Waiting

The other day, I woke up to the sound of a slammed door and the hissing of an angry stream of profanities. It was my stepfather, of course, but I was unsure whether it was directed at myself or my mother. Usually, when he refers to me he uses one of a handful of his favourite epithets, invariably referring to my worth, appearance and intelligence (or, really, lack thereof), although sometimes he prefers something more crude. His favourite is just "the Bimbo." Either way, though, this was nothing new, so I went back to another couple of hours of unsettling dreams.

It's amazing, the things a person can get used to. Still, I've been getting more than a little nervous as Christmas approaches. The holidays are always the worst, and things have been steadily escalating since I finished university. I am no longer a stranger to violence. We've become one of those households where the police are periodically called for humiliating and pointless visits to our house in the dead of the night. My mother swears that, the next time it happens, someone will get arrested. That's cold comfort when, usually, the person most often blamed when the police arrive ends up being me.

It's funny. The main reason I went to school in the first place was... well, I thought it would be my ticket to a new life. Never in my darkest nightmares did I ever imagine that things would end up this way. As you can imagine, I'm not looking forward to December and all that it will bring, including my 26th birthday. I'm getting too old for this, and wish so very much that there was some way out. I'm so very tired, and even simple vocal prayer can sometimes take a tremendous act of will.

Still, it's been what seems like a lifetime since I last celebrated Christmas as a Catholic, and Advent has always been one of my favourite seasons. Even when I knew nothing of what it meant to Christians. I have fond memories from my teen years of playing horn with our local brass band at yearly religious services, which will be starting again very soon. I love the lights and smells and tastes of this season... the sheer magic when it all comes together. It never fails to get to me, even when everything else is falling apart.

Of course, my stepfather has decided that we won't be celebrating Christmas at all in this house. I doubt that will really happen - he said the same thing last year and, I believe, the year before. I don't see what it matters, though. It's not like this is a religious holiday for either of them... they neither follow the liturgical year nor honour the turning of the seasons at Solstice, and we utterly fail at celebrating it in the secular sense. There's little love in this household. Our holidays have more to do with drinking, tears and violence. So, really, why pretend?

Regardless, I'm still a little disappointed. Particularly when the pleasures in my life are so meagre as it is. But none of that is the point, now is it?

The very first Advent was a dark time, too. A time of quickening, just like spring, and oh, how I long for the light that can only come when held in the arms of the Son, which isn't so different from making a cradle of our hearts for Him.  A priest I once knew liked to say that Confession puts us right at the crib of Christ, and, indeed I think the same could be said for penance in general.

All of life is wrapped up in an constant cycle of birth and death... from the cradle to the grave and back again, unless that that grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it will never know abundance, just as there's little point to a feast that isn't preceded by a fast. Dying to self has a lot more to do with eternal life than it does with the dying.

In a way, then, my circumstances (as desperately as I pray for respite) are an incredibly precious gift. I'm well set up to celebrate Advent profoundly, so long as I let grace into my heart... as long as I am ready to resolve myself to patiently waiting for that tender daybreak from on high, and preparing a place for Christ to more fully make His home in me.

And so, as difficult as this is to say, these days... Deo gratias!

Still around!

This is just a quick note to apologize for the lengthy silence here; I've not abandoned this blog. It's just been a very difficult few weeks, between the difficulties in my home life and a nasty case of the flu (which later developed into pneumonia) that I came down with not long after my last post.

Things are still very trying here, but I'm feeling a fair bit better. I anticipate returning to writing in the next few days.

Home Again

Getting on that train Friday morning may very well have been one of the hardest things I have ever done. As the thoughts of what lay waiting clouded my mind, well... I cried for most of the ten hour ride home. It was all I could do not to get off at one of the stops along the way and never look back. I didn't, though, and ever so slowly, I remembered how to breathe again, and that this is not the end. My story hasn't finished being written, at least not yet.

The stark and terrible land that greeted me upon my return felt so very appropriate. The frigid temperatures, cloudy skies and snow-covered ground make for the perfect backdrop for the isolation, tension, despair and occasional violence that's been my nonstop companion for the past year and a half. All this conflict seems so jarring on a lovely summer day, and, as much as this visit has helped my mood, it's also cast the darkness of my life into much sharper relief. It's hard to adjust to my circumstances again, even though it's only been a week, and I'm just not in the mood for much sunshine.

In a way, of course, I've always loved living in the north, and the climate is one of the things I love the most. It can feel like a different world up here, compared to the more urban environment where I went to school. Even the forests down there are tamer, prettier... like something out of a fairytale. It always felt so insincere. It can be like a fairytale in the north, too, but of a very different kind... the sort we used to tell before Disney got their hands on the stories of old. The woods here have a dangerous and unforgiving sort of beauty, and our winters are long and bitter. We live in a delicate balance with the land. Even in our modern society, it happens with an alarming frequency that people wander off into the backwoods and are never seen again until some hiker finds their bones years later. The beauty of the world here will capture your heart, but it's never something you can take lightly.

The winters are awful long, though, and it's easy to get a bit of cabin fever. Of course, buried deep within winter you'll always find the promise of spring, but spring is a dangerous time of year, a season of quickening. I've never understood how people can view it like one of those Hallmark pastels of new life bursting forth. There is that, of course, but birth is also messy and hurts like hell. Come springtime, I used to like to burn old and bitter Morena, as winter and death personified, in effigy. Some cultures drown her, instead, but either way: Away! Away! Let those fearsome flames chase all that darkness away.

So, as winter comes... springtime is on my mind. I wonder if mine is coming soon? Will this season of darkness ever end? Will I ever get my life back again? It's been a long time, you know.

Except, I know very well that the answers to questions like that are not exactly comforting. Christ never promised us any happy endings, at least not here on earth. It's not unreasonable to expect that this season of despair will not end during my life.

A bitter pill, that. The house I came home to was dark and quiet - my mother afraid to make a peep lest my stepfather hear her talking to me. Nevertheless, he came out of the master bedroom shortly before I went to sleep to scream at her about how useless and pathetic I am. A violent situation that devolved into threats and thrown furniture. It wasn't exactly the most pleasant welcome home ever.

And me, well... the despair is a comforting friend, and I routinely find myself praying, or at least hoping, for a way out of this life. I want to go home. I have worked so hard, for so many years, to get free of all these horrors, and I have no real reason to believe things that will ever get better, and it's amazing how much these circumstances have worn me down. I know that God never sends us trials without also providing the grace to overcome them... but I just don't know how I can possibly keep living like this any longer. I'm so tired.

Except, I remember what it was like when I was younger... so depressed and so self-destructive. I walked though life in shades of gray, so sure I was like one of the walking dead. When I became a Catholic, I prayed regularly for help in feeling again. To remember what it's like to really cry. I remember, now. I understand what it means to feel. To live. Slowly, over the past several years, I have been awakening, and growing in my understanding. It hurts more than I could ever have imagined, and sometimes that's too much to bear. It can be so overwhelming.

In that pain, though, I'm reminded of just what a long winter it's been for me, and just what it means to be brought to life. It's no secret that I've felt as though things are changing, as though I'm deep in my own time of quickening. Could be, that things are about to change, and before long, my circumstances will finally improve.

Could be, I finally have a reason to hope.

It's hard, though.

And I have no reason to do anything but hope.

And I'm still so tired. I want so badly to be free of this desolation, and to be with the people I love, and who love me in return. May God grant me the humility to accept the crosses he has sent my way, because I don't know how I can survive this, otherwise.

Frustration

I had a bit of an issue making it to Mass today. Before I came here, I made sure to look up the location and Mass times for the parish nearest to my friend's apartment. When we got to the church today, though, the discrepancies between the times on their sign and the times on the website left me rather confused. There was a Mass in progress, and no signs of anyone waiting to go in for the next one. I ended up spending the next hours waiting in a coffee shop until it was time for the next Mass advertised on the sign - except, I ended up finding the same situation: a Mass in progress, and no signs of anyone waiting. Frustrating, that. I nearly gave up and just headed back to my friend's place.

This time, though, I waited around until people started leaving, and asked someone what was going on with the times. When I finally made it to one of the Masses, I was a little stressed and found myself in a hyper critical mood, wondering what else would go wrong. Try as I might, I couldn't find anything to complain about, though, and slowly I began to get caught up in the liturgy. The church was pretty, the community prayerful and the priests both passionate and orthodox. The homily contained an intense presentation of our faith that shook me to my core, and, of course, more important than any other detail - I was able once again to receive Christ in the Eucharist. Really, it was the sort of thing I've missed terribly since having to move to my small northern town.

In a sad sort of way, I’m almost disappointed about that. It ended up being a beautiful experience, but that also carried with it a disappointing reminds that things will be back to normal soon enough. I would give anything to be able to get out of this mess, move away from that little town, and get my life back, but my circumstances haven't changed. I'm still trapped... this respite is only temporary. But then, the grass is always greener on the other side, isn't it? There are plenty of things to love about what I have back home, and they are things that I nearly missed when I first came back to the faith. I was just so caught up in viewing my world through a lens of disappointment, just as I nearly missed out on a powerful experience today because of my frustration.

I've really got to stop doing that, and instead learn to be more thankful for what I already have.

Extraordinary Love

"The past few months have been like one long fever dream. Once again, I find myself trembling under the force of His desire, as, with the Psalmist, I desperately whisper, "my soul faints with longing for Your salvation."

And it does. Oh, does it ever - it's all I can do not to fly back into His arms."

I do not know when I wrote that, exactly, except that it was at some point early on in my wanderings away from the faith. Neither do I know why I wrote it, although I can imagine.

You sometimes hear people discuss the reasons people walk away from the faith. It usually seems to come down to something or another to do with clinging to a favourite sin, or, at least very poor catechesis. As though everyone who forsakes Catholicism is so callous, as though it's so easy. Well, it was for me, I guess, but I still found such talk terribly alienating. I wanted to believe again so badly. My heart ached with grief for the loss of my faith. I just couldn't find it in myself to believe, and when I could, the fear was overwhelming.

Perhaps because of that, I did a funny thing when I walked away. Over the years, I had accumulated so many bits of religious paraphernalia... and all of it was still standing, from the paintings on my wall, to sacramentals like the palm cross nestled behind the crucifix on my wall and the "Zhirovistkaya" icon of the Theotokos on my bedside table. They were so lovely, and I figured they would be harmless. Or did I?  When I first became Catholic, I did not count many practicing Catholics among my friends. Now, excepting those I have met in the online community, I no longer really know any. So, over the years, I've used many things to "trick" myself into keeping my mind on eternal things when my natural inclinations tend to work quite differently.

It worked, I guess, because it made for a poor strategy when it came to going apostate. Each night, I would drift off to sleep gazing into the Blessed Virgin's sweet and sad dark brown eyes, and it felt as thought she was near weeping at my choices. I would watch her point toward her Son, as though she was reminding me of the one I once loved, inviting me to leap into her arms and embrace Him again with all my might. Each night, she stood there quietly, patiently waiting for me to come back home.

The second time I walked away, I took all those things and packed them up in boxes. I didn't have the heart to get rid of them completely, but they found their new home deep in the back of the attic. These pious reminders weren't exactly helping my quest to move on. My new approach was rather more effective.

At least it was until, deep in tragedy, I once again started to hear that invitation home.

I was so frightened, and wondered if I could ever come home again, and prayed so fervently for some help.

This next is still a little fresh, and I'm not sure I can explain it properly. I'm not sure I want to.

One night, though, I woke up and felt myself gathered up in rapture, my soul ripped open and flooded with the purest, sweetest, most potent peace. In that moment, I knew that I was Loved, and that it was the Blessed Virgin showing me. That she had never stopped waiting for me to return to her Son. I don't know how long it lasted until I passed out sobbing, whispering my thanks over and over again.

I still don't know what happened, or why, but I remain in awe at the countless graces I have been given. The icon is on my bedside table yet again, and I thank Our Lady every night for her help in bringing me back... but I pray that I'll never again need another of these powerful reminders. My little ones will do.... I'm home now, and I mean to stay.

Quick Update

I just wanted to write a brief explanation of why things have been a little quiet here, and likely will continue to be for a little while. Of course, things have been a little crazy since my mother and step-father returned from their trip this past Sunday, and the normal drama of living here has resumed.

Perhaps more importantly, though, I've been a little distracted by getting some travel arrangements sorted out. For some time now, I have been hoping and tentatively planning to visit an old friend of mine this month, and things have finally fallen in place. Barring something drastic happening in the next few days, I'll be taking the train down to Toronto this coming Friday, and I'll be returning on the 23rd.

I anticipate having some posts up between now and then (and, indeed, if all else fails I'll almost certainly schedule a few), of course - but I also plan on having a great deal of fun. It's not exactly a retreat, but a little vacation from here and some time spent with a close friend is just as good at this point in my life. It will be the first time I'll have been away from this place for more than a few hours in over a year. I'm very excited!

Deo gratias!

Adoration

"Adoration, ah! That is a word from Heaven! It seems to me it can be defined as the ecstasy of love. It is love overcome by the beauty, the strength, the immense grandeur of the Object loved, and it 'falls down in a kind of faint' in an utterly profound silence, that silence of which David spoke when he exclaimed: "Silence is Your praise!" Yes, this is the most beautiful praise since it is sung eternally in the bosom of the tranquil Trinity; and it is also the 'last effort of the soul that overflows and can say no more."
-Bl. Elizabeth of the Trinity, Last Retreat