When I said yes to marry my fiancé on December 26, 2019, nothing could have prepared me for all the challenges that would come between my engagement and when we say “I do” in December 2020.
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I often joke that my life is composed of a series of coffee dates. From one day to the next, I am typically found either chatting in the local coffee shop or on a facetime call. The gift of love found within these times of intentionality has made such a significant impact on my life that now I never fail to appreciate the beauty of conversation.
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Have you ever entered Lent with a laundry list of ways you desire the Lord to work on your heart? Have you hoped that adding this or that prayer routine and giving up this or that time-suck activity would create the space to end up as the perfectly new spiritual version of your Ash Wednesday self?
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When I said my wedding vows, I didn’t know what relevance “in sickness and in health” would soon hold in my life. The morning of my wedding, I distinctly remember noticing stiffness in my fingers. It only lasted for a little bit and I didn’t dwell on it too long (Afterall, I had more important things going on that day.) But it was the first time I remember noticing anything different about my body…
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Sisters, through tremendous sorrow, my eyes were opened to the greatest and most selfless true love, shown on the cross of Jesus Christ. My Jesus, who as He was dying was thinking not of Himself, but of others. Of us. Of you. Of me. My Jesus, who loves everyone no matter how blind to Him. I saw that selfless love reflected in my mom, who in her agony kept thinking of others. My mom, who, as she lay dying, was thinking of me
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My faith was characterized by busyness: read my Bible, volunteer at youth group, journal, go to church, teach my children Bible lessons, read something spiritual, lead a Bible study—and I was exhausted.
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Depression came like a tsunami, I was completely submerged and there was no coming up for air. People who I called friends turned their backs on me. I was judged because of my nationality and skin color. My relationship with my parents was struggling. I didn’t know where I fit in or where I belonged.
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Surrender trying to live up to everyone’s expectations of you as a woman, daughter, friend, co-worker, wife, mother and Christian. Ask God what He wants from you, what He expects of you in any given situation and that will be enough.
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At the age of 32, this is my best handwriting. Close to ten years ago, four other Catholic campus missionaries and I were T-boned by a Mack Truck while driving to an end-of-the-semester retreat. I don’t remember a single day from the month that followed.
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At a young age, sporting soccer shorts and a mullet, all I cared about was climbing the next tree and wondering when the new issue of LEGO magazine would arrive at my door. I asked for hot wheels for Christmas and role-played as the boy character for all our childhood adventures. I looked around me, saw my friends and sisters and knew I didn’t fit the mold. My (little) heart ached and wondered, “why am I so different?”, “am I good?”
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Suddenly a piercing thought came to mind and focused my attention: “Do I believe in the resurrection of the dead?” Of all the things running through my brain, this one moved to the front of the queue.
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