It used to bother me that my statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary—which is quite lovely for being made of plastic—has part of the mantle chipped off on one side of her head.
It never bothered me as a child when my mom first gave me the statue to grace my little altar on my nightstand. At least I have no recollection of it bothering me then. It was only in more recent years that I found that imperfection annoying and considered finding a better statue. Perhaps if money had been in greater abundance I would have done so; or perhaps it was more for sentimental reasons that I never sought another. Either way, I kept the statue.
Then I ended up with a crucifix with Christ's left hand broken off. I think the idea was that I might find a way to fix the fingers.
I never did.
Instead, the conjunction of the two broken religious items turned my mind reflecting upon my own brokenness. Facing my imperfections has also left me frustrated. Somehow I have an expectation that I must be perfect.
Scripture doesn't exactly help in that regard: "Be you therefore perfect, as also your heavenly Father is perfect." (Matthew 5:48)
Yet there lies the problem with translation. If we read the text in Greek we would understand from the word τέλειος (teleios) the sort of perfection that means essentially achieving its proper end. Therefore we are called not to lack brokenness (as we wish we could; at least I do and something tells me you shan't mind my including you in that statement), but rather through it to achieve the end for which we have been created: to know, love, and serve God in this life and be happy with Him in the next to use the words of the Baltimore Catechism.
So the two broken items remain as a constant reminder to me of that fact. Both still serve their purpose of reminding me of Christ's death and of our Lady present there at the foot of the Cross.
Were their imperfections gone they could not do more to achieve that purpose. Yet because of their brokenness they have given me a deeper reflection on the nature of reality and through this profound insight drawn me deeper into the mystery of God's love and providence in the most ordinary of circumstances.
Nearly a third of my life ago it was. My mind orbits much around the singular event of that epic pilgrimage and therefore you, my dear readers, must bear with me as I indulge myself once more in reflection upon it.
Ten years ago today I set out with my companion, my heart uplifted in joy of abandoning everything to God's Providence. I felt in that moment that I was free—that I was who I had been created to be.
The feelings did not last long. They never do.
Today it is gratitude that fills me: gratitude to my past self for having the courage to undertake something so crazy as a three-hundred-odd-mile pilgrimage relying entirely on God to provide; gratitude to my friend for being crazy enough to go with me; and gratitude to God not only for bringing us through the joys and trials and loneliness of it, but for teaching me so much through it. Now I have gratitude even for those darker moments.
It is gratitude that has begun to unpack the rich gifts of that experience—gifts that continue to unfold in my daily life without my even realizing it. That is how it seems to be with those defining experiences of our lives no matter how great or how trivial they may appear.
How strange is the wandering course which we mortals follow. Somehow a steady routine of tutoring, studying psychology, and handling the minutiae of daily life seems as far as possible from what I imagined for my path as I stepped forth on the first few miles of that pilgrimage. I was young and dreamed of adventure and daring deeds in witness to the Faith as we journeyed. I expected that God would do amazing things if we gave ourselves up to be entirely at His disposal. Perhaps these thoughts were not fully conscious, but still I thought that marvel after marvel would unfold.
There were certainly marvels here and there. Mainly, however, there was the steady routine of walking, reciting the rosary to keep our spirits up amidst the tiredness and discouragement and inner assaults against our hope. Perhaps it was not so very different from my life now after all. Perhaps it was not so very different from your own path.
For we are all pilgrims. Day by day we walk, moment by moment we step forward, following the narrow path toward the Eternal City.
It is very much an inner pilgrimage—a pilgrimage of heart and mind and soul. The marvels are not the miracles we expect, but rather those poignant moments when we crave our own security and our own comfort and want to shut out a God who demands we give up everything and follow Him, and yet we choose to invite Him in to our suffering. Our deeds of daring are enacted in the quiet corners of our hearts. Hope flames up a little brighter each time we abandon everything to the God who holds everything in existence. Joy ignites every time we listen to His still small voice within.
Coraggio, dear pilgrim, courage!
It always leaves me a little miffed when I find some reference to the little way of Saint Therese that suggests that she left us this easy way that we can all become saints. My response is somewhat similar to the writing in many modern spiritual books meant to be relatable that sound to me rather flippant.
In my opinion, these things cheapen the reality. They seem fake.
I was reflecting upon this matter yesterday as we celebrated Saint Therese's feast day. Despite my reaction to those who would uphold her as a model—and consequently despite my reaction to the saint herself—she has consistently been working her way into my friendship. In one way or another I keep bumping into her, one might say, as if she is trying to be my friend. Most recently it was through a novena called "Joy in Suffering" that drew me deeper.
My favorite story, though, in her reaching out to me involves my family's kitten, Bella. One day, Bella decided to play on my bookshelves and so she jumped up on top of the books and, as if intending to do so, kicked one out upon the floor. It turned out to be the letters between Saint Therese and Brother Maurice which gave me deeper insight into our dear saint's life.
Now, before I give the wrong impression, I am not arguing against Saint Therese's model of the little way for all of us. We are certainly called to follow her in sanctifying each moment of our lives.
My quarrel is with those who try to pawn off this path as easy. "Stuff and nonsense!" I say to anyone who would try to propose that. It is not in the least easy. It would be far easier to allow oneself to be martyred in one fell swoop than to constantly choose what one does not want for the sake of God. Even simply accepting with joy all the suffering that is our lot in this life can often prove quite the contrary to easy.
(Of course if any of you reading my words here truly believe it is easy, then by all means tell me your secret.)
Yet we are not called to the easy life. Despite what our modern society (and our own concupiscence) would have us believe, we are called to the battle and not to lie at ease in our homes and stuff ourselves with comforts. We are called to become warriors, to don our spiritual armor and fight for our Captain who leads us to the Cross.
That is the path that Saint Therese followed. We can look to her not just as an inspiring example, but also as a friend who can aid us in the fight, for she has promised to help us:
"I will spend my heaven by doing good on earth.”
Our guardian angels also shall aid us, day by day, in the battle, for they can see far more clearly than we ever could.
