Matthew 5:15

I'm not sure I am making a wise choice, but here is the link to a talk I gave at the local young adult group.  The recording also include Father's comments and some group discussion.  The topic: Maintaining the Spiritual Life during Times of Transition.  Thanks to my wonderful sister for her input and all my many CCMers who helped me learn.

Falling Behind for Christ

Living at home for the summer, I am surrounded by friends who are well into their adult lives.  Which, surprise!, I am too.  My life story has taken a different path than that of many of my peers.  (Side note: a great comic about life paths for recent grads.) Mostly I don't compare.  Instead, I ask myself: Am I where God wants me to be?  Am I listening to Him so as to prepare for the next step?  Am I living fully according to His will here and now?

When I read this article on Busted Halo, I wanted to sit down with the writer (Seth) and have a heart to heart about a year of service.  "I'm glad you learned to cry, but let's take a deeper look at your year.  Let's start with a deeper look at your tears."  One of the most valuable things I gained from my year (and I know this is true of other volunteers I know) was a deeper understanding of human dignity.  I came in with a great theory of the intrinsic value of the human person.  I came out valuing individual people in a way I hadn't known was possible.  Of course, this outcome was not the only, or even most valuable, grace from the year, but it is one of the easiest to explain.

All these graces together mean that my year, as Seth worries about his, was not a waste.  But more than that: no time spent with Christ is a waste.  So Seth's time in the soup kitchen had intrinsic value, apart from his learning to cry.  My time with the VSC had the same intrinsic value -- as did my time as YACM, as does my time at Franciscan.  All these times are times of abiding deeply with Christ, which is, after all, our ultimate goal.

The Holy Land Here

On Saturday, I took a group of CCM alumni into DC to visit the Franciscan Monastery of the Holy Land in America. I use the word "took" and any reference to my leadership in the loosest sense possible. Originally, Marianne and I had planned to have an alumni retreat, but she had knee surgery again. Rather than cancel everything for our alum, we changed it to a trip to the monastery. Less planning, easier for me to run, still a good time and a God-focused time.

I had a constant shuffle of people, joining and backing out, from the moment I sent the first email to the moment we left for the Metro from Connor's house. We ended up with four and one more to meet us in the city. It's been a while since I've ridden the DC Metro, and I enjoyed it as much as I did two years ago (when did my life get that far away!?!), when I had just started this blog. People watching on public transit is awesome, even if it did take us too many loops around the Metro station to figure out how to get into the parking lot.

I have heard so many good things about the Monastery, and it lived up to my expectations of beautiful, though not at all how I imagined it. The rose garden surrounded by a covered walkway with the mysteries of the rosary was in half-bloom, so colorful, prickly, a little bit new and a little bit dying. The rest of the grounds followed two organizing principles: replicas of shrines throughout the world and the Stations of the Cross. In the midst of the Stations, we'd suddenly come across a shrine or a saint who was beautiful, but broke up the flow of the walk. It was a reminder that you can't follow Christ's death and resurrection without running into his life and his Church. It reminded me of our "prayer table" when I was growing up : full of religious tchotchkes that are unified only by virtue of proximity.

Inside, we took a tour of the monastery. Upstairs, a church shaped like a Jerusalem cross was playing host to Confessions at one end and a quinceañera at another. On two opposite sides, stairs led the way to Biblical scene popping out of the wall : the Transfiguration and the Crucifixion faced each other. Downstairs, we walked through a model of the Catacombs, including tombs of St. Sebastian and St. Cecilia. Ancient catechisms, in the form of rough drawings, covered the walls. We ended in a model of the Church of Nativity. Everyone in our group seemed to enjoy the tour... except me. Our tour guide did his job well, but I'm not a fan of guided tours. I love to linger and soak in. Since I didn't get a chance, I might just have to return and see it all again. It certainly would get old for the going back.

Short Stories

Short Stories

1) My chin met the sidewalk the other day when I was running. So I've been walking around with a skinned knee, a skinned chin, skinned hands, and a whole lot less dignity.

2) My world is officially clearing out. Everyone had to leave campus housing by noon on Monday. So all my CCMers are gone. Even worse, Julia has left for the summer. I'm discovering it's hard to function without her! Who will make Trader Joe's runs with me?

3) On my "last night" with CCMers, we watch (500) Days of Summer. And then discovered that at 2:45 am, you can find bull-riding on TV. I was proud (though it is a dubious badge at best) of knowing that the goal was to stay on for eight seconds, knowledge I have thanks to Ana and Jake Owen's "Eight Second Ride," which played a lot on the radio last year.

4) On my "last night" with Julia, she, Percy, and I walked CW and found sheep. We baaa'ed at them but could not get them to come over to us. We could get the older couple walking by us to laugh, however.

5) I really want a doctorate because doctoral robes are the coolest. And apparently the hats stay on without pins, according to Julia's mother. The downside? The regalia costs $700. Seriously -- I think I get a doctorate instead of a wedding! (Sorry, Mom.)

It's Been Two Long Years Now

Hey, remember that time when I graduated? The Class of 2011 has its turn this weekend. Endings abound on campus, and I am struggling to deal with them all. Most of the non-seniors have headed home already and I am approaching the end of my YACM year in mid-June. CCMers are going away, Julia leaves me Monday, and I have no idea what I am doing with my life for six weeks of the summer, when I need diversion and income. I have many of the same feelings I had two years ago at graduation, only heightened by greater uncertainty for the future -- something that gives me sympathy for my classmates who didn't have plans this time two years ago.

As I put together the worship aid for Grad Mass, I saw a song that shaped the way I look at endings. So I pulled up a reflection I wrote on it a few years ago and post it now, in honor of the Class of 2011, but really for everyone with endings. For students going home for the summer. For people who are watching friends leave. For myself, as much as anyone else.

There’s a song we sing in my church at school. It’s called “The Summons,” and I love the lyrics:

Will you come and follow me
If I but call your name?
Will you go where you don’t know
And never be the same?
Will you let my love be shown,
Will you let my name be known,
Will you let my life be grown
In you and you in me?

It continues in a true Summons, with Christ calling us as listeners to leave our comfort zone and follow Him in faith and service. To me it’s always been about getting out there and doing something. “Will you come and follow me?” seems like such an active calling. It made one of my friends spend his summer ministering at the Grand Canyon; my best friend agree to be vice-president of CCM. It called me out of a bad relationship and into the loving a loving Christian community. It's a beginnings song, a step out of your comfort zone song, a take-the-plunge song.

Applying to YouthWorks and spending my summer in Carthage was just such a plunge. I threw myself head-first into getting to know and love the people there. By the end of the summer, I was fully in love with Carthage. Also, by the time August hit, it still felt like the beginning. I was just starting to understand, just starting to hear God's messages.

And suddenly... it was at the end of the summer. It was time to go home.

At the last Mass at St. William of Vercelli, we sang “The Summons.” And I thought, “Really, God? This song? Right now? Why don't I get a song to send me home?”

But by the time I got to the last verse, my world gave a slight flip. Lord, Your summons echoes true when You but call my name; I will come and follow you and never be the same. What if it was a song to send me home? That would mean that going home was a calling... just as much as coming out had been.

That would mean it doesn't end here. It doesn't end today.

God loved me enough to call me out here. And He loves me enough to call me home.

Krispy Kreme Angels

The College council of the Knights of Columbus and the parish one teamed up last Sunday to sell Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the classic fundraiser. However, one of the Knights from the parish had a brilliant and creative idea. [Note on pronunciation: when "Knight" is followed by "of Columbus," I say it "nite" in my head. When it is not, please read "kah-NIG-it." This will enhance your reading experience.] The brilliant and creative idea? As the pulpit announcement said, "You have two options for buying. Option one: Buy a box for yourself... Option two: Buy a box to donate to students studying for exams."

I laughed to myself when I read that announcement, thinking it was funny and maybe we'd end up with a handful of boxes for the "Krispy Kreme for Crammers." On Monday, I discovered the generosity of the parishioners. The Knights had 110 dozen doughnuts to give away. That is 1320 doughnuts.

I joined three of the College Knights to pass out doughnuts that night. We started outside the library, where we made two people's night by handing them entire boxes of doughnuts. Then we spread out in teams to two and covered the first floor of the library. I followed Asher around with paper towels. "Excuse me? Would you like a free doughnut? A local church donated them for studying students. God bless!" "Hi! We're giving away doughnuts. The old people at the Catholic church wanted to give them to students. Jesus loves you!" And so on.

Something as simple as a free doughnut can bring such a smile to someone's face. And there is no better way to end your day than by watching a hundred or two faces light up with joy.

Happy Easter

Happy Easter! I know that at least one person who reads this post will think, "Well, she's a few days late." Well, I'm not!

Easter is such an amazing holiday and awesome Holy Day that the Church celebrates it for an octave -- eight days! We are currently smack-dab in the middle of the Octave of Easter, and so I wish happy Easter to all my readers.

I celebrated at three Masses. First, the Easter Vigil at the parish. Rather than have our own Vigil, as we did all through my undergrad, CCM caravaned at least 50 students up the road to the main church. We had four people entering the Church, their sponsors, a cadre of liturgical ministers, and some students simply excited for Easter happening. The Mass was beautiful and didn't feel like the 2h40min that it was.

The Easter Vigil is my favorite 3 hours of the year. Mass starts in darkness outside, where the Pascal candle is lit. It processes in, and the entire congregation lights tapers off of it. The priest sings a prayer called the Exultet. The song recalls God's saving work starting with the fall of Adam. Each verse begins with "This is the night..." that God performed some act of salvation. One line speaks of the Pascal candle as "a flame divided but undimmed" -- which perfectly captures the vision of the church lit by over a thousand candles. We then move into readings. There can be seven readings from the Old Testament that tell the history of the world and God's work in it -- his creation of the world and his unwavering love of humanity. We only did four this year. I understand the desire to keep Mass moving along, but I miss having the full story told. After the Old Testament readings, we sing the Gloria and the lights come on. God's salvation is fully realized in the Resurrection of his Son! It brings me so much joy that I have a huge smile just thinking about it.

After a reading from an Epistle and a Resurrection account from a Gospel, we move into the Sacraments of Initiation. People get baptized. People get confirmed. People who have been through a long, intense discernment and formation process finally profess the faith of the Church and are welcomed in. And we all get holy water sprinkled over us. From there the Mass proceeds as usual, with especial joy.

That was a rather long tangent, but my love of the Easter Vigil is pretty intense. I could go on and on. Instead, I'll fast forward to Sunday morning. After fighting an epic battle to return the cat to its indoor home, I headed out to CCM for a 7:30 Easter breakfast in fine Polish tradition, and then flew through two epic CCM Masses. In both, we had standing room only twenty minutes before the start of Mass. The first Mass ended only half an hour before the second one started, so we had people pouring in and out at the same time. Things were crowded and hectic, but so beautiful because 1) we were celebrating the Resurrection, victory, triumph, salvation, JOY! and 2) so many people came out to celebrate!

The most poignant moment came during the Liturgy of the Eucharist. I was distributing the Host when the folk group started singing "How Beautiful." The song, besides being objectively beautiful, holds special meaning from my summer at Yosemite, a time of growth and healing. In addition, the refrain -- "How beautiful is the Body of Christ" -- overwhelmed me as I held the Body of my Risen Lord in my hands, days after his death, to share this experience of him with others, friends and strangers alike, all of whom are the Body of Christ.

The World Will Come to Walshingham

Friday and Saturday, my world became... GALA. My readers who know CCM recognize the occasion; for others, it is the annual event when people pay CCM money to come to an event and spend money. Which is to say, it is a black-tie affair with a catered dinner and a live and silent auction, as well as a raffle and some fun entertainment. Students put on the Gala, with the help of an adult committee, and serve at the occasion, but, like a true fundraiser, it targets outside of our community. At least, outside of our community in the normal sense. In a way, it expands our community and shows both students and supporters just how large our ministry is.

This particular year marks our 5th Annual Gala. That means that I remember our first Gala; I was one of the bright-eyed and confused student volunteers who smiled at the rich people who came to support us. By now, we have many more guests, including a solid group of alumni. So I still spent a good bit of the evening smiling confusedly at people as I tried to make small talk. I found I am much better at making sure people and things are where and when they need to be than I am at making small talk. Just in case I didn't already know that.

Miriam and Brigit have been working literally since September (and really before that) to prepare for this. All week they had been champs, working crazy hours to put the final touches on so many parts and pieces. Friday, Brigit was running all over town doing final pick-up and arrangements, and Miriam had charge of an army of students, transforming a gymnasium/auditorium into a classy setting for our guests. I love seeing the room transform from a basketball court into a fancy dining room lined by tables of pretty things. It felt so magical by the end. Best of all, we finished considerably earlier that evening than we'd done in past years!

Saturday morning, Miriam and I picked up a few odds and ends and hung out with an alumnus working the light and sound for us. Saturday evening was showtime!

It's just amazing to walk into a room and see thirty people whom you normally see in jeans and sweats, now dressed to the nines. CCMers clean up nicely indeed. And then Wendy was there, along with the two girls we roomed with senior year, Connor, and a few other wonderful alumni. I alternated between official duties and hanging out with dearly beloved and much missed friends. Marie (yes, the same one who was in Hurley with me) was acting field-marshal of student volunteers, so I knew they were in good hands.

One of my favorite moments of the night came at the very end. Brigit and I had worked hard at creating table placements to keep all our guests happy. I saw one women leaving with her table's placard -- and each guest had signed by his or her name! It was a beautiful, tangible result of our efforts.

And now, I am left with the residue of the evening. We packed up and moved out that evening, but my office is still littered with the odds and ends of the evening, including left over red velvet cake. (Yes, that is a hint to come visit.)

I Go Back

On Sunday, CCM's Contemporary Christian group gave their annual performance. Ever since I discovered that this group existed, I've been eagerly awaiting this day. So despite the fact that it occurred at the end of my two weeks of crazy after a Mass for which I could barely stay awake, I hopped over after Mass.

A little known fact about me : I am a sucker for anyone who can make music, probably because I am so unmusical myself. It's like parallel parking -- I'm amazed every time it happens. And when people who are good at being musical are making music that is praising God, I basically get a little piece of heaven if I can sit in a corner and listen. Actually, I sat in the front, not a corner and sang (very softly so as not to bother the CCMers next to me) love songs to my God.

I also realized that night just how much Christian music has become a part of my life. Not just that I know the songs and can sing along to at least half of them, but the strong connection they have with other parts of my life. I went on a musical tour of the past five years of my life. Some of the more powerful examples:

One of the first songs they performed was "Indescribable." This song first entered my life during a retreat my sophomore year of college and reappeared annually as I served the retreat in various forms.

"Free to Be Me." When they started this song, I was transported to the Shnuck's parking lot in University City, St. Louis, sitting in our blue Toyota on a sunny evening making a grocery run after school. It was the first time I heard the words to this song, and they resonated : I too could not see God's plans for my life and was (and am) clumsy and incomplete when I act on my own and try to be perfect.

More recently, I have heard the song "Alive Again." I associate it with both the Encounters I teamed this year. Also, it has the wonderful line from Augustine, "Late have I loved you," which brought me back to buying and reading Confessions last year.

Finally, most powerfully, "Mighty to Save." My YouthWorks summer, we sang this song to death, and at the end I thought I would never be able to hear it again without cringing. Which was a shame, because I liked the song a lot at the beginning of the summer. I discovered that now at last I like it again. As soon as the chords started, I was sitting next to an overhead on the floor, our club "mood lighting" switched on, surrounded by a group of middle and high school kids. And somehow, those kids and the people we served in Carthage became connected to my kids and coworkers and Six Pack from last year, who are connected to my ministry this year.

I discovered on Sunday how to bilocate. Because even as I traveled back in time to different places of my life, the beauty of the right-now remained. Our incoming VP, smiling like an angel as she sings; our future music minister, praising God in song; our current music minister, holding the show together; the rest of the group, making music. And the crucifix and tabernacle, just to the side, reminding us all of the ultimate Beauty.

The Two Weeks of Crazy End!

I can't believe that it has been a full two weeks since I posted last. I have, on occasion during these weeks, thought about what I would/should write... but the sweep of life overwhelmed me continuously. The last Monday that I posted, I had a brief meeting with Marianne to discuss our discernment process, which I would be leading, since she would be on the Encounter retreat that Sunday, when we would be discerning. Instead, I found out that her knee, which has been giving her trouble all year, was bad again. So I was going on Encounter on Thursday!

In addition, that week started crunch time for our annual benefit Gala, which came to fruition this past Saturday. I had three days to prep for the retreat in the midst of the Gala chaos, four days of Encounter, and then constant Gala prep for five days. Thus, no blogging. I dropped out of pretty much every part of life except for CCM. These past 24ish hours, I've enjoyed finding life again!

I'll tack a bit about Encounter onto this post. Like the February Encounter, it was mostly other people's stories, so I won't dwell on it. We had three CCMers from the College and drove up with three students from a school down the road, so we had a full car. Over 40 people registered -- the largest Encounter we've had for years. The team was sharp and on top of things, the participants were a joy, and the campus ministers, as always, full of fun and wisdom. We had snow Saturday night, a surprise and beautiful, if slightly worrisome. I brought home a car-full of tired, excited students, on fire from the weekend, who made the four hour car trip a blast. Plus, as with the Hurley trip, I had an excellent DJ and a car that liked to sing.

The Trip Home

I should tell about it. It was safe with no snow on the road and lots of quick and easy highway driving. We made excellent time, and then I decided to keep going. I ended up in northern Virginia at my home parish just in time for Stations of the Cross. Literally exactly as they were starting.

New Toys and Snow

My new favorite toy : a nail gun. It makes life so much easier, gives you an adrenaline rush the first time you pick one up, and just makes you feel hardcore. I got to play with one our last day of work in Hurley. Once more it rained, so once more we worked inside on the addition. We mostly did our best not to mess up unskilled labor, such as nailing boards to the wall to allow room for insulation, moving two-b’fours, and putting up insulation.

Sonny’s son and the carpenter put beams in the roof, ran wire to the light switches and lights (they worked!), and build some more walls. Even more than using the nail gun, I enjoyed watching them work, seeing what they were doing. At first, I tried to do this discretely, because I thought it might be awkward. However, after Phil made enough comments about how they’d “learn y’uns real good” and after they didn’t care, I realized that everyone else saw it as a learning process, and it was okay for me to watch.

Equally as awesome, it was okay for me to listen. When Sonny came out, we had three men who worked or had worked the mines. Sonny was in poor health because of it; his son still worked in the mines. They exchanged stories that I only half-understood for the jargon. Some of what I did understand amazed me. They told about working hours on end in mine shafts not tall enough to stand in, and how hard it was to eat lunch laying down. They told about moving from one company to another for better conditions – and how this had ended disastrously for some men they knew. They made jokes about “scabs” who broke picket lines in Kentucky. My favorite was about a scab who drove past 20 men picketing. Those men told him he could go through – but they didn’t say anything about the hundred men further in. Those men picked up the man’s truck and flipped it!

We left an unfinished project, but some good friends. Which, overall, is what I’d rather do.

When we got back to the community center after our final day of work, we received some frightening news. Snow was coming! It brought us into Hurley and it was going to bring us out. After much discussion and some time spent on Weather Underground, we decided to stick out the night so as to avoid driving in the dark and the snow, and pray for wet (but not icy) roads the next morning. We found highway driving that wasn’t as direct as our route in had been, but it seemed a wiser idea.

Then we headed downstairs for the community cookout. It always includes live bluegrass music from the family of an active and wonderful member of the community center. Cecil had brought his mandolin for the express purpose of playing with them, and they got excited when he told them he wanted to join for the night. They played for an hour and a half and we joined in for as many songs as we knew and enjoyed those we didn’t.

Wednesday

Wednesday something awful happened: it rained. I had been looking forward to being up on the roof all week – as I mentioned in a previous post, I love heights. Sadly, not only are roofs dangerous in the rain, but also, you want the felt dry when you put the waterproof shingles on. Just common sense.

So Wednesday was a day of waiting. It was also Ash Wednesday, and, for me, fasting and waiting at the same time is a challenge. We waited for the rain to slack, then we moved some two-by-fours. (The Hurley men almost eliminated the preposition, calling them “two-b’fours.” I want to adopt this term.) Then we waited for Sonny’s son and the carpenter to come to tell us what to do. When we realized they wouldn’t be in until the afternoon, Phil gave us another task.

Remember how the house is on the side of the mountain, with a “ravine” on one side? Well, when Phil and co. took the tar paper off the ravine side, they used the same strategy we did – they dumped it into the yard. So the side of the mountain was littered with scraps of tar paper. Our job was to throw it across the road and then down the mountainside toward the creek. That would “clean up” the yard.

I scrambled up and down the nearly vertical wall of wet grass and rocks, using a rake to grab bits of tar paper. Marie, Bebe, and Cecil helped from various angles, and they were more diligent than I was about making sure the trash made it across the road. I just enjoyed playing on the mountain. After we had “cleaned,” we found more scraps of thing to burn, more to keep us warm in the dribble than to serve a real purpose.

However, on Wednesday, we spent a good deal of time talking with Phil and Sonny. I love hearing people talk about their lives. We’d chatted some on Tuesday afternoon as the “experts” worked on the roof, and now we had the chance to get to know them even better.

At last, however, Sonny’s son came without the carpenter. We worked with him to figure out how to place beams in the roof of the addition to make hanging insulation and dry wall easier. We proved our collective incompetence with a hammer, but also our enthusiasm, and Sonny’s son very kindly did not judge us.

Amazing Grace

Tuesday night, we went to Crissy church with her. With 30-40 college students joining them (there were groups from Holy Cross and Boston College), we swelled the congregation to four or five times its normal size. The people of the church welcomed us enthusiastically. They had acquired a screen and projector since the last time I was in Hurley, which made singing with the choir a lot easier.

When I came to Hurley as a sophomore, it was one of my first real experiences in a non-Catholic church. By now, I realize that format-wise, it holds fairly true to a non-denominational church, or even some denominations, especially for a non-Sunday service. Content-wise, however, the church is always uniquely and beautifully Hurley. After a brief prayer, we began in song -- hymns that I didn't know, sung with a bluegrass twang. Since the words tended to repeat and the tunes were fairly simple, I could sing along pretty quickly (especially now that someone was projecting the words!). "Amazing Grace" made an appearance, as well as "This Little Light," which helped as well.

Then the pastor stood up. He thanked us all for coming, both to the church and to Hurley. He then introduced the pastor, assistant pastor, and youth pastor from a church in a neighboring town. They were hosting an evangelism event that involved bringing in some wrestlers I didn't know, who would give their testimony of how they came to Christ. It was directed at people who normally wouldn't set foot in a church. He asked for our prayers and help spreading the word.

Next, the pastor introduced a visiting pastor, who would be preaching tonight. If you came up with the stereotype of a Southern preacher, you would end up with something close to this man. He didn't say much on hellfire and brimstone, and his topics were more on love and acceptance (although he touched on the evils of evolution) and the saving power of Jesus. He spoke at a furious rate with passion and dynamics and a myriad of Scripture references, some direct quotes, some paraphrases, and some that I couldn't tell, because he was quoting neither the NAB nor the NRSV. To be honest, he went on so many tangents that I found his points hard to follow, although I know he said a lot of valuable things that other members of CCM picked up on.

At the end of the preaching, the visiting pastor asked if there was anyone who was unsure of their faith, who wanted our prayers to give their life to Christ. One boy from one of the other schools raised his hand. He agreed to come up to the front and pray with the pastor. I don't know if he was more stoic or less serious than other people I have seen answer such calls, but his face didn't match his answer. Even though it is none of my business, I want to know his story.

After the preaching, we prayed for members of the congregation who needed healing. Anyone who wanted healing of any sort was encouraged to come forward. Then the congregation stretched out their hands toward the person in need of healing, while the pastor prayed over him or her, calling on God, His Son, and His Holy Spirit to come down upon this person and bring healing. It seemed very Biblical : most Christians I know (self included) have a tendency to relegate miracles of healing to the New Testament and forget that we can ask God for such things ourselves. And the confidence that God would provide blew me away. Maybe it's just my weakness, but I have a modicum of doubt -- not in God's love or His ability to heal, but that He will simply because I asked. This man praying had no doubt of His God's power or His listening ear or His outstretched hand.

He then opened the floor for prayer requests from the congregation. People offered petitions for relatives, and the pastor lifted them up in prayer. The members of the church backed him up with soft prayers and quietly enthusiastic "amens" from all around us, so that they formed a back-up chorus to his loud voice. Finally, the pastor thanked us again, and church was over.

Will It Burn?

Tuesday was the warmest day of the week, and therefore, the day when we were told to make fire. Sonny's son and a few other Hurley-ites spent the day on the roof, replacing rotting plywood and laying roofing felt. However, on Monday, we had dumped all the tar paper over the edge of the roof. It now layered the ground beneath the roof. So Phil charged us with gathering all the tar paper and burning it in the backyard. We stirred yesterday's fire until we found a tiny flame, and then fed it small pieces of tar paper. By the time Cecil had been summoned as a gopher for the men -- the vestiges of gender roles clung to our job -- we had a raging fire, sending foul-smelling black smoke into the clear mountain air.

We spent most of the day gather tar paper to feed the fire and playing with the cat that hung around the house because Sonny and Donna fed it. At the end of the day, we clambered back up to the roof and gave a small hand with the shingling. However, we took off a little early, because we wanted time to get into the mountains behind the community center before it started raining the next day.

A "road" quickly becomes a "path" and alternates between "path" and "creek" behind the community center as it leads up to the side of the mountain. I knew where we could find old mines sunk into the mountain sides and I led the charge up the paths. Half an hour up the mountain, we found Cair Paravel : an abandoned building, overgrown by ivy. The roof was completely gone; only one wall and some bits of grey brick and wood remained. We could tell by the broken pulley systems and rusted propellers that it had once served some sort of a function for the mine, but its purpose is lost. Past the building, we found old rail tracks. And then, we found round tunnels sunk into the side of the mountain. It looked like someone had found coal and just kept digging. We could peer into them but not very far, before darkness took over.

Later on in the week, we found out that the mine came from the 1960s. I was shocked. I had expected that it was at least 40 years older than that.

High and Dry

When Crissy, the lovely lady who runs the Hurley Community Center, read off the list of possible work sites, I had two that I really wanted to do. One was shingling a roof with "a ravine" on one side; the other was digging a ditch in the mud. Since I could rally three other CCMers (Marie, Bebe, and Cecil) around the roof project, I put our name next to that one.

Monday morning, I rose early, along with Marie, for a leisurely breakfast. We woke the rest of the group for morning devotions, packed lunches, and followed a man from Hurley out to our work site. The snow still glisten on the trees like a Christmas card scene, but the air promised enough warmth that I did not throw a coat on over my sweatshirt.

We drove through downtown Hurley (it has one stop sign), past the elementary/middle school, and up the side of a mountain, before we arrived at Sonny and Donna's house. We passed the "End State Maintenance" sign on the way up. The house stands halfway up the side of a mountain, up the road and around a few bends from the closest thing Hurley has to a neighborhood. Up the one side, we could see more mountain. Down the other side, lay the "ravine" -- a nearly vertical drop to the road, then a slightly less steep drop to a creek. Phil, Donna's brother, introduced us to the project : knocking the snow off the roof on the safer side, tearing tar paper off that side, then laying felt and shingles for the whole roof. Phil hinted that we might receive more expert help later on. He also showed us an addition in the process of being built. The frames and the plywood were up, but we might help drywall later on.

First thing we did, we hopped onto the roof. Marie was the first one on, and she warned us, as she knocked snow to the ground, that it was slippery. Bebe and I followed her up. I was glad for my boots; they added traction to the slick roof. I had assumed that, being good with heights, I would be fine clambering about the roof, but the snow grounded me -- and I, like Bebe and Marie, sat on my rear, using my legs and feet to steady me. We rotated out using brooms, rakes, and shovels to knock snow from the roof, and being ground support, handing up tools and holding the ladder. We moved slowly and carefully, always with three points on contact on the roof -- as much as I love heights, I love not falling even more.

After some time on the roof, we cleared the snow, so we went inside to warm up. We stood in front of a space heater, with our wet buns roasting over the kerosene flame until they (literally) steamed. Before all the water had quite steamed out of my jeans, we clamored back up to the roof, this time armed with hammer and crowbars. I had a little-bitty crow-bar. She and I tore up layer after layer of tar paper. Someone had laid down upwards of eight layers of tar paper, all of which had to come up. As did the nails holding it down, although some of them ended up being hammered flat instead.

By the end of the afternoon, we had pulled all the tar paper off the roof -- it was ready for roofing felt and shingles. Since the sun was supposed to be out for a few more days, we left the wood exposed to the air and headed back to the community center. We didn't make it back in time to go hiking up the mountain before dinner, but we made it back in plenty of time for chicken and dumplings.

Taking the Long Way 'Round

Once upon a time, I thought my senior year was my last year at the College, doing College-type things. But, as we all know, that was not true. So my "last time" on a service trip to Hurley was not, in fact my last time. This past week I headed back to my favorite Virginia mountain town.

Seven of us headed out in Benny, the CCM minivan, for a journey full of side stops. We were meeting my brother in Blacksburg for lunch; we were picking up one more CCMer at her home, south of Hurely. One of the CCMers suggested we stop by a landmark on our way down; our iPod jack broke fairly early on, so we stopped in Charlottesville for another CCMer to grab his.

The trip was full of rain, good music, and fun conversation. Luckily, Benny had just gotten new windshield wipers, so we were armed and ready. Our first excitement on the trip came at Exit 180 off of I-81. We hopped on Rt. 11 southbound in order to catch a glimpse of a famous landmark. We drove by Natural Bridge and the drive-through Safari Zoo, until we found... FOAMHENGE! If you imagined what it might be like, you would probably be right. We stopped on Rt. 11 long enough to take a good hard look before a car came up behind us and we had to keep going.

By now the rain was coming down enthusiastically. During our stop in Blacksburg, we received news : it was snowing in Marion, the tiny town that was our next stop. It was snowing in Hurley too, but not sticking on the roads. The rain held for us until just outside of Marion -- then the precipitation and the roadside turned white. However, using the internet and the knowledge of locals, we mapped out a route on less treacherous roads.

Outside of Marion, we left I-81 and headed into the mountains. Nothing compares to the beauty of southwest Virginia, even in the grey murkiness of winter sludge. We wound our way through snow-spattered valleys with over-filled creeks for a bit, and then (to the sound of "Appalachian Spring") started up the mountain. The road grew narrow -- really, one car's width -- and we started to see snow on the road. One of the CCM men was behind the wheel, and he began to feel it. We slowed down, and I felt completely safe and comfortable.

Until we rounded a curve and found a snowplow.

It took up almost all the road, We took up almost all the road. With a two car caravan, we couldn't back down. It did not look about to back down.

At this point, I recalled how stage coaches used to solve this dilemma. Both drivers would disembark and disassemble the stagecoaches. They would pass each other piece by piece and reassemble. This method did not appear to be an option.

We sat, stopped, in a chilly game of chicken for a moment or two. Then the snowplow began to back up. Not back down the mountain - it was edging closer to the side of the mountain -- to allow us to pass -- along the drop-off edge of the road. When it had cleared enough space that I would not want to pass in my little red sedan, it stopped. And waited for us to pass.

Our group took a collective breath, and my rosary made its way from my wrist to my hand. After a few tense second... we made it past.

After that, the trip was a walk in the park. Eleven hours since our departure, we arrived at the Hurley Community Center, ready to be orientated and begin our week.

Love and Responsibility, Karol Wojtyla

More of an Idiot: Love and Responsibility, Karol Wojtyla: "Yes, I have been reading for past 7 weeks. At long, long last, I have finished Love and Responsibility, written by our late Pope John Paul II before he became pope. This book lays out the philosophical background for the pope's theology of the body, which he developed more fully during his papacy. I picked up the book because many CCMers have read it or talk about it on a regular basis, and I wanted to have it from the source. I like to know what other people know and be well-informed. So, while I cared about what was written in the book, it was not a topic that resonated with me as much as, say, Irresistibly Revolution.

The book contained dense meditations on the nature of personhood, love, and sexuality, arguing for that order of importance in interpersonal relationships. Wojtyla explains that we have an inherent "sexual urge," which simply means that we are attracted to people of the opposite sex as such. But the way we respond to this urge must recognize other people as persons. He calls this the "personalistic norm." The personalistic norm leads us naturally to love -- a desiring the good for another person. It also keeps us from the sin of utilitarianism, or using other people for our own pleasure, either physical or emotional. Only within the context of love, which keeps us from using the beloved, can we express our sexuality in a full and just way. Wojtyla also explains why the specific context of marriage is the only place where we can act upon the sexual urge without using our partner, and the way birth control stands in the way of the fullness of giving and openness that should exist in the sexual act.

Wojtyla presents a detailed philosophy that rings true with experience, but also describes parts of existence in a new way, which makes for a good read. As I said, however, it is very dense, and the 200-odd pages took me seven-ish weeks to get through, often because I had to force myself to pick up the book, knowing the intellectual task ahead of me... compared to Narnia, which I was reading on the side. However, the ideas should be spread, because our world lacks an understanding of love, and this philosophy helps clear up some confusions that we have."

Friday Night Plans

This post is a little late in coming -- the events took place the weekend before my retreat. I don't want to let it slide, however, so I'm going to go back in time momentarily. A couple of Fridays ago, CCM provided the volunteer force for a homeless shelter the next city over. (The 'burg has nothing of the sort, though it is not without homeless people.)

I took the check-in and dinner shift. I had worked at this shelter before -- it's housed in a Baptist church and CCM takes a weekend every year. However, I had mostly stuck in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning, and serving. This time I volunteered for the check-in process. My job was to help people bag up their possessions to be left in another room for the night. Guests could keep toiletries, food, book, mp3 players, and such not, but extra clothing, coats, hats, drinks, and any other possessions were checked in huge bags. Each guest had a number that went on his or her bag, name tag, and bed roll. They checked in with name and number. As the coordinator explained the process to me, I didn't like it. Too much focused on people as numbers.

However, when the guests began to arrive, I found that, although each person had a number, he or she was greeted by name. I discovered I enjoyed being in the check-in station, being the smiling face to greet people. Forcing myself to smile gave me real energy and joy and made each subsequent smile easier. Some of the guests were a blast, both at the initial check-in and later in the night.

Before any guest was allowed in, a sheriff's deputy gave him or her a breathalyser. No one above the legal limit could come in. Only one man had a problem the entire night. One of the other volunteers offered him a plate of food and a cup of coffee for him to have outside as he sobered up, but he was having none of it. Eventually, the deputy called for someone to come and take him away, because he just wasn't leaving.

Other than that, the evening was eventless. By the time we had finished checking in guests, dinner was mostly over. We helped clear tables and chairs out of the multi-purpose room to get ready to convert it to a bedroom. This large room was the men's sleeping area; the women and kids (there were fewer) had a different, smaller room. We handed out sheets and mats by calling out numbers. There were two of us on calling duty, and the men joked that we must have been cheerleaders. No, a loud Irish-German-Polish family does that to you.

After handing out the bedding, I joined the other volunteers in the hallway, where some of the guests came to chat. A few of them were particularly friendly, and we had some fun conversation. Then the next crew came, and I said good-byes.

The evening made me realize how much I miss last year, with its focus on serving other people and its opportunities for random volunteering. This year, I have to be more intentional about finding places to serve, and I'm still learning the balance.

Come to the Water

Two years ago, I said good-bye to the mountain retreat center that hosted each of my four Encounter with Christ retreats and each of my three team formations. I knew I would never be back for another such retreat. It was part of the growing up and moving on that happens when you get ready to graduate college.

Fast forward to October 2010: I am at another formation. February 2011: Another Encounter with Christ retreat.

I came as a (Young Adult) Campus Minister, rather than participant or team, which changed my experience of the weekend. Mostly, this role meant that I had a table of four participants and one team member with whom I got to pray. I watched them experience the Encounter with Christ, and I can't say a whole lot about the weekend without putting other people's stories up here. Mostly, I was a blessed witness to other people's encounters with the living God -- though He did speak some words to me as well. I am an introverted person, and on people-intensive occasions such as this retreat, I carve alone time out by waking early. Between morning walks and moments snuck with the Blessed Sacrament, God and I had a few good moments together.

The retreat experienced some changes as well -- we had daily Mass each day and Adoration for the first time. We prayed Liturgy of the Hours from the little red books and made a few other minor changes. Nothing however to keep it from feeling as beautiful as any EWC. The weekend was so full that I keep thinking I should have stories to tell, but as I wrote above, I think they belong to other people.