One and a Half Naps, and Then a Revelation

A warning before I begin: This will probably be a very personal post. And not that people who don't know me really read this blog anyway, but if you don't know me, maybe you should stop now. That's not an order, as this is the internet, (and therefore anything I post here is pretty much fair game) but it is a suggestion.

I was about to take a nap just now. I finished reading Paper Towns (magnificent) on the couch in the sun room, and then I started to doze off. The thing is, my left earring was pressing into my skull, and I was still wearing my Target red and khaki, and I was worried about the dog sneaking over while I slept and eating the pear core I had laying on the rug beside me and getting sick and dying or something while I slept on like a masochistic infant. So I abandoned the couch, locked the dog in the kitchen, threw away the core, changed into sweats, and got into bed.

I was so tired that I didn't even bother to set my cell phone alarm (I usually do when I take naps or else I will pretty much sleep for the next 2 days). I was so tired that when my knee nudged against paper under the covers, and when I remembered that the paper was the Sunday crossword that I had hidden from my sister this morning (Sunday crosswords are sacred to me, and she has bad handwriting. Don't tell her I said that.), I didn't even bother to set the paper on my nightstand. I decided to sleep with it nudged against my knee.

The thing was, as I was drifting off to sleep for the second time, I started to think about the guy I like (Don't be scared; I'm not going to go middle school on you. Promise). I was thinking about how cute he is, and how smart, and how funny, and I was imagining us hanging out together. And then I started to worry, the way I often do when I think about a guy that I like (and I don't think I'm alone in this). I started to wonder why he would ever like me. I'm not a supermodel, I'm not outgoing, I'm not bubbly, I'm not chill or calm or neutral, I have a big nose, sometimes I can be a major space cadet, I can't dance, I'm not graceful in any way, and I make mistakes constantly. Why would he ever, ever like me back, I thought.

And then, suddenly, like someone was shouting it in my ear, I heard this:

You're perfect.

I'm perfect.

The more I thought about this, the more of a revelation it became. I actually started crying, and as I stared at my turquoise bedroom wall, black mascara tears on my cheeks, I realized that I am perfect. That someone (namely, God) took the time to make me the way I am. He didn't make one mistake with me. He didn't make one mistake with anyone. Every bit of me, inside and out, is deliberate. Everything I am has a purpose, and everything I strive to be will only add clarity to that purpose.

And while I generally view myself as a pretty confidant person, I don't know if I really am. I think in the past, when I've embraced myself, I've done it one-handedly; I've left the flaws out. I haven't liked to think about them much because they're flaws. They're bad. But now I don't know if I believe in the flaws at all. They're really only bits of sin and lint and doubt that I've created for myself, that I've let hang around me because, well, this is Earth and I am human. And I wanted that crossword for myself, darn it!

Do you see yet? As a being I am perfect because, lucky me, I was made in God's image (that's right, I'm one of those). As a human, things get a little shady. But these things shouldn't stop me. If I create the shade, then surely I can be the one to wave it away. I know that I can't save myself completely without help, but I also know that I can save myself a little bit just by realizing how lovely the essence of me really is. (P.S. Your essence is quite beautiful as well).

I think I went around in a circle, you guys. I don't know if I ended up where I intended to, or if you were able to follow my tracks, or if I even left clear enough tracks to follow. I hope I did. I also hope that I didn't come off as some sort of motivational speaker. (There's that self-doubt again. Hello.) I didn't mean to. I just tried to take a nap about a half hour ago, and ended up not wanting to sleep after all. I hope you understand why.

Get Up and Work

This morning, as you know, I had to wake up at 2:30 a.m. to go to work. I only managed about an hour and a half of sleep, and when my alarm went off this morning, I was not amused. My hair was still wet from my evening shower, I felt like I had shut my eyes only moments before, and it was raining a cold, depressing December rain outside my window.

I lay in bed and pondered all of this for a few minutes, and then on a whim reached for the daily devotions book Dad got me for Christmas. The book is meant to be read every morning (in fact, it's titled "Starting Your Day Right"), but as I normally don't find time to read in the morning, I've been reading the entry for each day the night before. Last night, however, I had forgotten to do so.

Clumsily, then, I fumbled to the December 30th page, and what should the title of the entry be?

Get up and Work

And so I did.

Carrying the Cross

I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.

What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.

Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.

The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).

You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.

It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.

I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.

Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.

As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.

The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.

Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.

Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.

The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.

After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.

My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.

Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).

Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.

I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.

While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.

A Walk in the Woods

I'm sitting in the basement of the library beside the wall of windows that is so distracting but so wonderfully sunlit and warm.
For an American Literature paper, I have to imagine that Edgar Allen Poe and Ralph Waldo Emerson go for a walk in the woods. I have to imagine what they would talk about.
I think, being in the woods, they would talk about nature.
Ralph would look at the beauty and the perfection and the light drifting among the tops of the trees. He would say something along the lines of: "I went into the woods and I felt, you know, sort of religious."
Edgar would see the trees as ominous and looming. He would comment on the mystery of the forest, a darkness that he couldn't quite explain.

And I, a mere observer on this extraordinary hike, would wonder how the woods came to be. I would wonder who had meandered through them for the first time, and why. I would check over my shoulder for bears, and occasionally trip over protruding roots. I would see the beauty in the branches outlined in navy blue. Finally, I would grow nervous as the sun set and the night gently dropped herself down over everything.

And then, leaving Edgar and Ralph to their discussion, I would hurry back home, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and blog about the woods I'm imagining in the library.

This American Life

I first discovered the This American Life podcast through some strategic eavesdropping. I was tabling for the MCSA elections when Kathy, who was sitting next to me, began discussing it with a voter. They didn't say much about it, just that it was an addicting podcast that had some interesting (and humorous stories). As soon as I got back to my dorm room, I subscribed to it on itunes.

I didn't actually listen to the program seriously until a few days ago, however. Why? Oh, I suppose because I'm accustomed to using my ipod for music alone, and had a tough time even considering just listening to people talk instead. Also because I typically listen to my ipod when I'm doing something and just need some background noise. I thought I'd probably have trouble concentrating on a story someone was telling in my ears while I was also reading, writing, etc.

The perfect opportunity for T.A.L. came up at work on Tuesday. It was about 5 a.m. and my job was to scurry about the store dusting product and cleaning shelves. It was mundane work that certainly needed an accompanying story.

I had a few different episodes of T.A.L. to choose from. I chose well for the first one. It was called Behind Enemy Lines. The first interview they conducted was with with a former clergyman of the Catholic Church who had spent years at various parishes replacing clergy who had been accused of sexually abusing parishioners, or with sexual misconduct in general (although ironically enough, for clergyman who have taken a vow of celibacy, any sort of sexual conduct is misconduct), and had been thus withdrawn. This particular clergyman's instructions were to basically go into each parish and to completely ignore the crimes committed by his predecessor, all while performing the typical Mass-saying, baby-baptizing, funeral-presiding, marriage-making duties of a priest.

Eventually, the clergyman grew tired of pretending that these gross incidents weren't happening, and he quit the clergy and began to work with a lawyer who was helping sexually abused victims to sue the Church.

It was quite an interesting story, and it made me (once again) question the Catholic Church. I have my faith, yes. I won't go into it here, but I believe in God, and I have a continually developing relationship with Him. I have always liked going to Church; there is a reverence and tradition about a Catholic Mass that is very powerful, I think. But in recent years, all of the things I like about the Catholic Church have been eclipsed somewhat by all of the things that are wrong about the Catholic Church.

It's an institution. It truly is. Has been for centuries and centuries. There are rules one must follow, there are expectations that go beyond the Bible, and there is a deep and festering (and mostly ignored) implication that your loyalty and adherence to the Catholic Church is more important than your relationship with God, and that where the Church stands in politics is where every churchgoing person should stand as well. That is truly wrong.

I remember an incident back in 2008 when I was at Mass with my family and the priest started preaching against Barack Obama, and in support of John McCain. My entire family was very very close to getting up and walking out of that church. Some people did, actually. I realize that there are biases with every parish, and that priests are human just like the rest of us, with just as many opinions. But what I don't understand is how politics fit in with God. What place do they have under a holy roof? What right does any church have to imply, or even to assume that voting for a certain candidate will earn you favor in heaven? I hardly think that Saint Peter checks your political affiliations at the pearly gates.

A line uttered by the (former) clergyman in that T.A.L. podcast that especially struck me was this: "After awhile, I realized that the Catholic Church is not capable of change."

And it isn't. It has resisted any sort of change for centuries, while clenching any type of power deep in its Vatican-rooted fist. The thing is, I'm not proud of the history of the Catholic Church. Selling indulgences? Exchanging them for favors? Persecution? I'm even hard pressed to pinpoint any good the Church has ever done for the world.

I know this all may sound sort of harsh, but I don't feel that it's unwarranted. It's not written on a whim, either; I truly have been pondering all of this for years now. The death of Pope John Paul and the rise of Benedict has especially influenced my thoughts on the matter. John Paul was a truly truly good person who did good things in the world. I don't pretend to know a lot about his policies, but I admired his character greatly. I don't know about Benedict. I just don't know if his values, if his priorities are sound. And with a pope, you should know. It's rather an important position.

Well, I think I'll be done for the night. Thanks for listening, and I hope I haven't offending anyone in any way, especially because I believe there is truth in what I've written here.

I don't know that I'll ever leave the Catholic Church. I think I would if I ever felt like there was absolutely no hope left, and if I stopped getting God out of the Masses, but I also think that switching churches is a big decision, and not one that should be made lightly, nor without complete certainty.

For now, I'll just sit in my pew and listen and look for God in the rafters above the altar.

An Education

When I was younger and being particularly sassy or stubborn or (insert form of disobedience here), my mom would roll her eyes upwards and mutter imploringly, "God give me strength." It was only then that I paused in my naughtiness and took in the gravity of my actions; if Mom was praying, I must really be hurting her.

I've caught myself doing the same upward eye roll and soft plea lately, and I'm finding it quite helpful. It gives me a split second of perspective, and sometimes that's all I need to cool off and view the situation with new eyes.

Finals went fine. My Brit Lit one went particularly well, I think. We were given 4 passages, and we had to identify the period they were from, and analyze them based on the values of that period. Extra credit for correctly identifying the author/title of the passage. I am happy to report that I received all possible extra credit.

Crusades was trickier. I didn't study as hard for that final, although I did reread all 98 pages from the unit. I wasn't as familiar with the primary sources as I should have been, so my essay was lacking in that department. Oh, well. I learned so much in that class that I'm just going to be satisfied with that. Not that my overall grade will be low (a B+, I'm guessing), it just won't be the A I had hoped for.

You know what, though? I've worked hard this semester. Maybe not as hard as I possibly could have, but I haven't slacked off. I'm going to study for my Anthropology final and head home for a well-deserved summer break.

Don't Stop Believin'

This weekend has given me hope for the future. After a rather stressful week, I needed a relaxing, fun couple of days. And I certainly got them.

Friday:
1. Got told by a couple of guys that Jesus loves me. They weren't being sarcastic, either. That made me feel pretty darn good. Sometimes you just need someone to say it aloud to you.
2. Pizza Ranch for dinner. We just couldn't take one more food service meal. The mashed potatoes alone at P.R. may have made up for a week of bad cafeteria 'food.'
3. Went to see State Fair at Morris High School. It really wasn't very good, but certainly entertaining, and the kids had a lot of heart. Plus, it was nice to be back in a high school again.

Saturday:
1. Slept until 2:30 p.m.
2. Saw Post Comedy Theater, a one-man physical comedy act. Robert Post did a wonderful job and is very talented. However, I didn't laugh until I cried, which was a bit of a let-down.
3. Played Catch Phrase and Disney Seen It with Ben, Maddie, King, and Tim.

Sunday:
1. Woke up early and went to Church. It was nice to attend a Catholic Mass again; I've really missed it. Plus, the choir from UMM was there, so the music was absolutely beautiful.
2. Went to the UMM Concert Choir Concert. I'm so glad I went! I almost think that I would rather watch a choir perform than watch a band perform. Either way, they were amazing.
3. Dodgeball game at 8:15 tonight, and then who knows?