Easter Unexpected

All week I told everyone how excited I was to go home for Easter. I had been abroad for Easter last year and I will be abroad for Easter next year, so I wanted to absorb as much “Home Easter” as possible because I didn’t know when I’d celebrate it with my family again. I was excited for all our favorite traditions- going up north for Good Friday, going to the Easter Vigil at St. Philomena’s, my beloved home parish, brunch on Easter Sunday morning, and then a huge dinner with our extended family on Sunday night. So it made it all the worse when I got home and found out that Easter was going to be a little different this year.

Due to the snow up north, my mom explained to me, we would be staying home on Good Friday. She added that we wouldn’t be celebrating the Easter Vigil at our home parish either. She was the sponsor for a man who would soon receive the sacraments of Baptism and Confirmation, which meant we would attend the Easter Vigil at St. Charles, a different church in Detroit. “Ugh,” I mock complained (though I’m not going to lie there was definitely a note of truth there), “Why did I even come home?”

While missing Friday was disappointing, it provided me with a chance to catch up with friends and spend time with my family, which were all good things. But missing the Easter Vigil at St. Philomena’s was killing me. I’m obsessed with my home parish. It is full of the nicest people you’ve ever met. It is a very laid back place that accepts everyone and makes each member feel like family. It’s led by Father Pete, a 97 year old priest with the biggest heart in the world. I wanted to celebrate mass in the parish that feels as close to “home” to me as my own house.

So naturally, being the amazing model Catholic I am, I grumbled about missing St. Philomena’s Easter Vigil the entire way to St. Charles. My mom tried to explain the extraordinary story of conversion that had taken place for the man she was sponsoring. He had attended the Capuchin Soup Kitchen for years, becoming friends with the religious that served there, but only now had experience the love of Christ and felt called to fully enter the church. But I wasn’t letting myself be moved. I wasn’t allowing myself to open up to enjoying this mass. I was determined to have a terrible time.

That was until the choir began to sing. There was a gospel choir that made me weak in the knees at the very first note. They made me want to both sing along, but also sit and savor the experience. It was honestly so incredible. There was also a group of dancers that performed with the readings. Obviously, I was so excited about this and I loved the way they made the readings richer.

The most beautiful part of the mass was the sacrament of Baptism. It was done outside, in the streets of Detroit, in 35 degree weather. The baptisms were done full immersion style in what my family lovingly dubbed “the holy hot tub.” As each candidate immerged from the water, the congregation erupted in“Alleluia!” It was as if the whole church was rejoicing for them. I felt a swell of victory and joy as each new member joined our church.

I would eventually learn more about St. Charles. About how my grandmother lived across the street, how my great grandparents were wed there, and how my grandmother’s graduation picture hung in the basement. It was a place that had felt like home for my family long before I arrived there. But it was through the joyous hearts of the congregation that I began to feel like it was a home as well.

The next morning we went to brunch as usual, searched for our Easter baskets, and went to our family Easter party. The rest of our traditions fell into place as if nothing had been different at all. I’m still missing St. Philomena’s, but I know it will be there each week when I visit. But the beauty of conversion and community I saw at St. Charles was unique and lively in it’s own vibrant way and I feel lucky to have witnessed it.

Irish Blessings

It is ironic, but perhaps fitting that after my last blog I would find myself waitlisted for nearly every program in which I applied. I could tell you more about that. About letter after letter that said things like, “You are a strong applicant, but we haven’t found a placement for you.” About sitting on the bench overlooking the lake crying to my mom on the phone, wondering out loud, “Does anyone believe I will be a good educator?” I could tell you about restless nights crying, wondering where and what God was calling me to do. I could write an honest and painful blog about the heartbreaking frustration of discerning my future.

But writing that blog would shortchange the opportunity to tell you how joyful I am to discover  exactly what God is calling me to do. How jubilant I am to be moving to Ireland next year to teach religion and help with music ministry at a parish in Wexford in a Notre Dame program called House of Brigid. So instead of writing about my heartbreak, I am going to write about how and why I feel so overwhelmingly called to say yes to this next chapter in my life

I remember the night I first began thinking about applying for the House of Brigid program. I had been interning in Dublin over the summer. I was standing in the apartments that were typically used for House of Brigid and I started thinking about it. Teaching catechism and singing in choir were two of my favorite things to do. And I obviously loved being in Ireland. All of a sudden I could see myself here. “What if I applied to House of Brigid?” I thought out loud to a friend standing beside me. “That’d be perfect for you! You should do it,”  she replied.

Looking back there were even more whispers that the House of Brigid was something I was called to do. During Fall semester, I found myself becoming a stress-monster. Every bit of schoolwork overwhelmed me. While I was applying to mostly graduate teaching programs and I couldn’t wait to start teaching, a lot of me worried whether I had the stamina for the demands of graduate work. In the meantime, I couldn’t stop thinking about going back to Europe. My semester and summer abroad had been the best time of my life and I just wanted to slip back into it. I hated trying not to be “that study abroad returnee,” when I felt so transformed, so enthusiastic about the experiences I had while in Europe. I can see now that these thoughts were prayers. They were me asking God to help me find a place where I could find peace from stress, from my restlessness to travel. And it was the beginning of God shaping the perfect solution for me.

I remember sitting outside the interview room for House of Brigid, praying once more. “This program is all about ministry, so I hope you lead people to it who are truly supposed to be there. I’m not sure if this is for me, but if it is, I’m open to it,” I prayed. And then, a half hour later, I left my interview without the same dazzling confidence I felt in the others. I pushed the program from my mind, deciding that I hadn’t done well enough. I wouldn’t get it. So then, weeks later, when I got an e-mail telling me  I was an alternate for the program, I pushed the thought even farther away- contenting myself to enter graduate school and teach.

But God works in mysterious and profound ways. During Spring Break I found out that a spot had opened up for me in the program. I had four days to make a decision. You’d think it would be easy. After all, it was everything I wanted: a chance to return to Europe, an opportunity to share my faith, more experience teaching, and a chance to find peace from my stressful academic schedule. But that weekend I was travelling to Baltimore for another interview for a graduate teaching program. I was struggling to be open to both positions. My heart was calling me to Ireland. But my head was begging me to be practical and start teaching, get a master’s degree right away.

“Give me a sign,” I asked God before Mass while in Baltimore, nearly crying from the stress of discerning. Moments later, I opened my hymnal to a page at random. Irish Blessing it read.

“Okay, God,” I thought, “that’s actually pretty good. But give me more.”  I then began to receive calls and e-mails from people involved with House of Brigid, all with more and more information that helped me see myself there, helped me see that I could be a valuable addition to the program.

I was nearly ready to give in, but a tiny bit of my head clung to the practical. After all, doing a graduate teaching program after graduating had been my plan for so long. I wondered if maybe I should ignore my heart, ignore this strong call and do what was practical. Then I didn’t get the job in Baltimore and I knew more than ever that I was being called to say yes to House of Brigid. I could reapply to teaching programs in a year, but I could follow this call right now.

So I said yes. Since that moment I have only found myself getting more and more excited to go to Ireland, more joyful to have figured out where God was calling me. This isn’t the path I planned for myself, but it is the path God has planned for me. And I cannot wait to see where this path leads.

Waiting

By the time I write my next blog, I will have the answer to the question that has been haunting me since I first put down my deposit at Notre Dame: what comes next? But for now, I am waiting. I am so, so sick of waiting. Sometimes I feel like I have been waiting forever, carrying this burden of not knowing for so long that I might burst. It often feels like my life is a never-ending routine of waiting.

I remember being thirteen and going downtown to audition for the Nutcracker. I remember sitting in the green room crying. I remember thinking, “Maybe they’ve made a mistake.” I was certain they would run into the green room or call my mom’s cell phone and say, “Yes, her, we made a mistake but we really want her.” There was no call. I wasn’t wanted.

Two years later, I sat in my mom’s car, heartbroken once again for not making the advanced dance chorus in the school’s musical. She convinced me to go back in and ask if there had been a mistake. The director sat down with me and we talked about it. He too was concerned that there had been a mistake and told me he’d contact the choreographer. For two days I waited until he gave me that call that I wanted. There had been a mistake. My waiting had been worth it.

Years flashed by and I was a senior in high school waitlisted at Notre Dame. Months were spent in limbo, not knowing where I was going to college, not knowing if my dreams were going to come true. I spent my time hoping and praying for a chance at my dream college. When my acceptance finally arrived, I had nothing but joy at the new adventure awaiting me.

Then, another two years later, I was on another waiting list, waiting to hear once again if I was good enough to study abroad in Paris. I was frustrated and heartbroken that I felt like I was constantly forced to prove myself, prove to the world that I cared enough about my dreams to make them happen. Couldn’t I possibly be enough? And of course, eventually someone believed I must be and took me off the list.

I am exhausted from the emotional weight of not knowing my future. I am anxious about the possibilities that await- the heartbreak of rejection, the profound joy of acceptance, but mostly the stomach churning uncertainty of another waitlist. Because that is the truth- I am absolutely terrified of being waitlisted again. I am terrified of being a constant second choice, of never being good enough. It is this thought that keeps me up late at night. Haven’t I been waiting long enough?

If I’ve learned anything in college, and in particular through these experiences, it is to learn to accept uncertainty. There is only so much we can do to control our future. It’s easy to make goals and chase dreams, but they all take place on God’s timeline, written in God’s pen. But knowing and believing it is one thing, living it is another. Despite all the thinking I’ve done on the subject, I still resent this period of waiting, dreading the e-mails that will decide my fate. “Sometimes I feel like I am doing all this waiting just to be rejected,” I admitted to my mom on the phone recently. I am still struggling with how to reconcile my strong desire to dream big with the heartache of being rejected. Because I don’t know if I am ready (will I ever be?) to go through the pain of rejection, but I am miserable waiting for it.

One thing I know for sure is that I don’t have all the answers. (The rest has been lost due to the blog deleting itself and me being terrible at saving things)