The Compassion of a Pope

I love this photo so much. As with all photos, this one contains a story. Back in 1981, on the feast of Our Lady of Fatima, a man tried to assassinate the late Pope John Paul II. Thankfully, he failed in his attempt and was arrested.

Not long after being released from the hospital, Blessed JP2 (as he is now affectionately known) visited his would-be killer in prison. That moment is captured in this photo - a moment of forgiveness and compassion. The Holy Father was in no way obligated to visit the man, a Turk named Mehmet Ali Agca. And yet, as the Vicar of Christ, he chose to demonstrate Christ's love for this man by forgiving him. The Italian President later pardoned Agca at the Pope's request. What an impact that must have made on Agca's life! Rather than serve his life-long prison sentence, he was forgiven, pardoned, and set free.

I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately. Sometimes it seems relatively easy to forgive others, but other times grudges persist and drag on for years and years. And then a tragedy (like the recent shooting in Connecticut) occurs, and we think to ourselves, "Now THAT'S something impossible to forgive."

Though I have never lost a love one due to such a terrible occurrence, I have experienced my share of grief in this life. Perhaps losing a little sister to cancer gives me a small bit of understanding regarding Sandy Hook's grieving parents, but I'm clueless to the anger, the regret, and the other emotion they may be feeling. Perhaps it is insensitive of me, in the wake of this tragedy, to speak about forgiveness. And yet, Pope Benedict has already suggested this very thing. After offering his condolences and assurances of prayer, the Holy Father prayed that "'God sustain the entire community with spiritual strength which triumphs over violence by the power of forgiveness, hope and reconciling love.' "(http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/world/2012/12/16/pope-connecticut-school-shooting/1772725/)

"Forgiveness, hope, and reconciling love." These are the things that will change the world, that will heal our broken hearts of all affected by violence, hatred, and attacks from the Evil One. May Our Lord be especially close to those grieving this holiday season. In this final week of Advent, may we together anticipate the Prince of Peace!

The Hobbit: "LET IT BEGIN (SOON)!!!!!!!!"

My excitement level, especially now that I've finished all of my finals, has recently manifested itself something like this:

or perhaps this:

Actually, this may be more accurate:

That is all. I'll write more about my reaction to the film... and the theater workers' reactions to me next week! Viva el Hobbit <3

Mother Mary: Immaculate Conception or Harlot?

Reason #497 that I love my Catholic university: the homilies are (almost) always awesome!!!!! 

Last week, at one of the daily Masses I heard an amazing homily in which the friar mentioned the Immaculate Conception. He was preaching on the fact that so many young Catholics at my university worry so much about “looking” holy than actually being holy. “Some people who look holy are not, but some people who don’t look holy are,” was his tag line. A very poignant example of his theme was that of Mother Mary.  He described a paradox: as an unwed mother in the ancient Near East, Mary was viewed as a harlot when she was actually the Immaculate Conception!

A HARLOT?! Our Lady placed on the same level as a woman who sold her body, a woman who was an outcast in society, a woman who was a disgrace? For a cradle Catholic who was taught from an early age that the Blessed Virgin as the holiest of all woman, this took me a while to process. Of course, I knew the consequences of her Fiat were serious... but A HARLOT?! That's pretty strong language. I suppose, like many other dogmas and teachings in our Faith, our childhood catechesis needs updating from time to time. It's a very thought-provoking paradox, isn't it? Mary, the greatest woman who ever lived, was misunderstood to a very great degree for her faith. On this most holy feast day and solemnity of the Immaculate Conception - when we celebrate her preservation from sin at the moment of conception in St. Anne's womb - let us consider this: 

When we feel like outcasts, abandoned by the world because we are misunderstood, let us look to Our Lady and ask for a small amount of her great faith and trust in the mercy of God. 

P.S. This is a clip from "The Nativity Story." Though I don’t completely agree with the theology of this film adaptation, I really appreciate St. Joseph’s portrayal in this scene:

Fairy Rings: Memories From My Childhood

I remember the first time we found a fairy ring in our woods. My siblings and I, being the children of a farmer, knew better than to tramp through the back fields on our own. There were no restrictions, however, to the pinewoods that crept up alongside our gravel driveway and curled around the calf hutches near the field nearest our neighbors. We would often go exploring, as if the sparse tree cover was enough to create a Narnia in our minds. Near the old crabapple tree we discovered it; the lop-sided circle of mushrooms carved into the pine needles was a novelty for everyone. According to our mother, a fairy circle is a special place where the little people come to dance in the middle of the night. When no one was looking, I knelt within the ring and prayed a secret prayer, hoping that it was real. 

Though I would never admit it openly to my younger brothers and sisters, I believed that our small scrap of pines was far wilder than it let on. Having roamed the countryside since we could toddle, we were quite aware of the common wildlife that called our woods “home.” One had only to wander through with open ears to know that it was alive. Birds called to each other in a chorus of voices. My favorite was the cardinal’s “what-cheer, what-cheer, what-cheer, wheet, wheet, wheet,” or the chickadee’s “chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” Squirrels chattered and scolded each other in the patchy sunlight, occasionally kamikaze-jumping  to the opposite tree, causing branches to snap and creak under their weight.

One of my favorite pastimes, besides exploring the woods, was tree climbing. My father once instructed us on the best kinds of trees to climb; low-lying pine limbs were preferable to the slim branches of the maples.  I loved to scramble up a tree’s sappy branches to reach a bird’s nest, though I learned from an early age that mother birds do not appreciate children stealing their eggs. Perhaps their beady eyes had spied the same broken eggshells that I found near the firewood pile, thinking that I was culprit. What use had I for birds’ eggs? The fairy folk were guilty in my mind.

There was one particular summer that I crafted houses for my secret friends. Prickly branches and twigs along with damp, musty-smelling bark were molded into huts, leaning against the aging oaks on the edge of our woods. Pine-scented needles, soft and green all year long, were made into bedding, while acorns became cups and soup bowls. A bright blue jay’s tail feather served as a flag. My brothers and sisters never believed me that the crude structures were fairy homes.  I’m not even sure if the fairies ever appreciated my hard work because I never saw them. I knew that they were there, though. Fairy rings are a sure sign of them. 

I Normally Don't Do Things Like This.

I normally don't do things like this.

I normally don't write a blog post - or anything for that matter - about controversial topics, such as abortion or war or the death penalty. I don't like conflict, and, even though I feel very strongly about such topics, I normally don't care to post those feelings on the internet. However, with the presidential elections are approaching, now is hardly a normal time.

I am a young woman who, despite Obama's claims, does not support what he calls "women's health services." I am a college student who aches over the injustice her generation has already endured due to Planned Parenthood and other similar organizations. I am a Catholic who believes that abortion is immoral and prays that one day Roe v. Wade may be reversed. This is who I am, and I am not ashamed to say what I think, albeit prudently and at appropriate times. Now, I think, is one of those times.

Thanks to Mrs. Fischer and her blog from "The National Catholic Register" I came across a stirring blog post by a fellow pro-lifer (http://www.jillstanek.com). It touched me very deeply, which is why I have chosen to go against normal procedure and share it with you. Please know that I do this with the upmost sensitivity. It is very difficult to read, but I feel that sometimes we need to experience pain in order to be more open to the truth. May God grant peace to all those broken and scarred by abortion.

Here's a tragic story of a mother who went through the induced labor abortion procedure, and her baby survived for a time. This dear mother didn't understand what had happened until years later, when reading my testimony. She has given me permission to share her story...

In 1995 I was told just before my 6-month mark that my son had multi-cystic dysplastic kidneys. They said it was a terminal disease and that I needed to abort. I refused, and they said I could die if I didn't abort. I still refused, and I finally agreed to give birth normally if they promised to try and save him. They said I had to hurry because it would be illegal in 5 more days because I'd be over the term limit.

They said they would, and I gave birth...but it was horrible. I was 20, didn't know much...they didn't tell me what to expect. I was alone in the room, and felt like I needed to use the bathroom. While I was in there, my water finally broke. They had drugged me up pretty well and dismissed my concerns about what it would do to the baby....

I screamed for the nurse, but it took them 15 minutes or so to come in. They delivered my son while I was on the toilet. They asked if I wanted to hold him or if I wanted them to help him, but they said either way he was going to die so I better hold him while I could. He died 45 minutes later.

I found out 2 years later, during genetic screening for my second son's pregnancy, that Hunter did NOT have the condition in both kidneys like they said. Had I carried him to term, he'd have lived and had a very good chance of a normal life.

During Obama's campaign, I came across the speech he gave on medical care for the unborn, and through that, your testimony. I read it all, and suddenly it hit me that I had done that. That was exactly my experience. Had I not held my son, he'd have been thrown in a room to die alone. The knowledge that I had had an "abortion," even though I didn't want one, didn't know that's what I was doing, and NEVER would have agreed...it almost killed me. I'm still having a hard time with it.

You make a difference with your work. It gave me a knowledge I wish I didn't have about my own experience...but ultimately I hope my son can forgive me for what I did. I never would have agreed if I'd have known. I thought I was doing the right thing...they said he was suffering and would die unless I gave birth so they could help him.

Arnold Palmer Women's and Children's Hospital in Orlando,FL, is where it happened. I was "high risk," and I was sent there by my regular doctor because of the condition my son had. My doctor had told me they were "the best" at dealing with situations like mine, and because I had excellent insurance they said cost would be no problem.

They did use all the words you mention in your testimony--that's what made me realize what had really happened. I wanted to make funeral arrangements for the baby in case he did die, and they said it was unnecessary. I made such a fuss that they finally agreed and brought in a chaplain to talk to me. I was so drugged up that I was giggling between contractions. If I remember right, the drug they gave me was Stadol --that sounds about right. So many things about it are fuzzy for me, but I remember images and sounds, and split second moments that are burned into my brain like a laser.

Hunter Michael was almost 12 inches long and 1.5 pounds. His eyes weren't open, and he never made any crying sounds at all. He made a few gasping sounds toward the end...I thought I was a loving mother who chose to hold her child and say goodbye because he was going to heaven. The knowledge that the whole time I was holding him he was dying a slow, torturous death is something I will never, ever forgive myself for.

They took pics of him and gave them to me. The funeral director and I were the only people at his funeral. He is buried in Kissimmee, FL, with a flat little plaque because I could not afford a headstone. I barely scraped up the $300 for the burial - in a cheap casket that looked more like a box you'd bury your dog in. It was all I could afford, and I could not bear the thought of them "disposing" of my son as they kept offering to do.

I went back once after I got out of the hospital and built a little Legocastle that I left on his grave with a letter saying goodbye. I don't even know if his grave is still there, or if the plaque still sits there. I want to go back, but I'm afraid to know. I can't stand the thought that his little body has been there alone all this time - and even though my family knows what happened, no one mentions his name. No one talks about it. It's like I'm the only person who cares or knows that he ever lived. I want him to be remembered - but I am so ashamed of what happened that I keep his memory close and private.

My second son is 11 now. He just started violin lessons, and he is a bright, happy, beautiful little boy with blue eyes that are turning green, who loves his mama and his dog with all his heart. As I watch him grow, I cannot go a day without wondering what Hunter would've looked like, or what he would be doing had I not killed him.

His birthday is September 6th, and last year was the first year I could function on his birthday without sobbing all day. I went to the beach and released a balloon for him. It helped a bit to try and let go of it, but I know in my heart that it is a pain that I will carry with me for life. My only saving graces are the knowledge that Christ died for that sin too - and that my son was spared a life of possible disability, pain and suffering by our gracious Lord. He is happier than I could have ever hoped for him right now, and that fact is what has kept me on this earth during the darkest of times.

If you think my story could help in some way, feel free to use it as long as my name is not in it. The life of a baby isn't the only thing abortion destroys. I know. But please...even if you do not use my name...use his. He deserves to have someone know his name.

Hobbit Day, Saints, and A New Adventure!

Martin Freeman as Bilbo Baggins in "The Hobbit: An Unexpected Adventure"

hobbit |ˈhäbit|nouna member of an imaginary race similar to humans, of small size and with hairy feet, in stories by J. R. R. Tolkien.ORIGIN 1937: invented by Tolkien in his book The Hobbit, and said by him to mean[hole-dweller.]I identify very much with hobbits. Physically, I could be mistaken for one with my honey-brown, curly hair, round cheeks, bright eyes, and rather short stature. We enjoy many of the same pastimes, such as eating, gardening, having a pint of good ale, and smoking (actually, I don't smoke, but I do like the smell of pipes). We're both quiet folk who don't care to be pushed out of our comfort zones, who prefer the country to city life, and who like nothing more than to live simply without any uncomfortable adventures. And, just like Bilbo and Frodo Baggins, I often find myself in the midst of adventures without really planning on doing so. I thought of the two Misters Baggins yesterday, as it was not only their birthday but also the 75th anniversary of the publication of "The Hobbit." I thought of how these two memorable characters have brought joy and inspiration to many people, thanks to Professor Tolkien. I thought of my own current adventures and wondered if Frodo or Bilbo ever had conversations with God similar to my own:"God, I told you that I'd decided that I'm never going to do THAT. It would be too scary and uncomfortable. Why are you making me do THAT?!""My child, don't you trust Me?""....""Well?""Uh..., of course I trust You, God. But this is... really scary. It's not going the way that I wanted!"Yeah. Pretty pathetic, I know, but this has been my attitude about many things in my life. I'm reminded of the quote: "If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans." Well, that was the first mistake I made in the area of dating. As a precocious twelve-year-old, I gave God my list of qualities that I wanted in a future husband. As a naive high-schooler, I altered the list, planned out my future dating life and asked what was taking so long. Now, as a slightly disillusioned college student, I thank God that He has guarded my heart for so long and taken me on several other adventures prior to this one: just last weekend, I officially became a girlfriend...and I'm still freaking out! But God is good, nonetheless. He takes all of my "freaking out" in stride.I've pretty much decided that God uses reverse psychology. I tell him I'd rather not do something a certain way, and He marks it on His "To Do" list. Ok, perhaps that's a little snarky, but I'm pretty sure that St. Teresa of Ávila felt the same ways sometimes. She had quite a quirky relationship with the Creator of the Universe. One of my favorite stories of her tells of how she fell off her donkey, looked up to heaven, and said, "If this is the way that You treat Your friends, I'm not surprised that You don't have very many!" Dang, talk about gutsy! Or think of Padre Pio, whose feast we celebrate today: after begging God to take away the visible stigmata and allowing him to continue receiving the pain, God gives him even more supernatural gifts in addition to the stigmata! I could go on and on, not just with other saints, but with examples from my own life. My point, though,  is this: God likes to push us a little. Sometimes he only knocks on the door of our hearts, as Gandalf the Wizard knocked on the round, red door of Bilbo's hobbit-hole. Other times, he forcibly pushes us out onto the road, via circumstances, and before we know it, we're in the middle of an adventure. Why does God do this? Isn't it enough that we struggle with concupiscence, with human frailty, with fear? Why does He feel the need to ask us to do hard things? Because He wants us to be SAINTS! Teresa of Ávila, Padre Pio, Rose of Lima, Miguel Pro, Pope John Paul II, Gregory the Great, Angela of Foligno, Kateri Tekakwitha, Joseph the Worker, Clare and Francis of Assisi... the list goes on. Did these people suffer as we do? Yes. Did they struggle with their faith at times? Yes. Did they sometimes doubt that they would reach the end of their adventures intact? Yes. And yet, these people are all held up by the Church as examples of extreme holiness. God pushed them all a little bit (some more than others). He sent His Spirit to speak to their hearts, asking "are you willing to do My will?" And their replies were, "Yes, Lord." With God's grace, I hope that I may one day reach half their level of piety... but until then, I'll continue on my adventure of life and pray.P.S. In honor of yesterday's celebration of Hobbit Day (which I missed due to illness), I end with Bilbo's poem for your enjoyment:

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with weary feet,

Until it joins some larger way,

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

The Human Experience

I've been incredibly busy. Contrary to popular belief (or at least that of my mother), college students do not have endless hours of free time. Actually, we're lucky to have more than six for sleeping! Anyway, that is my reason for my delay in writing for quite a while; I've had a lot on my mind, a lot to write about, but I just haven't had the time to go with it. However, I just viewed a trailer that reminded me so much of the purpose of this blog that I decided to sacrifice some of my valuable sleeping time to make a small post. Hopefully, there will be more to come soon.

For those of you who speak English...

Una versión en español también: