The other day, Jesus did not give me what I wanted, so I bowed my head and said (like such a spoiled brat), “Jesus, I’m still going to love you. But sometimes love really is a choice.” I looked up and saw a crucifix on the wall that seemed to say, “I know.”
It’s funny that love is that way. You don’t really realize how hard love is until you feel the pain that accompanies that choosing. The Cross is pure love, an offering of love to us who couldn’t know how to love, unless He loved us first.
Change of subject. Advent is upon us (week 2 now), and I have been thinking lots about Mama Mary. Imagine her in these last few weeks before the baby Jesus was to show his face to the world. Imagine the anticipation she must have felt at meeting him for the first time and seeing his precious eyes meet hers. Mother Mary, give us this anticipation! I want to be just as pumped for Christmas. Who needs mistletoe when Love himself is here? Wow, sorry; that was cheesy. But you get the point. Anyway, it was my dad who first inspired my love for Mary. And for the record, men who love Mary are just cool. In the same way men are cooler when they own 2 or 3 flannel shirts, men who love Mary are so beautiful to me. How can you not love someone who adores her? She carried Christ within her, and has become beautiful because of it. Still she calls herself the Lord’s “handmaiden,” sharing Christ with the world and teaching us how to share Him with others.
Happy Advent
Vitamins will probably never go out of style. Unfortunately for this ad, the majority of women spending their Monday-Friday cooking, cleaning, and dusting went out of style a long time ago.
Maybe I’m getting old (that’s a weird thought), but the more I live, the more I want to live simply, and look for God in everything I do. To see the beautiful things I used to walk past. To talk to strangers like they’re friends. To eat food that’s never seen a lab. To share what I have, knowing it was never really mine, but always God’s. To know that my Father in heaven will take care of everything, and he forgets when he forgives. Then to watch the sun sink and sparkle over the Puget Sound and think, “it really can’t get better than this.”
Someone told me in a letter that things will get darker, as long as our life is taking up the cross, that the life I’m living isn’t an imitation of a great story, but the very thing the storybooks attempted to be. And so here I am, awake enough to know I’m still pretty unconscious, but unconscious enough to fall asleep in the arms of the Father, who takes care of everything I can’t change.
A hotel with huge empty rooms is filled with tables, chairs, drape, signs, a stage with lights, and all the things that make up a FOCUS conference. Then come in the 1000 college students, the religious sisters, brothers, and priests, and Catholic organizations who set up their booths. The speakers speak, the listeners listen, the priests say mass, the and the people come. The people confess and God forgives. The adorers adore, and He adores back. Then 1000 college students load into buses and go home.

