While, undoubtedly, I have received countless gifts throughout my marriage, these blessings have certainly not always been what I envisioned. Oddly enough, the blessings I have received have very often completely eroded my old conceptions of happiness. More frequently than not, these gifts have come in the form of crosses—trials sent to reshape my own heart.
In addition to the maternal embrace, prayers, and tears of Saint Monica, Saint Augustine needed the wisdom, presence, and friendship of Saint Ambrose! He needed a home and a community to find God and serve Him.
I realized that I was, in fact, trying to protect my children. This is a natural response, and it is largely our responsibility to do so. But it’s also our responsibility to equip our children, especially as they get older.
How often do we create fortresses around idols: things, relationships, or even people that, while beautiful and admirable in their proper sphere, can potentially obscure the true End? We weigh the cost of giving with the toll it exacts on our happiness, and too often, we favor the path of contentment over the “Severe Mercy” of death: death to self, to contentment, to ease, to ambitions and hopes.
I am due with a new little one any day now (prayers appreciated!), and the very clear reality of labor and birth is looming over me pretty much non-stop. While I must admit that I am battling some fear, I am also incredibly aware of my posture in front of this reality. This baby is coming, and only I can walk the road before me. It is a task that I have been given, and I must either grudgingly accept or gratefully receive. Both of these options are open to me, but it seems that there is one that offers more freedom. Freedom for me is in the active surrender of saying yes.
On the First Sunday of Lent, one of our parish’s deacons gave the homily. He spoke about how, when his family first moved to Kansas City one summer, he was struck by the beauty of the trees. He had moved from the desert and wasn’t accustomed to so much green. Now, of course, the trees aren’t green. He likened the bleak, bare winter landscape to the Lenten season. We repent and let go, just as the trees let go of their leaves, he said, trusting that come Easter, come spring, we can glory in the Resurrection. Clearly, there is something going on here. It makes sense to me that trees are meaningful to Christians.
If “true grit” is an unflappable determination in the face of any circumstances, however horrific, challenging, or dire, the question remains: is this a natural gift or an attainable virtue?
I have found myself wallowing in pity lately. I have found myself screaming to God, “Why me? Why can’t you let up? Why do we have to have one legitimate trauma after another?” I have found myself trying to reason with God, believing the maxim that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, but telling God that I think I am plenty strong enough for the time being; thank you very much. And then I picked up True Grit, and I met Mattie Ross.
How do people find hope in the face of flagrant cruelty or disdain? The answer, as the ten Booms poignantly and concretely discovered, is found in the One Who endured the greatest suffering of all.
This book appears on my Top 10 list. It’s just plain fun. And how often do I allow myself to read for pure pleasure?