Interrupting Life

Here is my latest Horizons column for the Global Sisters Report:

______________________

There is a hole in my resume.

In fact, as of July, there is a two-year gap.  You see, in the summer of 2012, I left my job as the assistant director of a community center run by an intercity parish in Philadelphia, and I haven’t been employed since. 

Well actually, that’s a bit of a lie. It’s true that in the last two years, I haven’t held a paying job, but I would argue that in that time, I have most certainly been employed. My work? You might ask . . . Novitiate.

The work of novitiate is that of soul searching.  It requires digging deep, meeting yourself and God head on, facing your true self, learning about what religious life is, nurturing a deeper prayer life, learning to live intentionally and with constant discernment, and prayerfully considering if the call to live in this way with a specific congregation in their manner of being is right for you. Suffice it to say, you don’t get weekends off.

Technically speaking, novitiate is a two-year period of time in which a novice is initiated into a religious congregation. As the novice deepens her prayer life and understanding of religious life through lived experience, she discerns her call to religious life in this context, just as the congregation of which she has become a part discerns her suitability for life as a vowed member. Twelve months of this two-year period is qualified under canon law and called the canonical novitiate. The whole of the two-year novitiate serves to allow a novice to actively learn about the heritage and spirit of a congregation, while also coming to understand the call to simple vows and life in the church as lived in community by women religious today.

For all its structure and specificity, though, each novitiate is different, just as each person is unique and every congregation varies. The work of life contained in those two years can’t be standardized. It is a time set apart, a time to engage in integration, growth, and discovery. You bring with you everything you have.  That is to say, divested of most of your personal belongings, you bring to novitiate all that you are – yourself and your life – in all its beauty and its brokenness. 

Leaving behind life as you know it, you enter into this time and sit at the feet of your experiences – at the feet of Jesus – to learn. The story of your life lies before you, the story of salvation deep within you. The work is in identifying the grace that longs to be discovered, the hardship of reconciling life experiences, and the process of growing in relationship with God, as you face the transition and transformation of novitiate together. It is work that takes time and energy. In the midst of the good, the bad and the ugly, lessons are learned. With openness and honesty, the novice faces herself, who she truly is and who she is called to be, attentively listening to God’s will in the process. As personal as this process is, she doesn’t do it alone.  These years and the growth that accompany them are lived in the midst of community, shared with trusted mentors and formation directors, and united with God through constant, prayerful self-disclosure.

Every sister will tell you something different about her experience of novitiate, and yet they will all agree on one thing: it is a time to be cherished.

That sentiment echoed in my ears when I first became a novice. This time is special; appreciate it and savor it, every sister I talked to or who wrote me seemed to say. Truly, I hope that in the last two years I have. This is a time like no other. I didn’t need a cavalcade of sisters to tell me this, but having them remind me over and over again surely didn’t hurt.

To have the time to study, grow, deepen and discern has been a blessing.  All of this has been done through prayer. It is intensive prayer. It is a prayer that is partially taught and partially grasped through living. Ultimately, it is a form of prayer that is surrendered to. It pervades every moment of your day. You must surrender to the whims of this prayer; it goes at its own pace and works in all different ways. It also requires you to stand open and powerless before God, in the midst of all else, to deepen a relationship that is, and becomes ever more, second to none.

To that end, novitiate is a time not to do, but to be.  That takes a lot of adjusting. It means cutting down communication, sacrificing your plans and immersing yourself in the process. Each moment holds opportunity to be in union with God, whether you're a novice or not; God is constantly working in each and every one of our lives. Our ability to notice and actively engage in this work is what is called discernment. Novitiate simply creates the opportunity to develop the ability to recognize the moment you are in right now, to find God and listen, to consecrate not only yourself and your relationship with God but the very time in which you exist.

And in so doing, novitiate bears lessons that will last a lifetime. In creating a time and space where you can discover yourself and your relationship with God in a new context, novitiate interrupts life as you know it. And, if you’re truly engaged, it assures that you’ll emerge forever changed. This transformation doesn’t end after two years – it sets you on a path of lifelong discovery. 

Rather than taking two years, novitiate requires giving two years of your life. That investment is a process that interrupts your life – so that you might be able to start living in an uninterrupted manner wherever you go and however you are called to serve. Such time away is hard to quantify on paper, but it is irreplaceable in experience and grounding. It is a blessing, a gifted way to begin a religious life.

As I near the end of my novitiate, I still must face the hole in my resume. It is a space I never will be able to fully describe or fill. No matter the words or descriptions I give to it, I know that moving forward my novitiate will always stand in stark contrast to all I have done and all I will do. It is a defining moment. It is the time I came to define myself as sister, the time I learned that interruption is just another space for grace, and the time I will forever carry with me – whether it’s on my resume or not.

An Unexpected Call

On occasion friends and acquaintances have told me I have a natural voice for radio. I took this as a nod to my love of NPR and the way that the dial in my car always seems to end up on WNYC or WHYY as I travel, to and from New York City and Philadelphia respectively.

In my book, it's a compliment. And even if you don't think it is, it's far better than being told you have a good face for radio.  But, I digress.

Yesterday, I got the opportunity to put my voice to the test as a guest on the show On Point produced by WBUR, Boston's NPR affiliate.  The hour-long interview entitled "American Women, American Nuns" featured three young women at various stages of formation (myself included) and looked at the why and how of entering religious life today.  It was a good conversation running the gambit of topics from how the people in your life reacted to your choosing religious life to what it means to be entering an institution that is shrinking at an ever-increasing pace.

These types of conversations aren't always the easiest, but they are important.  They speak to the truth that I find in this life, the reasons why I feel called to live a religious life through the distinct commitment to a religious congregation and vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience, and they allow the conversation about call and the future of religious life to expand beyond the convent walls, where it can find new energy, new understanding, and we can seek out new and creative answers to how we- as a church and as religious women- are being called into the future.

To be honest, it was privilege for me to be a part of this conversation (see my love of NPR & religious life).  As I approach the end of my two year novitiate and hope to make first vows with the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Philadelphia this summer, this conversation also gave me a chance to put words on the call that I feel to religious life and the journey that has gotten me to this point.  

Regular readers of Wandering in Wonder know parts of this story and have joined me in reflecting on this journey as I've recorded my own wonderings and wanderings on these pages for the last four year of my life.  From my very beginnings as a long term volunteer with the sisters and the idea of what it means to consecrate time as a novice to the process of love and loss as you experience them in a new way as a sister and poetry about being set on fire and a deep call that becomes you, I have strived to provide a glimpse into what this life means for me and how wonder is all around us, calling us to be and become who we truly are.

As I sat in the sound studio yesterday in downtown Philadelphia, I was reminded of the unexpected ways God can speak to us. If you skip to the 38:30 mark of the interview above you’ll see what I’m talking about.  There are lots of preparations you can make for an interview. You can sit with your story and you can imagine what questions might come your way, but there is something you can’t ever fully prepare for about live calls.  In my case, this meant a connection to my past that I never could have imagined… an unexpected call that reminded me of those earliest days of discerning my call: high school youth group. 

It was during high school that my relationship with God became something more than what I had always been taught.  The God who I'd read stories about my whole life became real; a being that cared deeply for me, offered me love without condition, and called me to share that love with other.  In the midst of high school relationships, overnight retreats, and service projects, my faith became my own. I fell in love with God and a call to religious life was planted firmly (although discreetly) in my heart.

Hearing Jeff from Brighton’s voice brought me right back to that first unexpected call. I couldn't help but let that call- the call that resonates from deep within me- ring out for a little bit.

I didn't always know I wanted to be a sister.  In all actuality, even once I felt called, I tried to dismiss the idea as naive and misguided.  It was an unexpected call, inconvenient and yet utterly intrinsic; no matter how much I tried to deny it, that call returned over and over. Each time I felt it, I came up with some excuse as to why I couldn't answer quite yet. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. A spiritual mentor gave it to me straight- you have to take a step toward exploring this life before you can dismiss it. 

If this call was as crazy as I thought it was, I could take a step toward it and it would dissipate. So, I took a step. Now, six years (and many steps) later I find myself on the verge of making a preliminary vowed commitment, answering the call to love God and neighbor without distinction that I feel deep within me.    

The journey since that first step hasn't always been smooth. Lots of days I still think that parts of this call are a little crazy. So, why not give it up? Because I've come to realize that Love makes you do crazy things and that each one of us has a little something crazy in us; it's part of what makes us stand in awe of Mystery, what draws us into relationship with others, and what blesses us with grace when we open ourselves to the wonder, small and large, of the world around us. 

That is the call God places in each one of our hearts. The way we respond is in how we live our lives- with intention, with compassion, and with authenticity.  The results of such a response can be just as unexpected as the call. They can lead us to places we never imagined, to a life alive with possibility, and to a love of God that sustains and serves.

As John Donvan reflected at the end of our time together, "There may not be many of you [sisters], or not as many as there used to be, but there certainly are many ways to be you." That certainly is the truth. Each one of us is a sister in the way she is meant to be. We all are in the business of living the truth of our call, coming to understand that sometimes it is the unexpected calls that give us the opportunity to discover the One on the other end of the line. 

Held Lightly

There is one word that pervades my vocabulary in recent days and weeks; it has become a catch-all for many things. It gives me comfort when everything else seems to make no sense and at the same time, it lies at the root of the discomfort I feel as it seems that everything is going wrong. It is the number one reply I give to people when they ask how I am doing and it is the thing that I most often forget when my head is spinning or I can't seem to figure out why my emotions or my being feel so out of place.  (I also guarantee, that it is the reason why I haven't updated the blog in recent weeks.)  What word could cause such a wide range of emotions? Such consternation? Such comfort and such confusion?

The answer is simple: Transition.

That is the state of life I find myself in these days. Two weeks ago, I plunged back into life in Philadelphia after nine months in Chicago and, to be honest, my head is spinning.  Not only do I find myself making the transition back into the life I have been away from- slowly making an effort to reconnect with friends near and far, taking the time to be with my family, and gently easing into connections with my sisters who want to hear about the experiences I have had- I also find myself trying to process the end of an experience that took me out of my comfort zone and put me in relationship with three other Sister of Saint Joseph novices in a communal novitiate program for the last year.

And as if that transition wasn't enough, I return to a landscape that is more different than I left it. First off, upon moving back East, I moved in with a new community (a convent new-to-me and sisters I did not necessarily know before two weeks ago).  I knew this was going to happen, but it doesn't make the transition any easier.  At Christmas, I packed up my things from the novitiate house I spent my first year of novitiate in into boxes, unsure of where those boxes were headed. Now, five months later those boxes and myself have landed in northeast Philly and are trying to find our place in the world.

In addition to a new living situation, I also return to a Congregation deeply immersed in the process of Chapter (see: the process by which we set our course as Sisters of Saint Joseph of Philadelphia for the next five years.) That alone is enough to make a new member's head spin, but on top of it, as the congregation sets its course, I am also in the process of setting my own course within the congregation.  In the last two weeks that has meant writing a letter requesting to make vows in this congregation and beginning the process of searching out and discerning full-time ministry options for after I (hopefully, God-willing) make my first vows.  In the weeks ahead this course setting will mean continuing that ministry search, meeting with our congregational president prior to being presented for vows, and the process of seeing if I will be approved to make first vows.

With all of that, I think it's honest enough to say I am in the full swing of transition.  The impact of such change ebbs and flows. Some days, I am absolutely sure I am and will be fine. Other days, I have my doubts.  And sometimes, those two types of days are one-in-the-same. Really, it depends on when you catch me and what exactly I'm pondering at that moment.

All in all, though, I have to say I am doing alright. My big accomplishment in the first week home was being able to locate where I had placed all my clothes in the drawers of my new dresser. Beyond that, many things seemed too monumental to be tackled.  The future looms large.  Yet despite the pressure (real or imagined) that transition can manifest within me, I am reminded of something I shared with my community in Chicago before we parted ways.

As the prospect of heading home loomed large, we all reflected on the lessons we had learned during our time together and the movements we felt called to as we moved forward.  The question at the heart of our discussion one night: What has the last nine months brought to birth in you? 

Sitting with that question, I knew there were many valid answers I could give. Many lessons had been learned; I had been stretched and grown and felt the call to continue that growth as I prepared to leave.  But as I opened my mouth and my heart to share, what came was the simple lesson of being held lightly.

Looking back on all that had taken place in my time in Chicago, I could clearly see that my time growing in community and growing in relationship with God had called me to hold things lightly...including myself.

I brought a lot of things with me to Chicago- ideas, presumptions, expectations, and the like.  The invitation that I received wasn't to  forget these things and/or let them go, but to hold them in such a way that they didn't get in the way of my growth.  I needed to know what I believed or wanted or desires or felt short changed by, but more importantly, I needed to be able to hold those things lightly enough that I could understand why I felt that way about them...why I believed or desired something... what lay behind those desires or disappointments... ultimately, who I am and how I am. To do that you can't just let go of things, you need to hold them. You need to look closely at them and at yourself. And you need to do all of that in the loving comfort and care of God.

As I shared this with the group, I recognized all the year had called me to hold lightly. I came to see how in time, after holding something, I would be invited to change it for the better and to grow in that process of change. It wasn't easy. But transition (the root of transformation, really) rarely is.

And as I shared this with the group, I realized that the invitation to move toward the future was right before me- as much as I must hold the lessons, experiences, ideas, and emotions I have had/ am having lightly, I must also allow my God to hold me lightly.

This isn't easy. It means not taking yourself too seriously and living in a manner that is vulnerable and humble enough to surrender to what you are being called to.

In transition, when all you really want is control, being held lightly removes the safety net of control and replaces it with one that is far less tangible and comforting. It is one that I am reminded of when I feel like I am falling. Then I remember that I need to be gentle with myself... I need to embrace the little accomplishments in my days... that I am held by the one who won't let me fall too far. The One who has led me thus far and who has held me lightly even as I have fought the Divine grip. This is the God who holds me lightly in love and gives me a firm foundation. And in doing so, creates the space and lets me live so that I might grow in the space I am transitioning into.

On the Horizon...

The last few months have been thick with the work of novitiate. Now, I find myself nearing the end of my time in Chicago and headed back to Philadelphia in less than a month.  The time has flown.  It feels like just yesterday, I was returning from winter break and the day before yesterday, I was arriving in the Windy City for eight months of intensive study with three novices from congregations of Sisters of Saint Joseph from around the country.  This time has been blessed. It has given me perspective I didn't have before, has added to this two year process of discernment I am quickly coming to the end of, and has taught me object lessons that have affirmed the path I am on.

The last few months have also been marked by the dawning of new opportunities on the horizon. As I approach the possibility of making first vows in August, I am currently looking for and discerning ministry options. (If you want to know more about this... or have any leads, e-mail me.)  And still, my deep love of and passion for writing continues to make its way to the surface.  Back when I started this blog, I was a young woman who was leaving her job in New York City to pursue a year of service with a group of sisters in Philadelphia.  When I did that, I told myself and those around me that 1) for me, relationship was key, 2) story was/is the gateway into relationship, and 3) that being a writer meant that if I had a pen I could write anywhere and still pursue the deep call I felt to serve.

In the last four years, those points have rung true over and over again.  Staying true to myself and who I am called to be has led me to where I am today.  And, I believe, it is what will leads me forward as I pursue this call and discover where my gifts and passions meet the world's deep needs.  To this end, I have two pieces of news (and publication) I'd like to share with you all:

1) I'll have a piece in the May 2, 2014 issue of Commonweal entitled "Living Witness."  The article, a Last Word feature that I wrote during the first few months of my novitiate, tells the story of when I first came to visit Philadelphia as an inquirer, my fears and hesitations, and what the future of religious life is calling forth from me and us as women religious. 

2)  I'll be taking part in an exciting new project from the National Catholic Reporter.  Earlier this year, I was asked to become a columnist for the Global Sisters Report (GSR). The GSR is a project funded by a grant from the Conrad Hilton Foundation that will work over the next three years to disseminate news and information about Catholic sisters and seek to foster the voices of women religious through "commentary from their perspective."  To this end, I will be writing on a monthly basis as a part of the Horizons column, offering my voice in union with other younger sisters.  The GSR website launched this week and my debut column, entitled "Party of One", will be the inaugural voice of Horizons.

Happy reading as you enjoy these wanderings in Commonweal and the Global Sisters Report! It is a blessing and a privilege for me to be able to share this journey with you all. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy having the opportunity to write and offer my thoughts.  

Easter blessings as we emerge from the darkness of Holy Week. May we face the light of new life with eyes and hearts open and overflowing, with hope and joy abundant, in all that we do and we are. Amen. Alleluia.

Holy Week: Receiving in the Darkness

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

Those words rang out like a discordant chime from the pew behind me tonight at Mass. They made me pause as I heard them. Their familiarity is ingrained in me and for a moment, as I continued to say the words of the new Missal that I have been taught over the last two years, they made me consider that perhaps I was saying the wrong thing.  Of course, I wasn't, but hearing words spoken so confidently, from a sort of spiritual muscle memory, made my ears and heart perk up.

For the clash of liturgical norms that they stirred up within me, these words seem to fit at the beginning of this Holy Week.  Maybe, as this week begins, that's exactly what I need to be saying. Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I will be healed.  

I stand at the threshold of this the holiest of weeks on the Christian calendar and I know that Jesus is coming. I watch as he mounts a donkey and parades into Jerusalem. Entering triumphantly on the back of an utterly ordinary creature, Christ comes into this final week of life inviting us into the extraordinary mystery of his life, death, and resurrection. His disciples may not have known it then, but we do now: this march triumphant and jubilant is also the beginning of the end. It is a procession toward the cross.

And so, as this week begins, I am struck by the way, even though the light of Easter is right around the corner, darkness rushes in.

As I watch Jesus ride past me into this week, I can only utter to myself... Lord, I am not worthy to receive you.   

I went to a late Mass tonight in celebration of Palm Sunday.  There is something intimate about the 8PM Mass I have found here in Chicago at Old St. Patrick's Church. The intricate Celtic designs of the church are somehow subdued by the night lighting; the crowds that fill the pews Sunday morning are slightly thinned, allowing for the feeling of being a part of a community of faith while also granting you a little space to yourself in the pew; and the beautiful stained glass windows normally illuminated in the daylight give way by nightfall to a lighting design that is cozy and calming, welcoming worshipers and inviting deep reflection.  And then, there is the music.  Let's just say it fits all that I've mentioned above- soft, reflective, enchanting, and serene- and so much more.

As Mass ended tonight, I could feel the darkness closing in. With a simple piano and violin accompaniment, we sang "Were You There." I had used John Angotti's version of the song for community prayer this afternoon, drawing off of Pope Francis' impromptu words today about entering into Holy Week and, in so doing, entering into the story of faith, the story of the Passion that we encounter these holy days.

We must ask "Who am I?" says Francis. Who am I in this story? What part do I play? and, most importantly, "Where is my heart?"

That is a question for all of us to ask.  As the words of the song rang out in the Church, something deeper came.  The song gave me goosebumps. I could feel the trembling within me, the "Oh" resonating from a depth created by pain, wisdom, experience, and grace, rooted in faith and self and yet beyond my very self all the same.

I closed my eyes as I sang and each time I opened my eyes, it was a little darker in the church... as if with each word the light was being drained from the sanctuary of Old St. Pat's.  By the end of the song, the light in the church was a dim glow. I felt depth within and the brief applause for the music ministry that broke the silence felt dreadfully out of place.

The darkness had come... the darkness of this holiest of weeks.

This is a time of reflection.  A time, the presiding priest reminded us, to listen for responses from God; to hear what God is trying to say to us at this very special, very sacred time.  Pope Francis' words echo is my ears, "Where is my heart?"  That question is a call. The call to be with Jesus this week, to be in the Passion- living, loved, forgiven, given, beloved.

There is much to be attentive to and so let us pray that we can be... attentive to God, to the deep call within, to the words that echo in our ears, and to the presence that is crying out to us.  May we be open to receiving Christ these days, no matter how difficult that may be. To hear God's words, to know God's love, to feel and encounter our God, and to allow ourselves, in the midst of darkness, to move toward all that is offered to us by the Light.

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.

Amen.

Days Away

There are some days that are more difficult to be in Chicago than others. At first, I think I thought that those days would be major holidays like Thanksgiving or Easter. And while those days are hard, they're also the days that draw our novitiate group together as a community. You hear about what each person's family does for the holidays, what foods they cook, what traditions they hold dear, how they celebrate, and then you get the chance to do those things together.

Sometimes each person bring an aspect of their life back home to the table, other times we get the chance to make the holiday our own, in the way only a group of people who will be living together for a year can.  At Thanksgiving, it meant swapping recipes. At Easter, it'll mean joining in the Paschal Mystery in a way that draws us together free of "the way things always are" and free to create lasting memories by simply being together.  Yes, I miss my family and my congregation on these major holidays, but those days aren't the hardest.  Feast days are.

Yesterday as I celebrated St. Joseph's Day with the community here in Chicago, I gave thanks for where I am and the many blessings I have in my life. I spent time with Joseph in prayer, had dinner with our sisters in LaGrange, and enjoyed a lovely prayer service. But it wasn't the same as being home.  As we pulled up to the LaGrange Center of the Congregation of St. Joseph, I knew my sisters in Philadelphia were together celebrating Mass for this holy day. No doubt, there was music by our sisters, a reflection from one of our own, and time to meet and greet sisters from near and far.  For the last three years this is how I have spent my October 15th (Founders' Day) and March 19th.  Really, that is the only way I've ever celebrated those days.

Lot of days can be difficult but it's the days that I've only ever shared in community that are some of the hardest. They are the days you can't compromise; each one of us can't do what we do "back home" because of the simple fact that we're not at home. It's the people who help make the day; the Spirit that courses through the congregation; the being together as we are, doing what we do, that make these celebrations so great.

As I sat in the chapel at LaGrange yesterday, in the midst of beautiful music and a lovely prayer service, I knew something wasn't quite right.  My heart was in two places at once- present to my sisters here in Chicago, who I share my life with day in and day out, and in the hearts of the sisters I miss back home in Philadelphia.  Unfortunately, you can't be in two places at once. Yet, I know I'm where I'm supposed to be and in that, Joseph is with me.

This man, who left what he knew and what society said was right to do, found himself on a journey of love that led him to (and with) God. Joseph trusted God. He listened and followed.  As I reflected, I thought of the way Joseph is often pictured: holding Jesus.  This is what God led Joseph to...to God's very self.

Trust the One who has led you to here. Those words echoed in my ears as I prayed yesterday.

No matter the stress on the journey, we must trust. I trust that I am being led on this path by the One who holds me close in love. This is the God I am growing closer to and who is revealing more and more to me each day. Like Joseph, I am where I am meant to be and even though I may face days away I know that my heart is in the right place. A place where I can be at home even when I am away; a place that journeys with me in my heart, where I am held in the loving heart of God, asked only to trust and follow, forever at home no matter the distance.

Obedience

Sometimes prayers come out as poems.  As I make my way through my Federation Novitiate experience, I am finding that more and more poetry speaks to the deep movement within me. As a wise woman once told me, "Poetry's power is in capturing feelings. It is a mode of telling our self how we feel." And so, in this way, prayer and poetry fit perfectly together.  Poems become a mode of expressing emotion to God and discovering it anew for ourselves.  The following poems come from a two day class on the vow of obedience. May they speak to your heart & open you to the prayer already deep inside of you...

___________________

Stop.

Listen.

In the stillness

in the war torn shallows

of your heart

and hear.

Hear the whisper

that cries out

from the very cracks within

your bones,

“Be True.”

and the Truth will set you free.

Free to be bound up together

in our brokenness

to speak to the One who knows

all too well

and to learn, as if for the first time

that nothing

-not even ourselves-

can separate us from the Love of God.

___________________

Loving God, pause within me.

Long enough that I might see you there

and recognize your presence.

Pause if only for eternity and hold me still.

That I might be given to you,

All my desires,

            fears,

            faults,

            and blindness,

all that I am. Let me pause with you.

That I might be given to you

and as you move on,

I might follow you

to the ends of the Earth.