Morning Offering

O Blessed Trinity, Father, Son and Holy Spirit,

I offer you my thoughts, feelings, words and deeds of today, in union with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass throughout the world. I offer you my anger, my hurt, my sadness and my sickness and I place them into your loving, pierced hands, My Jesus. Holy Spirit, take my foolishness and give me wisdom, take my weakness and give me fortitude. Father of Heaven, for the love of the Son, have mercy on me and on the whole world, for we do not know what we do. Mother Mary, be my mother, today and always. Teach me to love as you do. Amen.

Marriage and Romanticism

I have been called a romantic all of my adult life. At first I never argued with the statement.After all, I was in love with being in love. I waxed poetic about sunsets, babies and elderly couples kissing in public. I loved jewelry, silk, lace, flowers and the color pink. I loved old fashioned wicker baskets, sun-rooms, ball-gowns, bird-cages, linen handkerchiefs, dangling gypsy earrings and bohemian styled clothing. I believed in true love. I believed in love-at-first sight. I believed that it was more romantic if you married your first love and stayed married to them your whole life. I hoped to marry young and have many children. I was overjoyed at every romantic couple I met and wept each time they broke-up\separated/divorced. I proclaimed every kind of weather and every season as "romantic". I was rhapsodic about men. I memorized poetry. I sighed and wept happy tears at the sight of a Raphael painting. I knew who Laura and Petrarch were. I knew who Dante and Beatrice were. I knew who inspired Botticelli's Venus. I knew something about Romeo and Juliet other than the fact that they were teens who committed suicide. I sang the Nat King Cole song, "When I fall in love, it will be forever..." Isn't that what a "romantic" is?

But now that I enter my late twenties, though I am the same person that I am when I was young, and still do all of those things...I would not classify myself as a true Romantic in the old sense of the word. The school of romanticism is enamored of the aesthetic ideal and is in eternal pursuit of the perfect. The tragic tension of the romantic is in the pride of Byron, the shame of Coleridge, the melancholy of Keats and the ecstasy of Shelley. It is in Wordsworth's daffodils, in William Blake's angel-laden trees, and in Walter Scott's nostalgia for times and realms that he never knew. We live in a finite, temporary, imperfect world and our hearts were designed for the infinite, eternal and the perfect. So our hearts rejoice at the sight of shadows and dim reflections of that ideal and then weeps at the realization that it was only a shadow.

When you were a baby, you probably saw a brightly colored flower, decided that you wanted it, plucked it from the ground, delighted in its beauty, then learned sadly that if you plucked it, it would wither and die faster. I remember once when I was a child, being dazzled by the majesty of light sparkling on water, and perplexed that when I filled my cup with it, the light would not stay in my cup. I still feel that longing for the eternal and the perfect, as we all do. And like a true melancholic, I am often saddened by the discrepancy between what I long for and what I am actually capable of doing, experiencing, being. As a Catholic, I know that my heart's desire will be realized only by God and He alone can sate that hunger. This hope, and this resignation, is where I part ways with romanticism. Because I know that the perfect is coming and that the perfect is God, I do not have to worry about finding the perfect on earth.

Why am I talking about this? Because this fact is brought home to me as I am planning my wedding.
There is no other phenomenon in our culture more saturated with romanticism than wedding planning and celebration. Just look at the magazines. "The Perfect Wedding", "The perfect dress", "Romantic locations" , "Exotic destinations" "Finding the right florist" "The right planner" "The right location" "The right time" "The right man"...You starting to see a pattern? No matter how impoverished the couple, the dream of the bride reigns supreme on this special day. The parents might be divorced but they must be there and be nice to each other. This might be the bride's fifth wedding but she must have a three-tiered cake.  Because this time it really is forever. She might have had to ask two girls she does not like that much to be her bridesmaids because her sister is overweight and her best friend got pregnant and she MUST have six bridesmaids. In her ordinary life, she wears a pantsuit, her gym clothes, and blue jeans every single day, but this day she MUST have a designer gown that costs five thousand dollars for the church and another that costs ten thousand for the reception.

Do not get me wrong. I love cake. I love silk, satin, chiffon, lace. I wear attention-grabbing colors and floor skimming hemlines in my every day life (and am sometimes called eccentric for doing so). I have no qualms with spending my money. I love flowers and sometimes buy them for no reason at all. I believe that every sacrament deserves celebration and magnificentia. Get a florist for a baptism too! Get a three-tiered cake for a first Holy Communion reception too! Wear a long white gown for your sixteenth birthday too! Or for no reason at all! Just because you are beautiful! Because you deserve it! Because no woman ever needs to give an explanation to the world for looking regal, feminine and drawing attention to herself!

What I find objectionable about this whole wedding mania is the fixation with one day for everything to be a perfect fulfillment of universal ideal and a personal fantasy. And the demand that it be such and the sense of entitlement about it. We all know the cliche about the dreaded Bridezilla. If you think about it though, every woman in our culture is encouraged to pursue everything she wants and never settles for less than what she wants-EVER. Moreover she is instilled with the truly romanticist notion that all of her dreams are attainable if she only waits long enough, cries long enough, nags long enough, gets the right lawyer, the right boyfriend, the right job, the right college, the right friends, the right career-goals, the right gym instructor, the right counselor...if she only would wish upon the right star...or sadly, if she is Christian, if she only prays hard and long enough. Then we wonder why there are so many divorces. Then we wonder why there are so many women with eating disorders. Then we wonder why there are suicides. Then we wonder why so many people are on anti-depressants. Then we wonder why the world has turned so jaded and cynical. Then we wonder why innocence is lost so young. Then we wonder why Taylor Swift writes so many whiny songs.

I do not believe that the perfect is attainable in this life.
I do not insist upon finding perfect happiness in this life.
Up until recently, I expected nothing out of life except misery. And yes, this is the opposite extreme. But the point that I am trying to make is that the idea that you will be perfectly happy forever in this life is just as nonsensical even if it is more attractive.
I used to expect that like many girls who come from my situation, that I would die very young.
When I was a child I used to try to convince myself that everybody that you loved would stab you in the back and break your heart.
Now I know better. But all the same, this does not mean that I don't know that my friends will sometimes unintentionally hurt my feelings.
My family is still going to do things that drive me nuts.
My children (when I have them, if I am so blessed) will fight with me, argue with me, disagree with me, and quite frequently drive me crazy.
My husband (after I marry him) will alternate between being "The Best Husband Ever" and "You impossible, infuriating man!" on a daily basis. My husband will alternate between thinking me the most wonderful wife in the world and the most frustrating person imaginable. That is life.

Life is supremely romantic in the same way that "Pied Beauty" is the loveliest poem.
Life is beautiful in the way that hugging my baby sister Catherine after she almost fell off the second story of our condo is beautiful. Life is beautiful as the snot and drool my sister Margaret coughed up after I saved her from drowning. Life is beautiful like the smile of delight on Elena's face after she sprinkled the bread flour all over the living room carpet. Life is beautiful like the tears on a child's face when she hugs her soldier Dad returned from Iraq. Life is beautiful like the bouquet of flowers a child picked for his mother out of her forbidden, untouchable, prized begonias. Life is beautiful like the fragile hands of an elderly woman clutching a rosary. That is the sort of romantic beauty that I want on my wedding day and the kind that I know that I will have. Because it is the sort of happiness, beauty and romance that comes from love.

At the end of the day, it does not matter if the bakery makes a mistake on my cake order. It does not matter if somebody accidentally spills wine on my wedding dress. It does not matter if I can not afford to go away for my honeymoon. It does not matter if I lose the twenty pounds. It does not really matter if my dress is alencon or chantilly lace. It does not matter if the ring pillow was made in china. It does not matter if my wedding guest are too few for a guest book. It does not matter if one of the groom's men has scuffed shoes. It does not matter if my mother in law hates my shoes.

It does not matter because this is not supposed the be the perfect day or the perfect life. The only thing I want to do perfectly on my wedding day, is love my husband. For that matter I want to do that perfectly for the rest of my life. But I know that I am imperfect and he is imperfect and our love for each other falls short of the love that God has for each of us. And I am ok with that.

My future husband said to me once, "I love you. And want to be with you when you are sick...when you are angry...when you are sad...when you are wrong...because I want to be with you always. I do not love you only when you do exactly what I want, or when you say what I want or think what I want. I love you. And I choose to love you forever."

And to confess the truth...that is sublime in its romance.

Beauty Ritual Survey For The Ladies

Most ladies have a beauty ritual of some sort each morning.

If you are married, your husband has probably noticed that this ritual can 

lengthen up to three hours in duration if you really have somewhere to go and do where you will be seen.  So this one is for the ladies.... which of these rituals is the most important part of your beauty regimen?  In other words, which of these options would you rather die than neglect?

A-Eyebrow "tweezing"

B-Eyebrow "waxing"

C-Facial "waxing"

D- "Mustache" bleaching

E-Facial exfoliating

F-Facial moisturizing

G-Sunscreen application

H-Eye and hand cream application

I-Eye lubrication

J-All of the above (A-I)

Now which of these is the most indispensable of your cosmetics ritual?

K-Primer application

L-Just a tinted moisturizer

M-Lip balm with SPF

N-Eyelash curling

O-All of these (K-N)

P-Just L-N

Since we have come this far, for those of 

you ladies who like Elizabeth Taylor or Sophia Vergara

simply can't be seen without paint,

which is most important of these?

Q-Foundation

R-Concealer

S-"Highlighter"

T-Eyebrow pencil/gel

U-Sheer powder

V-Blush

W-Eyeliner pencil

X-Eyeshadow

Y-Mascara

Z-All of these (Q-Y)

Now, if you have made it this far, which of these 

is the most vital?

1-Lip pencil

2-Lipstick

3-Lip butter

4-Lip stain

5-Lip gloss

6-All of 1-5.

Now which of these would you make sure to incorporate into your pampering

if you were to give a speech/go to a fancy dinner/fundraiser/sing in a concert/compete in dance/board meeting?

7-False lashes

8-Straighten/curl/gel/spray hair

9-Dry shampoo

10-Deep conditioning

11-Manicure

12-Just file and clip my nails

13-Just remove peeling nail polish

14-Heavy camera-ready airbrushing mousse

15-More powder to "set" the make-up.

16-More blush

17-Illegal-to-buy-in-the-US-eye-whitening-drops (just kidding!)

18-Teeth whitening

19-Lip plumping products

20-All of these?Are you crazy? Who do you think I am? Kim Kardashian? Nobody except celebrities on the Red carpet go to such extreme lengths to look "perfect"!

Thanks ladies! And to all the gentlemen secretly reading this post...1-You were warned

2-Why are you reading this?

3-What? You didn't think the celebrities you drool over looked like that naturally did you?

4-What? If you drool over celebrities who can only look like 

that by sitting in a makeup chair for five hours, what do you expect us to do?

How else do you think women compete?

No matter how many times you say, "We don't like makeup"
those statements are contradicted every time you 

stop and stare at a woman that we know has spent hours of time and thousands of dollars on

maintaining her appearance. Just saying...

"Oh no! I am over forty!"

One day at my cash register, a woman came and bought some beer. She was quite beautiful, with large violet eyes and exquisite white hair.  When my scanner read the UPC code on the item, the machine asked me, "Is the customer under forty?"  Accordingly and correctly I hit the "no" button.  The woman sighed a little and lamented, "I am well over forty, unfortunately."

"Why is that unfortunate?" I queried with naivete.

With a bitter chuckle she replied, "Because it means that I am old."

I smiled reassuringly and said, "It means that you are lucky. It means that you have survived the great and terrible adventure that is life."  I added with a wink, "Besides, forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty. What with the life expectancy rate expanding, forty does not even mean middle-aged anymore."

"You can say that because you are like 22 years old," she chuckled as she left.

Twenty-seven actually. I said silently to myself. Twenty-seven, and suffering from an illness that has been known to kill people. Twenty-seven, and a survivor of child abuse, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and currently living with Borderline Personality Disorder. Yes, I can say that every single day of your life is a gift, that your life does not become less important after your first gray hair, not because my life has not involved significant suffering or discomfort yet...but because every single day of my short life has been something for which I have had to fight.

Do not misunderstand me, I am all too painfully aware of the age-ism prevalent in today's world.  Just in case a 21st century person living in a first world country did not have enough to handle with Marxism and Hedonism. In the wealthiest, healthiest and most entertainment-glutted nations in the world, every average Joe on the street has to broadcast how healthy he is, what expensive toys he owns and how hard he partied last night and whether or not he got laid.  Ludicrous.
Then he gets some wrinkles around his eyes, the booze guzzling and four AM munchies have started to show around his middle, and he gets rejected by a couple college-age girls...and then he groans when the girl at the checkout counter does not ask to see his ID.  Then he starts to enter a "crisis" where he wonders where all of his youth and energy went and what he has done with the first fifty years of his life and whether or not his life has any meaning. Now he has to buy bigger toys. He needs to make more money. His dates and mistresses have to stay shamefully young.  For the man who is poorer? Well, all he can really do is keep drinking the cheap, rotten excuse for American beer, go play at the casinos when he can, and when the twenty-something at the checkout hands him his receipt and says "Have a nice day," in the tone that means, "Never in a million years, Buddy," just go home.  Just go home and regret that you can't be young forever.

There are cancer patients who know how to live.
There are children in war torn countries who may never live to see their 20th birthday.
In India there is a catastrophic infant fatality rate.
In the US alone we have lost MILLIONS of children to the tragedy of abortion. These did not even live to see the light of day.

There are nine year old girls forced into "marriages" and eleven year old boys being kidnapped and trained to steal, kill and be killed. It would be a little difficult to explain to them this first world, 21st century malady called "Being Over Forty."

Growing up in the environment that I did, I can safely tell you that youth can be hellish. Not according to the natural order of things, but when youth is surrounded by violence, terror, tears and instability, yes, quite hellish. Every moment that I have spent freed from that environment has been a miracle. I am grateful for it. I know why 10% of people who suffer from BPD end in suicide, yet I also know that I will never be one of them.
I have survived too much, come too far and labored to long to give up now.
And you have too. That is what it means when you reach that milestone. It means "I made it! I survived! I have been given a great gift! I am strong. My life is precious. The lines around my eyes are beautiful. The touch of gray on my sideburns bespeak the wisdom I have acquired. I am over forty. Thanks be to God. Hurray for me!"

I look forward to reaching that milestone someday myself. Every new birthday I have, I get a little more excited. You see, when I was a child, I always expected that I would die very young. Twenty years ago, I never would have expected to live this long to celebrate so much. Deo Gratias.

Reflections on 2012-Feast of the Mother of God

One of the things that I am most grateful for happening to me in 2012 was that I found out for sure that I was sick.  I had been afraid that I was sick all of my adult life, but did not know what it was. It is called Borderline Personality Disorder. It develops in early adulthood, so I have been sick for well over a decade. Now at the ripe old age of 27 I have finally discovered that what I have has a name, and that my fits of self-rage, lonesome blues, extreme self-devaluation and intense fear of abandonment are symptoms.

While I am not my illness, understanding the nature of it has helped me to understand and forgive myself. It has helped me come to grips with my life and have hope and courage to face what will come. It has also broadened my awareness of the many people suffering from mental health issues. This has been a very formative year for me. Difficult, intense, painful at times, but beautiful and necessary.

Without a doubt, though, the most beautiful and wonderful thing that happened to me this year was discovering that I had never stopped loving my ex-fiance. That we loved each other regardless of any illness. Whatever happens now, I know that I will not walk through life alone. And that is because of God, and my best friends and the man I love.

Reflections on 2012-The birth of Our Lord, The Flight into Egypt, The Holy Innocents

Merry Christmas Everybody! Wow...2012 is almost over already. Why does it seem like the more I mature, the faster the time escapes me? Anyhow, 2012 has been a very eventful year for me.  It was a difficult and sad year in many respects. Yet it was joyful and wondrous and full of love and learning as well.

One of the things that happened that was sad was that at the beginning of the year I had begun a new life in a strange new place with a person who was untrustworthy. Then I had to run away from that family member and flee in the night and seek refuge in a women's shelter and aid from a convent of nuns. It is a very lonely feeling, running into the darkness, dragging your suitcase over the icy sidewalk, avoiding the gaze of drunks stumbling out of bars, and hearing only the moan and wail of the nearby railroad yard to drown out the ponderous silence...There is a special vulnerability to being a homeless young woman and being so alone. Hence, there is a special kind of courage that to which God calls me and all of the other ladies-young and old, from every race and social class and creed-who sheltered with me in that Safe-House, during that cold winter.  I do not think I will ever forget that experience.

One of the graces that came from that experience blossomed this Advent Season. We all remember the horror as children, at the first mention of poor baby Jesus having no place to stay in Bethlehem. I remember telling the story to one of my baby siblings and she burst into tears. Another child looked at the infant  Jesus doll nestled under the tree, picked it up, carried it to her room and set it in her doll's bed and covered it with blankets.  I have always felt so sorry for St. Joseph at that moment in time. He had this unplanned responsibility of taking care of and protecting the Mother of God. Now he arrives in his town of Familial origin, obediently awaiting the census, Mary is big with child, and probably senses through the Holy Spirit that this will be the night that her Lord will be born! So he runs around knocking on inn doors and looking for a place to shelter the Queen and the infant King placed in his care and everywhere he goes people say, "I'm sorry, we simply have no more room. Try someplace else."
"No room for them in the Inn?" Really?
There is a young man standing out in the winter night with a pregnant teenager and NOBODY in all of Bethlehem can take notice of them or give them a safe place to give birth? Really?
The King of Kings has to be born in a heap of hay in a cattle stall and laid in a feed-box. Woo Hoo. Great job, world.
The memory of Christmas was still in the winter air as I called the Women's Shelter and explained that I had been assaulted and needed a safe place to stay until I could find a permanent place. "I have a job," I explained, "I am not on drugs, I have no criminal record and I am starting to get to know people in this parish, it will not be for long. The parish priest knows me! Please!"

"I am sorry. We simply have no room. Try someplace else," said the cordial sounding lady on the phone.

"I understand, thank you, anyway." I sighed and tried hard not to cry.  My nose was running from the cold and I took off one mitten and used it as a handkerchief and felt very unladylike. "God," I prayed, "Help me! I can't go back to where I was. I won't go back. But I can't stay out here all day and all night! Please help me!"  I walked to the public housing, and they were all full up too, with a looooooonnnnnggg waiting list. "In the winter, every place is always overflowing," They said, "Good luck finding ANYTHNG ANYWHERE!"

I kept walking to stay warm and tried to think of what place to try next. I called the social worker again and she was out of ideas. I called my parish priest again and explained my lack of success with him. "I feel so terrible about causing you all of this trouble, father! I am sorry!" "No!" the kind old, Irish priest said, "You need some help right now, and this is my job. Do not worry. Pray and don't worry. Keep being brave. God will find a place for you to stay tonight one way or another. There has to be room, somewhere!"

I walked to the other end of town to the Adoration Chapel and waited with Jesus. In the half hour or so that passed I though of Our Blessed Lady, expecting baby Jesus, waiting with St. Joseph for some place to open up. Finally having to walk to the outskirts to shelter in a cave. Then I thought about the other homeless outcasts who would be out on the street this cold winter night,  or shivering in their car somewhere or huddled next to dozens of other strangers in a Salvation Army shelter. I thought of the ones who were struggling with mental health problems, ones who had abused with drugs and were haunted by criminal pasts.   Compared to them, I was still very fortunate. Now it would be very hard for them to earn anybody's trust or charm the charity out of anyone. And they felt the cold the same as I did. They were as lonely as I. Except that I had a warm coat. I felt very sad for them and utterly powerless to help them when I could not even help myself. I prayed to God for them again. And then I kept praying for me. Then my cell phone rang.

It was Father A who had spoken to Sister B and Sister B wanted to meet me and see if she could help me.  I  blew my nose in my mitten again, stuffed it into my pocket and shuffled back outside to meet Father A and be driven to the convent. Sister B, it turned out, was on the board for the same Women's Shelter that I had called earlier. So after seeing me and hearing about my predicament, she called the Women's Shelter and informed them that they did have room for me. That they would have to make room on the couch if they had to. She said that she would put me up in a motel room herself, using her own precious savings, for three nights to give them time to make the necessary arrangements. I gave that dear old nun a big hug and thanked her with all of my heart.

This Advent, I was remembering all of this. Remembering the nights in the motel room, the flight in the dark, and the nine days that I spent in the Shelter before I found a home. Poor Baby Jesus. He was abandoned by the world and left out in the cold. For my sake, for the sake of us all, He willed to come into the world and be born in a barn. He chose to come into the world, when He knew, as God, that the wicked King would hunt him down and try to murder him. Poor St. Joseph and Our Blessed Lady! No sooner had they settled into a safe place, they had to arise, grab their things and flee into the night to an unfamiliar land.

One of the sorrows of the Immaculate Heart of Mary is the Flight Into Egypt. Did she know about the mothers who would weep for their murdered babies and toddlers when that fearful dawn broke to greet the Church's First Martyrs? Did she weep for her poor little son, who had to be plucked from His cradle and jostled on the back of a donkey across the desert because a ruthless tyrant wanted His infant blood? Did she  feel a loneliness a thousand times greater than the loneliness I felt as I ran into the darkness toward the motel on the side of the highway. When she guided my steps on the icy road, had my Heavenly Mother's heart ached again for her adopted child (who was not nearly as brave and trusting as she had been in obeying God's command)? I ponder all of these things in my heart as I lift them up to God who has preserved me in all my adventures and upheld me in existence. I am so filled with gratitude in remembering all of this now. I am so grateful to God for the graces He gave me and the joys and sorrows that He lived within me. "The Almighty Has done great things for me. And Holy is His Name."

On The Third Day of Christmas

1-Talking to my darling boyfriend.
2-Taking a friend out for coffee.
3-Getting a ride home.