When you can't give... receive?

Have you ever received a gift and told the giver "you shouldn't have?"  Have you ever been embarrassed because you brought something to the potluck that looked terrible compared to everything else at the table? Have you ever shown up to an event underdressed and the host welcomed you in joyfully without even mentioning it?

I used to resent people with so much wealth that their generosity felt like a show.  It made my skin crawl.

"Ugh, look at them... do they really need to be giving away all that?  Such show-offs."

What the real issue was was I was comparing myself to those people and finding what I had to offer them was laughable.  I would never be able to give the kind of gifts they could.

Good Friday is lit with new meaning for me each year, but one meaning shines through, always: I have been given a gift that I could never repay. What I bring to the table is small and I am hopelessly underdressed for the occasion of life everlasting. Still, I am welcome because the Host of the party loves me unconditionally.

Knowing I can never match His gift, I am freed to sit back and enjoy love. Gratefulness radiates in me today... may it always.

The Divine and The Dummy

On our recent trip to Paris, I was most excited to visit the Chapel of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal.

Steeped in a history of love, charity, and true miracles, I have been reading about this place for years.  I've had such a special experience with the Miraculous Medal and been so touched and inspired by the story of St. Catherine Labouré that I made it a priority to visit this sacred location and see where St. Catherine's body is on display, peaceful and incorrupt.

Walking into the courtyard of the chapel, I silently prepared myself for an emotional experience that I'd get to share with my husband and son.

We entered the chapel just as the Eucharist was being received.  The line was short, but we hadn't been present for the entire Mass so I didn't think I should get in line to take communion.  We stood hesitantly on the sidelines for a bit, then decided to leave until Mass was over.  When we returned I made a beeline to the front of the chapel to an elevated glass coffin.  Here she was! Here was the woman that had played such a big part in the changing of my life!

For propriety's sake I'd sidled into a pew not-too-close to the front of the chapel.  As I gazed into the contents of the glass, I felt terribly underwhelmed.  I stared past the people taking pictures in front of the coffin and I couldn't help feeling that something was just not right.  Why did she look so fake?  Why didn't I sense anything special?  Why did I feel like just a dumb tourist looking for a photo opp?

I watched another line begin to form at the center of the chapel, probably people there to offer Mass intentions or prayer requests to the nuns in attendance.  I felt a desire to join the people and quickly dismissed it because I don't like being part of a fuss; part of a crowd.  Then I thought of my husband waiting for me at the back with my son, so, without uttering even a short prayer, I snapped a picture and hastily left.

The historic chapel was beautiful and I felt the satisfaction of checking a spiritual to-do off my list, still I was left with a feeling that something was missing.

It wasn't until the next evening, searching online for an answer to my disappointment, that I discovered my blunder: in my attempt to make my visit quick and not get in anyone's way I had snapped a picture of the only glass coffin I'd seen, the tomb of St. Louise.  In fact, the "person" inside wasn't a person at all, but a plaster representation of the saint housed below the glass.  My dear St. Catherine's body lay not 20 feet away at the other side of the chapel.

Had I gotten in line to receive the Eucharist I would have seen her.  Had I stayed in the chapel to see the end of the Mass I would have seen her.  Had I not avoided the crowd and simply gotten in line to see what the other people were fussing about I would have seen her.  Had I taken my time and not worried about what my husband and son were doing I would have seen her.

When I realized what a dummy I'd been, I cried.  I felt like such a fool for giving into impatience and missing the very thing I'd gone to see.

This is not the first time this has happened to me; not the first time I've pridefully given an unfamiliar situation a half-hearted effort and bowed out early.  This is, however, the first time I've felt so bitterly the disappointment of trying to be in control.

My husband assures me that we'll go back one day.  Until then, I'll be reflecting on my dumbness, my humanness, and learning to simply let go.

Best Friday, Ever.

The knowledge that today is Good Friday has barely affected my day.

Isn't that terrible?

It crossed my mind this morning when I woke up.  I was reminded, again, when I went to get a haircut and found the salon was closed.  Only after some half-hearted dinner plans were cancelled did I think, oh, well, that's good... we shouldn't really be having fun today.

As my day drew nearer to its end and I drew my son close to rock him to sleep, an awareness came over me: I'm not the first one in history to have embraced a precious son.

Throughout this day that has barely been affected by the knowledge that today is Good Friday, I have taken care of my baby.  I've fed him, clothed him, cleansed him, and even provided learning opportunities.  Halfway through our day, in a moment of preoccupation and fatigue, I abruptly left my infant to cry in his crib.  I regret that for a brief moment he felt quite alone.

God let his Son feel alone, once, too.  Only He wasn't busy cleaning, organizing, or resting his brain surfing the internet on his smartphone.  God let his Son feel alone because he knew one day I'd be doing all those things.  He knew I'd fall terribly short at showing my family how much I loved them.

Tonight, as I cradled my baby's warmth, I watched him stare into my face as he drifted off to sleep.  He was perfectly happy just to be with me.  He didn't remember the days business or how I'd left him to cry.  Because he loves me so much, he simply forgot.  I'd gotten another chance to love him right.

What do you start calling chances after you've blown through seconds, thirds, fourths, and beyond?

Love.