new year, new look

Because things have been transforming in me and in this space as of late, I'm going to be tinkering and toying around with how this little space looks. Don't be surprised if it looks differently from one day to the next.

Let the sun shine again, and ... let the commenting begin!

a new kind of clarity

Words are stirring inside me and have been for some time now, but they are spoken in a heavenly language for which the translation I offer will be woefully inadequate. Perhaps my understanding of them and their significance will improve with time and perspective, but I know that however poor my rendering, this point in my journey should be marked. Like the ancients often did, these words are my way of stopping to set up an altar in recognition of Yahweh's faithfulness and tender mercies. These words are my pile of stones in the wilderness.

Unable to bear with my intellectual pretenses any longer (not having realized until recently that that is what they were), I finally unlocked my heart. I allowed myself to feel, to trust beyond reason, and to take a step back from the intellectual and rational explanations I've absorbed and reiterated here. While studying the Catholic faith, I unconsciously put my heart on a very short leash, allowing my intellect to leap at new information and giving it precedence. It was an easy habit to relearn, having only journeyed deeper into my heart's territory over the past year or so; it is a tender and tenuous path to walk, being less than certain or defined. I admit that I have been overfond of leaning on my own understanding.

It is tempting at times to think that we can define and understand God, how He works and moves in His people. When offered definites and explanations and formulas, I was eager to clutch them and hold them close, to have mysteries demystified, to have God and faith more neatly packaged for my use. Most of these explanations and arguments seemed perfectly rational to me; since much of it was so in line with what I thought to be logical, it was hard to dispute even though my heart quietly protested. I barrelled forward, and the chasm between my mind and heart deepened and grew wider. I intuitively recognized the disconnect, but continued to move forward in spite of it, believing that is what I needed to do.

One of the lessons of the catechism is about and how human beings were designed by God. Human beings, I was told, are comprised of intellect and will, spirit and soul. There was such an emphasis on the intellect and the will. Our intellect teaches us what is true and it is by our wills that we follow it. No mention at all of the heart. It was only a week ago that its omission drew my notice.

I suppose some would hear "heart" and equate it with emotion. In my understanding, it includes emotion but is so much more. It is where belief abides. Solomon cautioned that as "the wellspring of life", it should be guarded above all else. Christ advises that the law will be written on our hearts, which I take to mean that it is not simply our compliance with the law that matters, but the heart from which our obedience springs. He is not after our performance: He wants our hearts, a reformation from the inside out.

[I think it's important to emphasize here that I speak only from my own experience; I was only a catechumen where the Catholic faith was concerned and it is a path on which I did not cover much distance. From those I've met, I know it is a mode of faith in which many are engaged with their whole selves. It would be categorically unfair and untrue to extrapolate from my experience that the Catholic faithful do not engage their hearts.]

As I continued in my lessons with the priest, a few things struck me as completely foreign. There seems to be a continual fear and concern about making it into heaven. Even the most pious and faithful followers seem to have no small measure of trepidation when it comes to "getting in". This was a foreign concept to me, having been raised to believe that once covered with the blood of Christ, always covered. The passage in 1 John came to mind more than once: ... love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. But the explanation I was offered about dying with mortal sin on your soul depriving you of heaven seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.

Another piece that did not resonate with me was the matter of strict adherence to prescribed modes of acting and speaking. This first drew my attention when I discussed baptism with the priest. I was baptized at the age of fourteen and intially, was happy to learn that though not a Catholic baptism, it was still considered valid. But then I was asked what were the exact words of baptism that were spoken. I recalled them to the best of my knowledge, and then was advised that it would be best to perform a conditional baptism in case the correct words were not spoken those many years ago. It was better not to risk the loss of heaven based on an invalid baptism.

This was so alien to my way of thinking. The Christ I have come to know is One who weighs the heart, who looks beyond the exterior and beyond our formulas. I have a hard time believing that our Yahweh is One who would deny mercy to a soul earnest in pursuit of Him because a very specific set of words were not spoken or because prescribed prayers were not prayed. This is not to say that I do not value liturgy or find it beautiful, reverent, and inspired; oftentimes, it has moved me to tears and given words when I have none. I would never say that our obedience is not important, or that God is a cosmic teddy bear who will condone our aberrant behaviors. But God knows our hearts: He is best in a position to weigh our intentions and actions, our contrition for a sin, our desire for holiness and for union with Him. He knows whether or not we trust Him. I am more certain than ever that my salvation and sanctification rest not on following prescribed words or actions, but in God alone: in inviting Him to have His way with me, to follow His lead even when it seems to defy logic, to trust His goodness and bless His name even in the midst of profound ambiguity and pain.

These words fall short of what I mean to convey, but I'll trust that anyone reading this knows my heart well enough to look to the deeper meaning of what is written here.

I have come full circle; I am hardly the same as when I embarked upon this path, but somehow I find myself where I started. And it's not because what I found along the way is anything I necessarily thought to be blatantly incorrect. I have a greater appreciation for how my sin grieves the God I love. I understand better now that the Christian faith is logical, ordered, and rational. I have a better understanding of how spiritual disciplines teach us to deny ourselves and choose Christ. These things have added to my understanding of God and deepened my faith.

These things are right and good and important, but are no substitute for a faith that is lived from the heart. It was only when I tried to edge out my heart completely that I was most driven to hearken to her voice and heed her wisdom. It was only when the chasm between my heart and my mind widened beyond bearing that I learned to trust beyond reason and beyond logical explanation and to place my heart in His hands, to trust that I know Him, that I belong to Him, period.

My understanding is a gift from God, but ultimately is insufficient to lead me down this path of faith. I am more certain that I worship best in spirit and in truth when heart, mind, body, and soul are united in the worship of the Yahweh I know and love. I do not understand Him, but I know Him in my depths. I am His, in all this complex and mysterious comingling of mind, heart, body, soul. I trust in the truth He has revealed. Having known the tension of a mind and heart divided, I know the deep pain that can cause. Had I continued so insistently that I follow my head in spite of my heart, I am fairly certain I would find myself resentful and disillusioned later on. Once I began to know that they were not at odds with one another, doors were unlocked and flung open. And that is where God has a chance to step in, roll up His sleeves and really get to work.

So I abandon my dichotomies, offering myself to Christ again as wholly as I ever have. I return with joy to the Church body I've called home and for the first time in months, raise my hands and sing at the top of my lungs, dance and shout for joy to God in heaven above. It is the same, but somehow different, as He has made me new. He has set me free. He has brought me home.

There is so much more I could say, but even were I to write a thousand more words, I don't know that I could explain this any better. I bring back much with me and know that this is only the beginning of more adventures in faith to come. He has prepared me and is preparing me to live as one who trusts Him ruthlessly, who walks in mystery, who flings herself into His arms, knowing my heart is already His.

The Heart of the Matter

Oh, how my heart loves to breathe! No longer requiring her to be silent, I am enjoying her presence and voice through my days. She is not as shy or tentative as I might have thought.

Last week's revelations have meant that I've encountered this week peacefully. My body is still tired and I still walk amidst ambiguity and mystery. I still have many questions and doubts continue to rise to the surface. But I know my heart is playing catch up, having not been invited until now to join me on this journey. I don't need to have a list of the answers neatly tucked away, and I don't have to be in possession of perfect clarity.

And so I find that this is a good time to pause on my path, remove the rucksack and stop for sustenance and rest. All journeys require rest along the way, a warm, hearty meal and a night at an inn under warm covers. Without it, the wayfarer becomes exhausted and depleted, her bones cold and her muscles stiff. Without rest, she is more likely to be disillusioned with her path and give up altogether.

I am less certain than ever about where this exploration will lead. My intellect continues to trust the knowledge it has obtained, but my heart is less certain about embracing this strange new thing. I need time to know if this is because her lack of engagement in this process means she needs time to catch up, or if she has her own reasons for holding back. I'm pausing to listen to her and honor her wisdom, knowing she is not opposed to my intellect, but just operates differently.

So I feel my chest rise with deep breathing, stretching and flexing this muscle that has gone too long without use. Don't hurry. Rest. Take in your surroundings.

I am typically someone who is more interested in destinations than in journeys, more invested in answers than the questions that lead to them. I will pay lip service to the process, but am really after the result. It could be argued that the result is the point, after all.

After this week I say, maybe not. Maybe the journey is just as much the point as the destination is. Even should you end where you started, you come back an explorer. You come back having seen new lands, experienced new things. You come home changed.

I don't know if that's what will happen. The truest thing I can say right now is that I just don't know. Put up your feet awhile dear heart, and unlace your boots. Stay awhile under this roof and get your bearings. Take in a good meal and sleep as long as you need.

Breathe.

That is my heart speaking. It's good to have her with me again.

Surrender

I've been so exhausted this week; I'm certain at least some of it has to do with the consecutive weeks of overtime I've been working. Those long weeks cannot help, but really, I've known all along the root of my fatigue goes much deeper.

I've written on both blogs now about my exhaustion and anger at God. About how much I don't want to be in this place right now. About how I feel like God pulled a fast one on me: I go looking for love, but God has other plans. So I waltz along happy to have found it, then that rug gets pulled out from under me. In the process, my convictions get turned upside-down and inside-out and I'm on a path I was never looking for.

Perhaps my response to all this was delayed; but I've written about that too. I was so busy arguing with my heart that I never heard its cries. Shhh, shhh, I would tell my heart. You shouldn't be feeling this way. But then those cries pressed up against the walls of my heart; I was both pricked and squeezed. Then at last that most tender and wounded organ saw the light of day and was permitted to breathe.

As much as I didn't want to be angry at God, my denial of that reality inhibited my ability to approach Him with any integrity. So I let the anger out. Perhaps it was because of being denied expression for so long, but once the anger was unleashed, I fixated on it. My prayers became about nothing else besides what I had most wanted but been denied; what I had sought and God had used to turn my faith upside-down. I won't lie: I felt tricked, duped, and deceived. Sometimes I even felt like the butt of His joke. So I beat my fists on God's chest, feeling myself to be a victim of divine trickery. I wanted desperately to abandon this whole process, to return to the old way of doing things. To surround myself in a warm blanket of familiarity, to be comforted and unchallenged. To find what I had set out for in the first place. To be in the midst of the known.

I lay in bed this morning, wide awake but still utterly exhausted. I've shared with others that the words "tired" or "exhausted" are woefully inadequate for describing whatever this state is. Adding hours to sleep could not and did not meet my need.

It was still so early. Not wanting to be awake but unable to return to sleep, I poured my limp body out of bed and as I often do, gazed at my bookshelves. I fixated on the thin green spine of one I had started several months ago, but put down. Not understanding but obeying the impulse, I picked it up and took it to the living room with me. The Critical Journey is about faith and faith journeys, it's about encountering walls and crises. It's about feeling stuck and cultivating an awareness that will help us both to become unstuck and to hedge ourselves against getting caught in the mire again. It compared the stages in a life of faith to a spiral "and we experience more depth each time we recycle through the stages at a higher place in the sprial" (p. 9). Where I was unmotivated to continue my reading before, I couldn't stop turning the pages now.

I saw myself in these introductory paragraphs and I let the words pour over me:

"Faith is a verb, action, the dynamic that drives or gives life to the relationship between us and God. Our response called faith is the human recognition, on the one hand, that God is God, and, on the other hand, that each of us is special. It is the recognition that we are most fully human when we acknowledge and accept God is God in or lives. ... Therefore, faith as a verb is neither static, an object to be dissected, nor a qualifier that either puts us on God's side or distinguishes us religiously from one another. Faith with reference to the journey is simply the process by which we let God direct our lives or let God be God." (p. 4)

"Getting stuck occurs sometimes from our fear of facing the unknown. Other times it results from personal or work crises that we cannot control. ... It may even be that we are simply afraid to face the fact that we are loved unconditionally by God. Accepting that means admitting we cannot control God or our destiny. Whatever the cause, becoming caged at a stage is real. If we are aware of it, we will have less likelihood of staying stuck." (p. 10)

"A crisis can knock us off balance, making us afraid, vulnerable, and ripe for change. This also happens in our spiritual journey. We have a crisis in our faith that causes us to reconsider. It might frighten us, at least make us vulnerable. If we become bitter or too resistant, we can get very stuck. But if we let the change or crisis touch us, if we live with it and embrace it as difficult as that is, we are more likely to grown and to move eventually to another stage or spiral in our journey. When we are most vulnerable, we have the best chance to learn and move along the way. In the midst of pain there is promise." (p. 13)

I saw myself so clearly. I was letting myself be caged, protesting the loss of a control that was strictly illusory to begin with. I resisted walking into the endless stretch of unknown before me. I fought the crisis instead of pressing my weight against God in the midst of it. And worst of all, I was dissecting myself in two: my head and my heart were at war with one another. It is no wonder my reserves were depleted.

Closing the book, I cloistered myself in my room. Sitting on the floor, I picked up the rosary beads for the first time in a week. They still feel foreign and strange to me, the words still come awkwardly, like marbles out of my mouth. As I moved through the decades of Our Fathers and Hail Marys and contemplated the joyful mysteries, I wept. I no longer suppressed the tears that rose to the surface: I let myself feel loss for the warmth and comfort I leave behind for a way of faith that is alien to me. I let myself feel the pain of a love that slipped through my fingers. And then I thought of Christ who left the comfort and warmth of heaven for an earth that must have been a cold, dank, and uncomfortable place for Him. I let my mind turn to Mary at the moment of the Annunciation, who neither resisted nor protested, who did not rationalize or justify, who took the words of the angel and let them be. I am the Lord's handmaiden. Let it be to me as you have said. And so I let the rosary and its mysteries wash over me.

Once those five decades were completed, I continued to let the tears come. I raised up my palms and held them open, quietly. I said little to God and if He spoke to me, I'm not sure I could provide an adequate translation. But if I had to try to articulate His message, I think He wants me to be more gracious with myself, to allow Him to carry me along this difficult path. He understands my anger and He understands that I'm hurting right now in a way no words can describe. He knows me and my frustration with the ambiguity in this process better than I do myself. He knows that it the midst of all this hurt and confusion, it is tempting to revert to what I've been called to leave behind.

Before today, I understood that He's been there too. But this morning, it was wholly different. Today I stopped fighting Him, coming instead with open hands. I unclenched my fists and opened my palms to the sky. I held them to heaven silently. The tears still came, but a heaven-sent peace and calm washed over me as I gave up on my idea of how this all should be. I breathed in and out more deeply and without trying to understand or explain it, simply let the peace He offered permeate the most hidden and unvisited corners of my soul. The war between my mind and heart slowed and ceased in those minutes, the wall I erected between the two dissolved. I don't feel so exhausted now.

It was not so much an answer He provided or a promise the path ahead would be smooth. It was simple surrender; it was a step toward resigning the control I was fighting to maintain. It was me moving toward God, allowing Him to be God. It was giving Him the things that are wholly inadequate in themselves to propel me forward in my journey. My own efforts at digging out of my stuckness were only putting me deeper in the mire that hindered me; today I rested my weary arms and put down the shovel.

He met me in this place of my giving up. The fighting now over, I bury my head in His chest and wrap my arms around His neck, letting Him carry me. Sometimes I think that's the most difficult thing: to stop our legs from walking, carrying ourselves down what paths we will and instead like a small child, to stretch forth our arms in a simple gesture that says, carry me. And then to let Him bear our weight and do the walking.

Down & Dirty With God

Dear God,

It's no great secret now that I've spent the better part of the last couple of weeks and months desperately trying not to be angry. I can't figure out if I'm angrier at You, at M, at myself, or whom. Or what. I've tried intellectualizing and rationalizing my way out of this place, but in vain. It's not working. Right or wrong, this anger/frustration/doubt is what it is, and I cannot convince myself otherwise.

I went looking for love, God. That's no great secret either. I'm fast approaching the age of thirty -- not that it's some kind of dead end or drop-off or anything -- and I'm still single. I don't want to be; that's why I went looking. I've spent the overwhelming majority of my adult life as unattached and have had few complaints in that regard. I've worked hard, traveled, spent quality time with my friends, and pursued those things that interest me. I've been able to do many things that would be difficult to do were I married or otherwise attached. That's not lost on me and I think You know that. I've enjoyed doing them on my own, but I really do want to find someone to share this life with, to build a home and a family with.

I guess I always thought that if I was meant to find it, it would have happened by now. And here I am, alone again in that single-woman way. And again, not that my preconception of when it "should" have happened limits You in any way, but the further along I get in life, the more I wonder if it will ever happen at all. I'll be honest; right now, I hate it. I absolutely hate it. Sometimes I feel so close to it, but then the hope of it is yanked away again. I feel taunted sometimes. Part of what makes me angry is that You used that desire to bring me to this place I was not looking for -- and now here I am, leaving behind what's familiar, feeling like I'm wandering in a foreign land. You've given me no map and I've been fumbling as I try to find my way toward You. I've tried to refrain from asking why, knowing that even if I had an answer, it would not make this any easier, would not make this any less painful than it is. I guess I've learned by now that understanding the why of any kind of suffering or unpleasantness doesn't make it any easier to bear; it still must be lived through. I can have faith that You can see and know things that I cannot -- You can see the whole spectrum of time, of which my life is only the tiniest sliver. I can have faith that You know better than I what is best for me. I can even have faith that this is all moved by Your love for me. What I lack, I think, is trust. If I read the Scriptures, if I hear Your words, I'm not getting anything I haven't bargained for. That is a hard pill to swallow.

But is it so wrong that I should want to be happy? I'm not talking about happiness in a selfish or hedonistic kind of way, but the kind of happiness that most people desire in their innermost beings: to love and to be loved, to feel connected to another human being on this planet. I know this is a good thing because You created it to be this way; but sometimes in my darkest moments I question why You'd plant a good desire and then deny me the means of fulfilling it. I'm more than willing to assent to the fact that this feeling has more to do with my limited perspective; I just wish I could get my heart to see it that way. I can't help but notice the many friends for whom You've made this dream a reality and here I am: an outsider looking in, feeling as though I'm completely remedial, denied a spot at the grown-up's table. I know I shouldn't (and it hurts me desperately even to acknowledge this), but in my darker moments I feel like the butt of a great cosmic joke: look at her, the woman who just doesn't get it! I feel so eminently unwantable as a woman and often wonder if it really is as entirely preposterous as it feels that there would be someone "out there" (how I loathe those words!) that should find me a desirable girlfriend, let alone partner in marriage.

I look at these words as I write them and I want to say that it's a matter of my limited perspective (and at the end of the day, maybe it really is just that). But here comes the temptation again to try and suppress my heart with my intellect, but I can't do it anymore. I can't suffocate this feeling anymore than I can will my heart to stop beating. I believe I have to move through these feelings to get beyond them, and I can't do that unless I acknowledge that they are there. Ugh. Here are my feelings, messy as they may be, as uncomfortable as it makes me to bring them out of hiding.

God, I just don't know what to do with any of this. Many times in the last several months I have thrown up my hands and said, You take it. I so clearly don't know what I'm doing! Never has that been more true. I've been so busy intellectualizing my way through this that I've entirely neglected my heart in the process. I don't want to leave my heart behind, God. If I am going to commit to this big of a life change, I want my heart to come with me. That's why I'm here now, acknowledging these ugly truths. I wish it could be different, I wish I could convince myself of the merits of following my intellect, and I wish my heart would be as eager to follow. But it's not. I'm still as human as You made me, I still have those desires You've implanted in me. And now it seems less and less likely that it will ever be a reality. It seems so cruel sometimes!! I know my perception of things doesn't limit You, nor should it limit what I know You can do ... but still my heart doesn't follow. I'm still licking my wounds in a way and maybe I should be gracious enough with myself to allow for that. Maybe that's what a lot of this anger boils down to: not having had time to allow my heart to recover from falling from a height. Maybe the wound was deep enough that it is unfair to expect my heart to have recovered this quickly. I don't know; even as I write this I want to say it is a bunch of fluff: my tendency is to be stoic and move forward in spite of pain or unpleasantness. The life of someone following Christ isn't supposed to be a primrose-lined path, but at the same time, something in my heart is preventing me from moving forward in the way my intellect knows I should move. I just don't know. That's the only thing of which I am completely certain right now: the not-knowing, and the inconvenient reality that this part of me is looming about, a question with no apparent answer except WAIT.

I know this is nothing new; I know I'm not the only unattached woman out there who has been faced with heartache, who has trusted and been disappointed, who has cried out to You, who has been bouncing off the walls of faith, knowledge, hope, and the unpleasant present reality. But I can only bring my heart to You, point out that gaping emptiness, and hope and wait. And wait and wait.

I'm accustomed to my writing help me come to some conclusion, to tying things up all neatly at the end. I'm definitely not there now. There are no answers today; just some raw and painful honesty, some tears I'd rather not cry. But I think that's okay; this is big enough (as far as I'm concerned) that I cannot expect to find resolution so easily. I hate saying these things out loud to You; it seems so contrary to how I should be, so opposite of the righteousness You desire from me. But I know You saw this reality before I did, that You knew it well long before I acknowledged it. And I know that the end of all this will be to conform myself to Your will and not the other way around. But I need time to get there, and I think You are more willing to give me that time than I am to give it to myself.

Sometimes I wish I could shut off that part of my heart that desires what it does; it is a thorn in my side to walk through my days with it, to drag this deferred hope around with me like a dead weight wondering if and how it will ever find its fulfillment. Wondering if the hope is ultimately a vain one. Others try and encourage me, but they can no more see the future than I can (can they??). Some days are far easier to bear than others and sometimes it doesn't take much to trigger me in such a way that I am in the throes of heartache again.

Last night, it was that dream I had that triggered my angry prayer this morning. You know the dream I had, God. I didn't want to wake up; I wanted to stay embedded in that dream with the apparition: the one who took me as I was, who loved me, who made those feelings of being eminently unwantable evaporate. How much I wanted to go back to sleep! I can see why You'd desire my holiness more than my happiness, but in that dream state, I was so happy. Because it was right, because it was good. Because I was not feeing this awful, chest-sucking feeling. Because I didn't feel so alone anymore. And maybe You have a means of fulfilling that or satisfying this that is entirely other than I can conceive. It's not as though I expect my desire for this love to solve all my problems or fulfill all my needs. But it's there all the same, feeling like a gaping hole, proclaiming its emptiness to me emphatically.

So for now I pause in this journey, needing this time to be still and to heal. I'll probably never understand the why behind any of this; maybe I am meant only to move through it.

No answers today. Only this ugly prayer, this pitiful cry from me to You. I know You're no genie, God; it's not as if I look to You as the Fulfiller of my wishlist. I don't know what I ask of You, really; I can only acknowledge my present state to You, tell you the truth from my heart and my mind, to have faith that You'll do with it what You will, and that it will be good. To know that despite my feeling an utter mess, that You know, that You love and You hear, even when it feels as though my words bounce off the ceiling only to fall again in my lap with a heavy thud.

So take it. Take it all. Take my tears and store them up. Take my words and gather them in. Here they are in all my not-knowing. Please make this something good.

Mysteries

photos by kirsten.michelle

The Unknown

... never doubt in the dark what God has told you in the light.

Victoria Christopher Murray

I must confess that I'm not as certain and sure-footed as what I write here might indicate. I have my fair share of questions and doubts, moments where it seems like the most prudent thing would be to turn my back on the whole endeavor and return to what I know best.

I talked to the priest about this earlier this week; I was telling him how when I am there in the thick of my learning, surrounded by the faithful, I am so very certain. My intellect readily assents and my will is eager to follow. When I come home, I am no longer surrounded in the same way, I am no longer engaged in dialogue about the faith. I am in relationships where boundaries have been necessarily drawn so I may protect this infant thing that is so precious and still taking root in me.

He told me with sadness of how he's known many who have turned back from embracing the Catholic faith to keep the peace in relationships with family and friends. I told him that given the strain I've experienced in many of my relationships, I could understand the sentiment and empathize with those who were forced to forsake one for the other, but that I had no intention of abandoning what was so clear in front of me (while there is some relational strain and a gap in understanding where one did not exist before, I am not -- thank God -- in the unfortunate position of entirely forsaking one for the other). As I noted in a previous post, Christ made it clear that we have to love Him more, that we cannot allow even family relationships to be a cause of hesitation or of turning back. I've never before had to make that distinction; I've always had my family and many friends along the way with me. The fact that there is a measure of difficulty in making the separation does not give me a pass where obedience is concerned. The truth is that I'm scared to obey. But I'm more scared not to.

... to one who knows the right thing to do and does not do it, to him it is sin.

James 4:17

No exceptions. No caveats.

I can't reverse this process, I can't unknow what I've learned. There are times where this would be a tempting option were it a viable one. And I know that it won't be a giving up just for the present; I know there will be sacrifices to be made down the road. It's no great secret I would love to get married; by embracing the traditional Catholic faith, I'm effectually cutting myself off from the overwhelming majority of single men who call themselves "Christian". Am I forfeiting this dream? I cannot know; I only know I must love Christ more and love Him first. I must deposit at the altar all those things I have now and all those things I dream of having (even those dreams God Himself has given), trusting that like Abraham received Isaac back from the dead, so may I receive back those things I sacrifice.

I know what I need to do, I know the direction in which I must continue. But so often in my heart there is a pulling back. This is really all I have to offer up to Him: obedience in spite of my feelings, moving forward when I feel most like staying put.