promising potential business deal has landed in front of me and slowly nudged its way from being an ambitious dream to a near reality. I’ve spent the past few months formulating dozens of seemingly legitimate reasons why I think this potential business is a terrible idea. Not one of them has anything to do with the business itself, but rather with me. I’ve tried to convince myself that I don’t have enough knowledge, experience, or tenacity to pull it off.  In my mind, I’ve reduced my potential and worth in this endeavor down to a smidgen not much larger than a mustard seed. And it has frustrated the hell out of me.

But then a few days ago, while pounding out some miles at the gym, I had a series of revelations which shifted my mindset from one of contagious fear to hopeful ambition. With every step and drop of sweat I surrendered to the treadmill, another key memory struck me that reminded me just how much potential and tenacity really does exist within me. 

My earliest memory dated back to over two decades ago when I attending Four Georgians Elementary School with my best friend, Jamie. We were avid rock fort builders at recess…pretty much the queens reigning dominion over the outskirts of the playground where the forts were built. But one day, word spread across the playground that school administrators had decided to demo the region where our forts existed and level our architectural masterpieces to the ground. While other kids shrugged and accepted the authority of the adults above us, Jamie and I were determined not to go down without a fight. 

So we started a petition, which in one recess assembled 190 signatures. Much to mine and Jamie’s fears we were summoned to the principal’s office at the end of the day. While we expected to be suspended or worse, we were met by a stunned and approving look on the principal’s face. She told us she was so impressed with our efforts that she decided to forgo the plans to demo the hillside housing our rock forts. We were ecstatic! A few days later, the picture below appeared in the daily paper. It was a testament to the world that anything is possible, regardless of age, authority, or hopeless state of a situation as long as you believe in yourself and the dreams in your heart.

 Flash forward to around 18 or 19 years old and I found myself neck deep in the chaos and academic hell of college. While I had always been a successful student, college was a game changer and pushed my scholarly skills to the limit. I found myself confronting daunting classes like Western Civilization, Human Biology and Algebra…..classes I was personally told by other students were nearly impossible to get As in. But like I said earlier, I love nothing more than proving people wrong. So with my teeth grit and head bore down, I trucked through with uncanny determination. I went so far as to begin studying for a class over Christmas break just so I was ahead of the game come the start of the semester. All the hard work paid off in the end, however, when I graduated college summa cum laude after receiving a 4.0 GPA my entire college career. 

 A year out of college, with my energy levels revived, I sought a new challenge for myself. It came on two spindly tires and a seat that no butt was designed to sit on for hours on end. I began road biking on a brand new Trek hybrid bike. After a few months of diligent biking during the week, I set my sights on a ride to test my strength, endurance, and sanity. I planned to ride from Helena to Lincoln in one day, which was approximately 76 miles. To avid cyclists this would seem like no big deal, but for me, it was nearly incomprehensible.

 I was the student in high school gym class that was always the last one around the track and who looked for any excuse possible to be exempt from the week’s hellish physical torture. I was the one who after my freshman year of college could barely run one block without feeling like I was going to keel over while gasping for air. Yet there I was determined to embark on a feat of physical endurance unlike anything I had experienced before. Ready or not, my journey began on a hot summer day, the 1^st of August to be exact. Over 7 hours later, sweaty and covered in road grime, I pulled into Lincoln to the smiles and cheers of my parents. Like most hard things, it seemed impossible until it was done.  

 All of the endurance that evolved from my many epic bike rides must’ve truly thickened my hide by a few layers because a few years later, I allowed my father to talk me into joining a novice hockey league at the local rink. I had never played a game of hockey in my life but thought, “how hard could it be?” After purchasing the multitude of padded gear and a brand new pair of hockey skates, I found myself waiting to step onto the ice for my very first game. I recall watching part of the game scheduled just before ours and seeing two players slam into the glass right in front of me in a brutal fight over the puck. I wondered what in hell I’d been thinking. My legs were literally shaking when I finally stepped onto the ice to play….especially when I realized I was one of the only girls playing. I was a fantastically terrible player that first game but a fire of passion was lit inside me for the sport. Now, four seasons later, I wonder what I ever did before I played hockey. And whether there are five other girls on the ice or just me, I don’t feel a bit intimidated to play.

 In between my cycling and hockey feats, I also worked tirelessly at developing my writing career. Unlike many of the other English majors I graduated with, I refused to take the more straight shot and secure career path of becoming a teacher. I wanted to write and that’s exactly what I’ve spent the last 6 years since college doing. I do not write full time or make a living off it by any means, but I have scarcely gone a month since graduating without receiving at least one paid writing assignment. And each year, I have managed to wedge my work into new publications. There are some weeks when I juggle two or three jobs, but I try not to complain because doing so enables me to still do what I love. All along, I’ve always known I could’ve taken an easier or more prosperous route with my degree, but when you find something you love to do, you must always pursue it with fearlessness and resilience.

It’s hard to believe that all of these memories flooded my mind in the mere 45 minutes I was at the gym, but I took them all coming to me that day as a sign. They reminded me that while I have rarely taken the easy routes in life I have yet to see much in the way of failure. What stands out in my mind even more with these particular memories is that within each instance I suffered terrible moments of fear and doubt in my ability to do the things that, in the end, I accomplished. I didn’t have a bunch of people on the sidelines booing me and telling me I should give up. All I really had was my own internal voice telling me I couldn’t do them. While most people can learn to still the voices of doubt from others, it is far more difficult to silence the ones within you. But when you do….that’s when the real wonder and accomplishment begins. 

I don’t yet know what lies ahead for me and all the opportunities that have presented themselves in recent months. But one thing I know for sure is that whatever happens, I never want to know that I walked away from something possibly amazing simply because of fear or doubt in myself. Any other reason might be justified, but not that one. I would rather live out the rest of my days living with the pains at having tried to do something and failed at it than always wondering about what could’ve been when I walk away before even beginning.