A World Without

Imagine, if you can, a world without church bells. No quiet evening strolls interrupted by the toll of the time. No deceased loved ones sent out of this earth with musical accompaniment. No noon song that draws out a hum as you go about your business.

Imagine a world without churches. No steeples dotting the mountainside, rising up out of the hills. No stained glass windows or mosaic archways or painted frescos. No grand feats of masonry and carpentry. No structure that brings our eyes and minds higher than our own achievements.

Imagine a world without gospel music. That would mean no soul, no blues, no country, no rock-n-roll, no R&B, no jazz. No Elvis Presley or Dolly Parton. No Otis Redding or Luke Bryan. No Beyonce.

Hope in History

"Hey! Can you come over here and tell us a story?" a man yelled to me from a small distance, waving his paper flags in the air. "We can't leave this area."

"Can't you come over to me when you are finished inside?" I replied.

"It will be raining then. Please," he begged.

Seeing as it was slow, and drizzly, and he had nine people with him, and he clearly very much wanted to hear a story, I walked over and obliged. "Just someone keep an eye on my things," I told them, and they assured me they would and cheered at my accommodation. I made some remark about the barrier between us, and he responded "we're always behind barriers these days," at which we all - the four adults in the group and I - shared a laugh and a "well played." They were a Latino family, you see. The joke was fitting, if a little too real.

Holy Leisure, Batman

4,056 miles. Thirteen gallons of gas between stops. A dozen donuts. Ten states. Six museums. Four Catholic masses. Three barbecue joints. Two beaches. Two state parks. One wedding. One Mississippi River. One broken windshield.

As we traversed the Mississippi Delta and the Atlantic coast, Cerise and I walked in the footsteps of the enslaved and the assassinated, of the Big O and the King; we sang to the tune of Yebba and Abba, to drumbeats and a tambourine; we skipped meals and skipped rocks; we wandered through parks; we smelled jasmine and magnolia and meats smoking on a fire; we skirted around roadkill and planned Cerise's death on a pyre. From the Tennessee mountains to bad margaritas in Mississippi, from the poboys and drunk boys of New Orleans to the pork rinds and early nights of Birmingham, from the sands of Florida to the Glass Doctors of Wilmington, from quiet Shenandoah nights to shouting at a T-ball game under the lights, from wishing love to the bride and bride-to-be to wishing we didn't have to go back home at all.

You Can't Spell Advice without Free Will

I like giving people advice. Sometimes, that means sharing places I enjoy with others; promoting businesses or museums or restaurants I care about. Because I work in tourism, I get to give this kind of advice quite often. I tell people where to get the best cheesesteak in Philadelphia; how to spend their day affordably; what streets to walk down. Sometimes, giving advice means helping loved ones make decisions, both little and big ones, such as how to phrase a conversation with someone they are experiencing tension or simply what clothes to wear on a date. So, too, I like to seek and receive advice. I just as often am given suggestions for what to do in a visitor's hometown as I give for what to do in Philly. I gladly welcome my friends' and family's assistance in solving life dilemmas. Just recently, three of my sainted friends guided me through a far-too-laborious crafting of a text message. Sure, I could have solved it on my own, but isn't there something good about advice? Isn't there something good about involving others, drawing them into one's intimate spaces, affirming the human need to be needed?

These are a Few of My Favorite People

This week, I intended to write a cultural analysis stemming from my overuse of the word "favorite." In the midst of Oxford definitions, grammatical terms, and millennial woes, however, I abruptly changed gears to free write - by hand - about five of my truly favorite things, well, people: my siblings. I was drawn in by all the simple and sweet photos and posts on my Instagram and Facebook feeds celebrating National Siblings Day, and I thought I'd join in on the fun, because not only did the wedding I attended this past Saturday show me I used the word "favorite" too liberally, but also that we don't have enough opportunities to tell the people we love why we love them - and to tell the world about that love, too. Long-form tributes are relegated to toasts at weddings and eulogies at funerals. Well, my siblings all got married quite some time ago, and I'm not waiting til they are dead to remind them just how much they mean to me.

4 - 3 - 2 - 1 Church

Holy Thursday: In the midst of a priest talking in a flurry of Spanish, I slid into an open pew towards the back of the church. Apparently the bulletin had been wrong: the mass started at 7:00, not 7:30. Flipping through the leaflet of translations I had been handed upon entering, I eventually deciphered we were in the midst of the Gospel. Back and forth we went, Spanish to English, English to Spanish, through songs, responses, prayers, and blessings, until at last we found ourselves on our knees with incense in the air and Latin on our tongues. Before the Blessed Sacrament, we finally rested in our common language: silence.

Spotlight on My Heart, the Church

"I can't go up there! You're girls!" Fr. Jon whisper-shouted up the stairs, as we giggled and rebuked him with amusement. "No, not that! We need you for something!" We were spies, you see. As our parents and other adults partied downstairs, we were allocated to the second and third floors, and we were getting a bit, well, antsy. We were curious what those grown-ups were talking about. We needed to infiltrate their lines, without being caught, without going down there ourselves. We needed an ally. Fr. Jon fit the bill. Eventually he gave in to our pleas and walked up the back stairs to greet us. We handed him a tape recorder and instructed him to discreetly place it in the kitchen and press play. Not a word to another soul, we told him. He obeyed, or so we thought. Later, when we retrieved the tape, the most amusing thing we heard - in fact, the only thing I remember - was him telling one friend's mother, "it's for the girls." "And Justin!" we squealed, as we rolled over in laughter. So it turned out our chosen ally wasn't the most nonchalant after all; but that did not deter us from harassing him again and again.

This memory spun through my mind this past Sunday evening as I watched the movie Spotlight, the Academy Award winning Best Picture film about the sex abuse scandals in the Archdiocese of Boston.

We Meet Again, My Feathered Friends

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two

These lines of poetry, by Emily Dickinson, have accompanied me on my city strolls this past week. Mornings are greeted by light chirping; afternoons are swelled with twitterpated wrens and sparrows and thrushes. They are brave little birds, facing the nor'easters of March with long songs and rapid calls that hearken the coming of spring. The snow and incessant cold will not muddle their voices. While their chirpity chirps and sweet sweet sweets and tweeps demand one to look forward to the new seasons of warmth with anticipation, they also arouse a certain nostalgia, for the warm days and beautiful birds of the past.

This is the Sound of Clarity

Sometimes the voice of God is so simple.

I have spent so much time thinking and worrying about vocation, whether I am called to the religious life. I have spent endless moments in front of the monstrance wondering if the contemplative life is the life for me; if sitting, and pondering, and living in the mystery of spiritual bridehood is enough. Just this morning, I stared at the priest's vestments, asking myself, could clothes like that be meant for me, too? The call to be a contemplative has weighed on me greatly, which many would say is already a bad sign. God does not communicate through weight and anxiety, they say, but through peace. Yeah yeah yeah, but then why do I keep thinking about it? What am I missing? How do I hear him? When is the message clear? Where is peace? That same priest this morning spoke about hearing and responding to the voice of God, and I thought to myself, have I ever heard that voice? Would I recognize it if I heard it? After months and months of back and forth, and misinterpreted messages, I felt that I wouldn't. But then, just a few hours later, I did.

The Treat You Can't Deny Yo Self

The first time someone told me to "treat yo self," I was studying abroad. A new friend and I were out somewhere, doing something and she looked at me and quoted that delightful episode of Parks and Recreation. Understandably, it became the tagline for the semester - leagues better than YOLO, which was absolutely also used quite a bit. There we were, in London for three months of our lives, an experience we would never have again. What better time and place to treat yo'self?

The phrase didn't stop with London, even though it took me three more years to watch Parks and Rec and not just quote it like the poser I am. Now, in Philadelphia, I use it probably too often. There's always a new bar or restaurant to try, or new exhibit to see. There's often a long day of work, a bad school group, a night out with friends, or visitors in town to use as an excuse. I work several different jobs. I balance a very complicated calendar. Sometimes my brain gets tired. Sometimes I need a treat.

Reflections on the Road: Two Birds, One Super Bowl

I drove over 225 miles round trip Super Bowl weekend to visit friends in Baltimore. I-95, I-695, York Road, MLK Jr Highway, I-395, and city streets in between; through neighborhoods like Rosebank, Federal Hill, Inner Harbor, and Mount Vernon. I drove by M&T Bank Stadium twice, unintentionally, misdirected by my co-pilot. At night, well-lit and deserted, the stadium is particularly impressive.

Just twenty-four hours later, I was home in Philadelphia watching a football game happening in a different stadium. By the end of the night, I had officially changed from a Ravens fan to an Eagles fan. While I don't pay attention to football - I've never even attended a game - I've hosted playoffs and Super Bowl parties; I've worn purple and claimed Baltimore pride. Yet, not until this Super Bowl, rooting for the Eagles on the road to victory, have I felt stressed about football, or even really, truly enjoyed watching football. I felt invested, which surprised me. For the first time, I felt more like a Philadelphian than a Marylander, and that scared me.

Live a Life More Ordinary

Oh, Ordinary Time! My favorite liturgical season, full of memories, truly the most wonderful time of the year!

Said no one ever.

While we count down to Christmas, fast through Lent, proclaim Alleluia, He is risen! for fifty days of Easter, we often pass through Ordinary Time without care, without notice, losing track of what week we are even in. (We're in week four, by the way.) Ordinary Time does not celebrate big, shiny, theologically profound, earth-shattering events. No incarnation. No death on a cross. No resurrection. While the United States Conference of Catholic Bishops defines Ordinary Time with great enthusiasm, as the time of conversion... time for growth and maturation, a time in which the mystery of Christ is called to penetrate ever more deeply into history until all things are finally caught up in Christ, the title applied to this season doesn't quite translate that excitement and profundity. However, the problem is not that the Church picked the wrong word, but that we have distorted its meaning.

Wake Up and Smell Your Arm Skin

Well friends, I did my homework this week. I paid attention and noticed things about myself. Do I love myself more now? I'm not sure, but I can honestly say I haven't quoted The Crown in the mirror once, which I think is a good start. I even threw in one extra observation. Since I was the one assigning the homework, I thought I should go the extra mile. You're welcome. So without further ado - cue bubble baths, Enya, and all that other self-care kind of stuff -

Things I Noticed about Myself:

Permission to Notice

I have spent more time in front of the bathroom mirror quoting and imitating movies and television shows than I should publicly admit. I can do Mr. Knightley's confession of love from the Gwyneth Paltrow version of Emma by heart. I've mastered pouring water from a pitcher in just the same way Galadriel does in The Fellowship of the Ring. I can do a masterful rendition of Jack Black lambasting "the man" in School of Rock. 
My latest imitation obsession? Claire Foy in The Crown. 

Reflections on the Road: Maryland, My Maryland

I drove over 375 miles over the course of my Christmas celebrations, from Philadelphia to Longwood Gardens then to Columbia, Frederick, and Hagerstown, MD, and back again to Philadelphia. I-95, I-476, US-1, I-70, Rt. 40, I-695, and local streets in between. I sat in traffic; almost missed one stop sign; cleared my car of snow and ice; struggled to stay awake in the face of the afternoon sun. I saw headlights and taillights and the Susquehanna River, but my favorite sight of all? My Maryland mountains.

Every time I drive between Frederick and Hagerstown on I-70 or I-40, I feel a swell of pride and joy as I look at the ridges and valleys dotted with homes and silos. I am from the most beautiful place in the world, I think to myself, but I did not always feel this way. Oh no, I clearly recall childhood conversations with friends about how lame our hometown was, how we couldn't wait to live anywhere but Western Maryland. Sometimes, one has to travel very far to realize the value of what is near, and sometimes, one just has to look very closely. I did both.

Numbered: 2017

Ah, the New Year, when so many lists are being made. Lists of resolutions, lists of intentions, lists of foods not to be touched, lists of what was great about the previous year. If your Instagram feed was anything like mine, the last few weeks featured many "Best Nine" photo collages. If your Instagram feed was really anything like mine, most of those revolved around engagements and weddings. 2017 was a big year for all of my mid-twenties friends, and I have been blessed to share in some of their joy.

2017 was my favorite of recent years. It was the first year since college I truly felt like myself, felt valuable and valued, had work I loved, and made serious steps towards some personal goals. Yet, despite having such positive feelings, until this moment I couldn't compel myself to make a Best Nine collage. No, it didn't have anything to do with a lack of a diamond. It maybe had something to do with a lack of time; if I'm being hopeful, with too much of a focus on Advent (hm, maybe a stretch). Regardless, today I found myself four days into 2018, and I, a lover of lists, had yet to participate in putting my year into nine tight bullet points. So I did it; I made my Instagram account public for one hot minute to produce the collage you see here. These were wonderful memories of my past year, but 2017 was so much more than nine filtered and cropped images that received the most likes. It was a year of concepts and feelings and moments and more. Why should I limit myself to summarizing my year into the box Instagram designed for me? No, I choose words over pictures and popularity. So, in addition to these pictured moments, here we go, some Best Nines of 2017: