Last week, on the morning of Stephen's final soccer game, the heat index was 109 degrees. The air hung heavy, and the haze made it so that I kept continually wiping my glasses, but my vision never cleared. Everything about the morning was oppressive. The weather matched my mood; life felt heavy and hot and enveloping. It was difficult to see more than a few inches in front of me. The familiar landscape was uncertain and light was diffuse — glaring but not illuminating. Please read the rest here.
...And then I wonder about me. When memory fades, who will I be at the core? What will remain to stand as a testimony to what mattered in my life? Living in the Sandwich Generation is the perfect introduction to memento mori, the practice of reflecting on death in order to tweak the details of life. Memento mori begs us to consider the transience and the vanity of life on earth in light of everyone’s eventual death. It’s not a morbid fascination with darkness. Instead, it’s an invitation to walk in the light that illuminates what really matters while there is still time to tweak the details of life. Please read the rest here.
I wonder: in order to forgive, do we have to forget? In order to respect the dignity of a person who has hurt us, do we have to let him or her back into the space where they harmed us in the first place?
Certainly, we are called to bear wrongs with patience and with grace; then, when it is appropriate, we admonish the sinner with kind gentleness. It is an act of mercy to share the faith, to remind another person of virtue and to pray for them and with them for growth — both in virtue itself and in the joy that virtue will yield in their lives. There is a patient persistence in prayer that is our call when someone we love is sinning. We gently poke slow-growing seeds into the soil and then we wait with patient faith for them to bear fruit.
But what if the wrong we bear patiently and the sin we call out is actually an offense against us personally? What if we’ve been hurt by someone else’s actions? We are called to forgive. And we’re called to do so over and over again. Someone recently pointed out to me that we have the occasion to forgive a sin 70 times seven (Mt 18:22) more often than we might recognize. We can forgive a sin the first time, truly releasing its grip in our souls, but then we have to forgive it every time it comes to mind, for as long as we continue to remember.
Often, it’s really in our best interest to remember. Forgiving isn’t the same as forgetting. Instead, someone else’s sins can hold valuable lessons for us — lessons in navigating the tricky waters of complicated relationships, lessons in boundaries, lessons in learning to replace foolishness with wisdom.
Remembering isn’t for revenge. The only one who will repay a wrong is God (Rom 12:19). It’s important to relinquish completely the desire to hurt someone in retaliation for hurts suffered at their hands. Whenever someone else causes us to suffer by their sins, it can be helpful and spiritually fruitful to call to mind that our suffering pales in comparison to what they will face if they don’t repent and amend their ways. Even in the hurt, we can soften our hearts for compassion.
But compassion does not ask us to let ourselves be victims again. Compassion doesn’t ask us to be silent and let pass the opportunities to share our pain, both for our healing and as a cautionary tale to others. Compassion does not require us to throw open wide the doors of our homes and hearts to someone who might harm us or our families. On the contrary, we have a responsibility to protect ourselves from harm. Certainly, no one would object to refusing to put oneself in physical harm. It is equally right and just to protect oneself from emotional harm. It is entirely possible to forgive someone while at the same time constructing a strong and sturdy boundary against further pain.
That boundary is a mercy to the one who inflicted the pain, too. If we allow ourselves to be victims over and over again, then the people who harm us associate no logical consequence for the damage they have done. Every parent knows that correction requires some consequence in order to be effective, even if it’s the sting of disapproval. So, forgiveness that also results in the consequence of a boundary is not incomplete forgiveness. Protecting oneself from further harm is good self-care. It’s a good idea to be kind and gentle to ourselves when we’ve been hurt. When we forgive, our hearts are transformed. Protecting that healing heart is both prudent and kind.
“It’s the season of mothers!” the bright pink ad declared. I smiled. Well, maybe I smirked. In my mind, I was editing. Perhaps it is a season to celebrate mothers, I thought, but there is no such thing as a season of mothers. Motherhood is a vocation — a holy calling — and it is the call of a lifetime, not limited to society’s little box. It’s not an item for a list of life goals. It’s not just another endeavor to pursue. It’s the beckoning of the Holy Spirit to a path of sanctity. It’s an invitation to create a haven for a family where souls are nurtured and God is known. With motherhood, comes the call to create home. I think that Mother’s Day might herald the beginning of the “season of home” for women.
It has been a too-short Advent. I can’t quite find my rhythm. Every day, I make my list, and every day, I scratch things off (unfinished) or move them to another day. A growing sense of urgency with this system, I am aware that there are fewer days this year than most. Eventually, I cannot move items forward. Time is running out
Advent is urgent. Hurry! It’s coming! There is a pressing message to pursue joy, to run after it so that on Christmas Day it will settle upon your house and bathe everyone in twinkly lights and cozy experiences that become cherished memories. In a culture where most Christmas parties take place before Dec. 25, anticipatory joy has become the joy. Clearly, though, the “joy of office parties” is not the deep, resounding joy of the Gospel.
But is time really running out on this season? We spend Advent in a flurry of the joy of anticipating joy, then the day of the beautiful feast comes, and then what? For many of us, there is a post-Christmas let down. Cookies have been baked, presents opened, guests come and gone. Then, it’s just over. The twinkly lights fade to gray, and winter gloom settles on wrinkled wrapping paper and cookie crumbs.
In truth, though, the Christmas season begins with Christmas. You can claim a season of extended joy for yourself. Further, in the quiet of Christmas night, you can see more clearly into the joy of the new year.
There is more joy. It’s far from over. Joy is not the revelry of festive cocktails and little black dresses and presents perfectly wrapped. True joy is the gift of unmerited grace.
True joy is knowing that even if you moved things along on your Advent list until you ran out of days and left them unfinished, a Baby was born — the God who created you — who will complete the good work He has begun in you (Phil 1:6).
Often, our Advent days are filled with so much merry-making, there’s not a lot of room left for Christ. The days after Christmas unfurl wide and unencumbered and ask us to invite Him in for the season and then to extend His stay into the year that waits.
As the vigil lights are lit on Christmas Eve, joy has just begun. Love is born. He brings power — a power not of men or women, but of God. It is an infinite power that is not bound by calendar days or tick marks on to-do lists. It seeps into the hard spaces of tricky human relationships and it fills the gaps of less-than-ideal communication. Love is the light for the dark days that does not rely on extension cords or replacement bulbs long sold out at Home Depot.
This is joy about which we must be intentional. We have to fight for it. Under house arrest, St. Paul exhorts us to “Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice.” Far from the comfort of a Christmas tree and freshly unwrapped presents, he knew we’d struggle to find and keep our joy.
Christian life is both present joy and anticipatory joy. It is knowing now that we are loved beyond measure by a God who delights in us, and knowing that He wants nothing more for our lives than to bring us to Him in heaven. Life is Advent before paradise.
We can reclaim the season of Christmas, using those days to steep in the miracle of Christ’s birth. One day, there will be no let down after joyous events. One day, joy will be complete and eternal. In this, we find the confidence to pursue today’s joy. In this, we abandon all notions of control or merit, even in these last days of Advent when we erroneously behave as if the entire holiday rests upon our work.
It’s not about that work. It’s not about us. It’s about Jesus who came to bring the peace of heaven to sinners who daily fall short of God’s glory. He brings it today, and Christmas day and next year. That’s the joy.
Take a deep breath and exhale. Time stretches before you, full of joy to be claimed. Let the future joy of heaven overflow into the here and now of this December life and into the new year.