For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord,
plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.
– Jeremiah 29:11

Walking in to church on a snowy Saturday evening, I am not supposed to be here. I am on the calendar for Sunday. In the morning, we held a funeral, and my helper said that the steadily increasing storm meant one of his regular Eucharistic Ministers was canceling for Vigil Mass.

“I can help,” I said. “No. Let someone else,” he replied. I gave it a good think. If I got someone to substitute for me in the morning, then I could have a rare Sunday lie-in!

Reader, it worked.

Arriving at my pew on this cold winter evening, I kneel and hear a piano solo. Unspoken lyrics come to me.  My people cry… Sea and sky… Whom shall I send?

I will go, Lord, if You lead me.*

*

Four years ago, I know exactly where I was and what I was doing. I just finished writing and posting a blog post about my overnight trip to DC. https://whereiendandshebegins.com/2022/01/17/in-service/

Lots of meaningful things happened that Friday, January 14, 2022, but I often reflect on my post-party experience, late that night, when I went to bed in a fancy hotel, buzzing and reflecting on all of the gifts of my life that brought me there, step by step. Parents, teachers, schools, university, loves.

Flooded with gratitude (in spite of a lot of active doubt and worry), I prayed and wrote in my notebook: God, let me be your instrument.

Up to this point, I had been struggling with life, wrestling with how to get ease from those struggles and closer to spirit. In 2017, I went back to my childhood church; a year later, I got into Reiki; and two years after that, I became an interfaith minister. My book, Living Prayer, is about this wrestling.

One thing I had not explored was the faith of my education.

And one word I rarely said aloud, in public, was His name. God.

I used options like “the universe,” to try to appeal to everyone. Not to offend. To stay safe.

*

Four years ago, I got back to Ohio from my overnight in DC and wrote about it all, including one line: Where did the united in these states go? Which got a bit of attention.

On Friday, I picked up my boots at the cobbler — who was having a no-good-very-bad day. He said, “I am a lifelong Catholic. I pray, morning and night, and am so grateful for my life. But what a mess. I just want to take a break — for lunch.”

(I wondered if he could see the tears in my eyes I tried to dry, after leaving a visit to my favorite pew, just before heading to him.)

Today, the world appears to be blowing up on both sides of the aisle and inside our own homes.

I was born to see both sides; I pay attention to both sides. I care about our country and our globe.

I also believe in God. I have believed in God my whole life, although at times my faith is wobbly.

*

Lately several people have asked me about my faith, wistfully. “I wish I could believe,” they say. And I think: What is stopping you?

In the case of one friend, I debated what to put on a card I was writing to her. I wound up with “This, too, shall pass.” She exclaimed when she got it. “That’s what my mother used to say!” Then she went to therapy, where her therapist said the same thing. And another person. Three times within a day! How hard does the Holy Spirit have to work?

Another friend fell down in her own home and could not get up. She fought with herself, tried to get up on her own, cried, got angry, and finally texted me, just as I drove in my driveway. “I envy your faith,” she said. I tried to explain, “Do you really think it was an accident that you called me the very minute I was free to help? That you waited until then?”

*

It’s not every day that my faith is secure.

A few years ago, I walked into Church by myself on a Wednesday morning to say a prayer only to discover Mass at its highest point. I felt something shift inside of me. I walked up for a blessing in my casual clothes and stayed seated at the end, when Prayers of the Sick began. In the prayer is a line, “Mary, Mother of Sorrows, a sword of suffering would pierce your heart. Bring comfort and hope to all mothers who suffer over their children.”

It was the very reason I was there, praying for my girl. A key reason I stay. (I have written about this moment more than once.)

Meanwhile, my son — who was born and died on the self-same day — reaches across the veil often enough to reassure me that life and love are eternal. The message of Christ Himself. I find it easiest to receive from my littlest angel.

At this wintry Mass tonight, we are asked: “How often do we point to Christ in our lives?”

Rarely, I answer, to myself.

*

Father Robert begins his homily noting how the word “polite” comes from Latin, politus, “refined, elegant, polished,” while the word “political” comes from Greek, polis, “of citizens or state.” Although the words sound like they have a similar root, they do not. He says a lot in few words.

Often he observes that his words are heard differently by the many who listen. No doubt that is true for me as listener, too, but what he says next is crystal clear, How many of us share our faith with others? How many speak of the nature and existence of God in our lives?

And: our world is full of people seeking faith.

In concluding, he leaves us with a challenge: to share with others the hope, joy, and the sense of belonging that we share as believers. To have those conversations with friends, family, and strangers. To share something of our spiritual life.

I think of my recent exchange with the cobbler. Sometimes I wonder if strangers aren’t easier. (I am reminded of my mother once saying it was easier to express love to outsiders than to express it to me, her only child.)

And then I think about my new job, two weeks old.

I now work for this very Church, full-time. My job involves a wide range of tasks from assisting parishioners and Father Robert to helping the parish itself. In so doing, I connect to many parts of myself: past, present, and future.

Tonight, as Eucharistic Minister, I offer the Chalice and feel this alignment within me keenly.

*

For the past three years, I dedicated myself to writing full-time; before that, I was a full-time mother, where I found a deep sense of meaning. Before that, I worked in the entertainment business, battled infertility, and felt like someone had bought my soul.

Tonight, I hear Isaiah 6:8 speak silently in a piano solo, followed by a challenge to share my faith more broadly — what I now also can call my work.

Here I am, send me.

If you have questions, reach out. I seem to be getting a lot of questions lately (which may be part of Father Robert’s point). I am not sure I have answers, but I have an open heart.

*Here I Am Lord,
composed by Jesuit Father Dan Schutte
(1947- )