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It’s a common saying around St. Isidore’s that in the church, the reward for good work is always more work. If you agree to help move chairs or set up for Mass, for example, there’s a real chance you may end up being asked to do that job next week as well. This seems to be a function of being as large and as much of an “all hands” type of endeavor as the Church: We rely on those able to serve being generous with those gifts.

It came down with a wrecking ball, and as I stood in it for the last time, I realized how hard it hit in love. All the space ever did was break down my walls.

Have you ever thought about what the first Christians were doing in the period between the Ascension and Pentecost, or what you would do in their place? It’s a fascinating exercise, to be confronted with the question “Christ is alive, what are you gonna do about it?”

The words of the risen Christ to Mary Magdalene echo through the centuries into my own heart. Mary’s faith was strong and her friendship with Jesus was fierce. She had learned, over years of companionship with Jesus and His disciples, how to be in deep friendship with the Lord. I’m guessing they shared inside jokes and that she knew how to make Him belly laugh. She could probably recognize His footsteps and tell when He was feeling tired. Mary knew the living Christ, and she knew Him well. She was one of the few to stand at the foot of the cross in His last hours. Even to the end, Mary was prepared to give of her deepest self to the Lord.

Catholic author and psychologist Walker Percy was interested mostly in exploring the minds of a group of which he was a member: people he described as “ex-suicides”. This group, he said, had looked at life, realized the difficulty and pain which it could hold, accepted the possibility of leaving it, and had chosen not to. He explained that there was a certain freedom these individuals now enjoyed, because, unlike the vast majority of their peers, they had chosen to be alive. Any sorrow, trial, or suffering life could throw at them was something they had reckoned with and chosen, because they decided it was better to be alive.

The Passion of Braided Love The taste of iron floods his mouth bloodied, battered, and bruised All times are present now yet this infinite moment...

“I’m sorry” is potentially the hardest phrase in the English language to say. No one wants to admit that they are wrong, made a mistake, or hurt another person. Friendships end because of an unwillingness to admit a wrong and say sorry. 

However, there is another phrase that rivals this one for most difficult to utter: “I forgive you.” Rather than saying “I forgive you,” we often default to “it’s okay,” and that, my friends, is not okay. 

One thing I have been working on recently is eliminating “it’s okay” from my vocabulary and integrating “I forgive you” in. My relationships are changing dramatically. Allow me to explain.

As I approach graduation from Kansas State, I am confronted daily with the ways I have changed since arriving here my freshman year. I remember being excited, nervous, and unsure of where exactly I would find a sense of belonging. Quickly, within the first week of my time at Kansas State, I realized I would find solace in a church on Denison. That church became a place where, even though I didn’t know a soul there most days, I felt comfortable. It was as if God kept drawing me near to Him in St. Isidore’s because He knew I would make friends there and come to share my love for that place with friends of my own that had yet to visit.

I am known to have the worst memory, and to be honest, I don’t exactly remember who my confirmation saint is. So, a couple of years ago, I decided to adopt St. Teresa of Avila. I heard of her story and I was so impressed with how real she was. She was a person who I can relate a lot to, and somehow, she still achieved sainthood. 

In her teenage years, she became invested in worldly matters. She cared about what she wore and the jewelry she had. She was naturally a people person, so she would gossip and loved the attention it brought to her. She said, “In everything that gave them pleasure, I kept the conversation alive --- listened to the stories of their affections and childish follies, good for nothing.” 

To be Catholic, we are often told, is to live in tension. We are a “both/and” religion, comprised both of the eternal reality of our salvation, and the fleshy immediacy of Christ crucified. We are the pomp and majesty of the Organ and Choir, and the humbling sensation of accidentally sitting in the creakiest pew after a particularly stressful confession. 

Hope.

My words were a source of hope.

A few weeks after moving across the country, I did what anyone in search of a faith community might do, and I volunteered. The local Catholic church sought help for their annual pumpkin patch fundraiser in support of a homeless ministry. And so, I made plans to fill up one of many empty Saturdays outside, in a new, historic town, surrounded by the colors of Fall -- my favorite season.

St. Joseph is one of the most remarkable figures in the Bible. He is a man who is truly defined more by his actions than his words. His core function in the Gospels is to be the protector of Mary and the human father of the Lord. Scholars even suspect that the reason why Joseph later disappears from the Gospel narrative is because he had died sometime between when Jesus was a 12-year-old boy in the temple and before the Lord’s adult ministry began. God, in His providence, appears to have chosen Joseph for this exact purpose: to care for His Son and Our Mother. Joseph is therefore a model to us, chosen by God, for what fatherhood and masculinity ought to be.