I Am Blind but Still I See

Sometimes it’s the little miracles that bolster our faith and prepare us for the hard moments in life. In our mid-twenties, when my wife and I were discerning a call to move from Chicago to Eureka Springs, Arkansas with members of our Catholic Charismatic community, we decided to visit Eureka to see what kind of housing was available. Two of our community members hosted us and showed us around. After a week, excited about our future in this picturesque town, we started our return trip to Chicago to make final preparations for our move to the Ozark mountains. Twists & Turns A few hours into our trip, engine trouble forced us off the road. The service station had good news—it was not a major problem, and bad news—they couldn’t get the replacement part till the next day. We had to get a room at a nearby motel. The next day, with our car in good working order, we headed out a good bit lighter—money-wise that is. The motel room and the repair work used up most of our cash. We’d barely have enough for food, and since Nancy was pregnant, skipping a meal was not an option. I had no credit cards in those days. We were sailing down the road when we were stopped by a state trooper. He flagged us down, along with five other cars, for speeding. One car after another, we pulled to the side of the road awaiting our tickets. I knew nothing about how to pay an out of state ticket nor, more importantly, how to dispute the speeding charge. Very politely, the officer said, “You can go to the courthouse if you want. Get off at the next exit, follow the signs into town, and you’ll see the courthouse.” Reminiscence The year before, Nancy and I took a delayed honeymoon to the Italian town where I was born. On the way there, we stopped at Assisi to visit our favorite Saints, Francis and Clare. In the basilica of Santa Chiara (Clare’s Italian name) we saw her actual golden yellow hair preserved in a glass case. Nancy turned to me and said, “If we ever have a girl, I want to name her Chiara.” I heartily agreed and looked forward to the day Saint Clare would have a namesake in our family. As we neared the exit, knowing we couldn’t pay the traffic ticket, Nancy and I turned to Santa Chiara. “Dear Saint Clare,” we prayed, “help us get out of paying this ticket. Please help us.” Half-jokingly I added, “Saint Clare, we’ll definitely name our baby after you… even if it’s a boy!” Immediately, the sign pointing to the town came into view. We could not believe our eyes. The officer had not told us he was sending us to St. Clair, Missouri! Not till recently did I learn it was named for a Revolutionary War general. But our naïve eyes saw the “St” followed by “Clair” and Saint Clare filled our hearts. We did not notice the difference in spelling of what we assumed was our beloved Saint’s name. This town of 4,000 in the American Bible-belt, we thought, was named for the Saint of Assisi! Overjoyed, we were convinced we had chosen well in turning to our dear Chiara. Edging Off I rushed toward the courthouse hoping to beat the other drivers so I could plead to the judge for mercy, but immediately the others pulled into the parking lot alongside us. When the courthouse clerk asked how I wanted to pay my fine, I said I didn’t think I was speeding and asked if I could speak with the judge. Though surprised, she said I could and nodded to a man seated at a desk across the room. As he took a long black robe from a nearby hat-stand, the clerk motioned us toward the courtroom where the man I had just seen was already sitting behind the bench wearing judges’ robes. He called the first “speeder.” She insisted she had not been speeding and, to my delight, the judge was understanding, even agreeing that sometimes police officers make mistakes and innocent drivers get wrongly ticketed. I was much encouraged until he said, but he is the police officer and I must take his word. Your fine is seventy-five dollars. The second defendant tried the opposite tack; all sugar and kindness, she explained the good officer must have made a mistake. Again, the judge indulged, conceding that officers are not perfect and sometimes even the radar equipment fails. But again, he turned on a dime reminding us that the officer is the duly appointed officer of the law. Her fee was eighty-five dollars. I was next, and I started with a question. “Your honor, is it possible for me to be found not guilty here today.” “Oh no,” he said. “The clerk said you wanted to speak with the judge, so I’m happy to listen. But no, I can’t find you not guilty. We would need a jury trial for that.” My only choices, it turned out, were to plead guilty and pay my fine or plead not guilty and pay my fine. There was no leaving without paying the fine. If I wanted a trial, I would have to return to St. Clair. When Hopelessly Lost “My wife and I are moving to the area in September,” I told him. “I’m willing to return for a trial.” The look on his face told me I was making progress. But suddenly Nancy rose to her feet, protruded her pregnant tummy, and called out for all to hear, “Oh honey, don’t try to reason with him. He doesn’t care about us. He doesn’t care that our car broke down and we spent all our money on a motel room and repair costs. Don’t try to reason with him, he just wants our money.” Try as I did to hush her lament, she forged on. When I turned back toward the judge convinced hope was lost, he motioned to me to approach the bench. As I neared, he asked, “You’re planning to move to this area?” “Yes, your honor. We’ll be moving to Eureka Springs in September.” He reached under his robe into his pants pocket and pulled out a business card. Handing it to me he said, “The next time you drive past St. Clair, give me a call.” I stood there, uncertain what to do. He gestured for me to go. I still did not understand. He motioned again, more forcefully. Tentatively, Nancy and I slowly left the courtroom. As we approached the counter, the clerk asked, “What did the judge say?” “He told me the next time we drive through town I should call him.” She looked annoyed. “What’s your fee?” she asked. “He didn’t give me one,” I said. She looked as befuddled as I had been. “This has never happened before,” she said. “I don’t know what to do with your ticket.” She looked at us and said, “Ok, I guess you can go.” Nancy and I entered our car in disbelief, stunned by what had happened. But we knew who to thank. When we are young and less mature in faith, God often blesses us with small signs, like this, that strengthen our faith and ready us for the challenges life inevitably brings. Nancy and I received many small signs in those early days with the Lord. They persuaded us that God cares even about the smaller things in life—not just the cancers or heart attacks, not just the foreclosure or lost job. And God uses his faithful ones, the Saints, to be channels of his grace. As we grow in the Lord and our faith matures, we may see fewer signs because those early ones have built a foundation of solid faith that enables us to “walk by faith and not by sight (or signs)” (2 Corinthians 5:7). But on that day long ago, in a town we were sure bore her name, we prayed that Santa Chiara would help us. And we have no doubt she did. Five months later our daughter was born in the Eureka Springs, Arkansas hospital. She was christened Chiara Faith.

Little did I know that a simple family hike would help me decipher a life-changing strategy... Last year, my son wanted us to visit his college campus. Though I had seen the expansive university grounds and the mountains cradling them, his father and siblings had not. As restaurant owner/operators, scheduling the five-hour road trip and time away presented challenges, but I determined to make it happen. Since we could not manage more than a one-night retreat, I told my son to make the best use of our limited time. He chose a family hike. Will Over Ability I admit that at 49 I am more soft than firm. My regular exercise includes moving laundry bins, bending to pick up stray socks and forgotten books, and climbing the three sets of stairs in our house. When I planted my first step on the trail, I knew my will, not my ability, had to propel me forward. Quickly I fell to the rear as the others had greater stamina and lung capacity. A few yards into the ascent, my breathing became shallow and labored, and my calves stung from the contraction of my out-of-shape muscles. I realized I needed a strategy to complete the hike. I decided to let go of the big picture and focus on the details. Rather than concentrate on the three-mile trek, I would think about the next step. Often big-picture thinking makes me anxious, but attention to details tethers my mind to the present moment. I resolved to savor each observation and not stew in the what if's (what if my legs quit? what if I run out-of-steam? what if I can’t keep up?…). The Unseen World Soon, my mind became enraptured with the beauty of creation, I forgot the big picture altogether. I heard the gentle whistle of the wind and the rustling of leaves beneath the joyful chatter of my children. As I worked to keep pace and my lungs adapted to the exercise, a flush of warmth radiated across my skin. The soft green hue of plants still in bloom on the mountain floor caught my eye, as did the puzzles of bare, twisted vines in the fall canopy. My mind's eye opened to the unseen world above, below, and beside me. Stepping on the hard soil, I conjured images of insect armies marching nearby. I day-dreamed about the lives of the many creatures that inhabit our world: birds nesting in bare trees, rodents burrowing underground, and countless bugs climbing, flying, and marching. I thanked the all-good God for every single creature and every inch of the magnificent landscape he had placed me into that afternoon. Strategy Found At one point, I stopped to photograph a tree stump in order to remember that the now-decaying tree was part of God's plan for this mountain. In time, the stump will disappear, and its donation will be absorbed into the mountain itself. As I focused my camera on the dying tree, a rainbow streamed across the image. I remembered the covenant between God and humanity. I recalled that it continues today, and I thanked God for his faithfulness. My steps came easier when I wasn't counting. The journey became light when I laid down the yoke of what-ifs and invited Christ to walk alongside me. When temptation pushed in, I drew closer to Jesus. Rather than denying the challenge or becoming overwhelmed, I offered a prayer of surrender and entrusted my walk to his care. At the start of 2021, what I learned on that mountain hike is still unfolding. As the world spins into chaos anew, I am understanding the value of the present moment. While big picture thinking is important for mapping directions and establishing goals, it can rob us of the beauty, peace, and fellowship of the present moment. Freedom Awaits Had I focused on the length of the hike and my insufficient capabilities, I might have sat it out.  Instead, I discovered a treasury of beauty and blessing. Instead of obsessing over the big picture I am now focusing on the present moment. Snuggling on the couch with a loved one, reading a book aloud, pouring myself a mug of coffee and inhaling the aroma, or calling a friend and laughing together. I am becoming more attentive and finding more ways to put my love into action. My simple hike up a hill resulted in a new strategy for my life: being attentive to the present moment and expressing gratitude for the blessings in it. This strategy is making my journeys easier (whether hiking up a mountain, completing a daily task, carrying a heavy cross, or living through this unprecedented time in history). Living in the present has become the key to unlocking freedom, a freedom no one can suppress. Christ is in the present moment. Let’s look for Him there where we are sure to find Him.

How often do we run through the motions of life, unaware of who we are and what God is trying to convey to us? Saint Catherine urges us to become who God created us to be. As we become, we will set the world on fire. For many years, I had been going through the motions of life, just taking care of responsibilities. Then God intervened. An Ordinary Day I was putting on my tie, getting ready for work. It was an ordinary work day. I was a mortgage manager at a bank. I made a good enough living to provide for my wife and four young children. We lived in a comfortable home in a well-planned neighborhood. We belonged to a good church with a large community of friends. At first glance, life was good. Something happened on this particular day that I did not expect. While looking into the mirror, my eyes began to leak. Yes, that is right, this 6’4” 250-pound ex-football player began to cry. It was not the first time, nor would it be the last. This was not my normal daily routine while preparing to go to work. I was caught by surprise. The Heart Speaks Up at Odd Times My heart was trying to convey something that my mind was unable to comprehend. “What is going on?” I asked myself. “Why are tears flowing down my face at a time like this?” I did not have time for this, I had to get to work. So, like many previous days, I pushed these feelings aside and went to work. Lion in the Ocean? A few days later, Glenn, who worked for me, randomly offered: “Bart, you are like a lion in the ocean.” “What?” I questioned, “Lions don’t belong in the ocean!” Glenn shrugged his shoulders and quipped, “Yep,” then walked off. This stayed with me for days: “Lions don’t belong in the ocean!” Something deep within my heart was being stirred, but I did not know what it was. I offered up this quick prayer: “What are you saying to me, Lord?” Beginning of the End A few months later, the mortgage industry took a nose dive. Perhaps you may have heard about the financial crisis of 2008. In the early 2000s, the mortgage industry achieved its best years ever. Within about seven years, the industry was at its worst. Those happened to be the seven years I was in the industry. I was a firsthand witness to the industry’s best and worst years. Fortunately, I was not part of the problem, but I certainly was among those who were deeply impacted by its collapse. I hung on as long as I could, fighting to adequately provide for my young family, yet my dissatisfaction grew with each passing day. The grace that had carried me for the previous six and a half years had run out. I grew deeply discontent. I found myself longing to find a vocation that was more suited to my desires. Glenn’s words resonated deeply within my heart: I felt like a “lion in the ocean,” longing to find the “safari” for which my heart yearned. A Way Out I desperately wanted out, but I could not see a way. Where was I going to find a job that offered me this much opportunity? I felt like I was the lion Glenn spoke of, stuck swimming in an endless ocean of despair. I saw no way out. Within a few months, a representative from human resources showed up at my desk with a box. My time in this ocean had come to a sudden end. I had no idea how I would provide for my family, yet I felt an unusual peace and grace in this time of difficult transition. I had renewed hope of things to come. I was eager to find my safari. It was not an easy transition by any stretch of the imagination. I went without work for far too long. We had to sell our house and my family went through some very difficult times. Yet, at the end of this crooked road, there was a safari awaiting me. I Found My “Safari” For many years, I had longed to do ministry, yet opportunities would come and go and financial responsibilities increased as my family grew. For nearly seven years I put on a suit and tie and pushed aside my passions in order to provide for my family. That season had come to an abrupt end. My heart finally caught up to me. The tears that leaked out that day where my heart’s way of saying, “Hey, remember me?” My heart was crying out in hopes of discovering my safari. Be You We were all created for a unique purpose. A lion does not belong to the ocean any more than a shark belongs to land. Everything is created to be who and what it was created to be. We will not thrive outside of being what we were meant to be: a baseball was not created to be a light bulb any more than a light bulb was created to be a baseball. Each is created to be what it was meant to be. A light bulb would make for a terrible baseball yet walk into any dark room and turn on the light switch. Are you not glad someone did not put a baseball in the lamp? We find great comfort in knowing that a light bulb is in its intended spot. It was created to fill the room with light. So are we. Launched into Fulfillment While the circumstances were far from ideal, this closure in the mortgage business served as a catalyst to launch me into what God had for me next. Since this time, I have stumbled upon my heart’s passion. I now work full time doing what I love. I travel the country doing conferences and retreats with my brother, seeing countless lives transformed before our eyes as the Father encounters the hearts of His people with His love and presence. It was a tough swim in those choppy ocean waters, but today I am enjoying life in the safari. Where is Your “Safari”? Perhaps you are wondering where your safari is. If so, ask the One who created you. He will direct your steps. “Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails” (Proverbs 19:21). What about the journey on the way to our safari? Is it wasted? Was my time in the mortgage business a mistake? Not at all, it was God’s tool to do a deeper work within my heart and prepare me for days to come. It also served as a means to provide for my growing family. God promises to work all things for good for those who love Him and are called according to His purpose (Romans 8:28). God used every bit of that season to prepare me for this one. There was grace for that season, yet when the time for change had come, the grace dried up. It was time to seek the next season. Every step of the way prepares us for God’s greater purposes. Know the Times and Seasons There are times when God will open doors and there are times when He will close them. There are even times when He will dry certain things up in order to redirect our steps. The key I have found is to take the time to listen; it makes things so much easier when we hear the voice of God within our heart (instead of human resources showing up with a box). Time to Hear from the Heart What do we do when God is stirring our hearts for a change? Will we listen? What does the Church say about the Heart? According to the “Catechism of the Catholic Church” (“CCC”) 2563, the heart is the dwelling place where I am, where I live; According to the "Catechism of the Catholic Church," the heart is the dwelling place where I am, where I live; according to the Semitic or Biblical expression, the heart is the place "to which I withdraw" (2563). The heart is our hidden center, beyond the grasp of our reason and of others; only the spirit of God can fathom the human heart and know it fully. The heart is the place of decision, deeper than our psychic drives. It is the place of truth, where we choose life or death. It is the place of encounter because, as an image of God, we live in relation: it is the place of covenant. Time of Silence There are times when God will call us aside so He can speak to us in silence: “contemplative prayer is silence, the “symbol of the world to come” or “silent love.” Words in this kind of prayer are not speeches; they are like kindling that feeds the fire of love. In this silence, unbearable to the “outer” man, the Father speaks to us His incarnate Word, who suffered, died and rose; in this silence the Spirit of adoption enables us to share in the prayer of Jesus. ("CCC" 2717). Time for Adventure Perhaps I am not the only one stuck swimming in an ocean of despair. Remember, lions do not belong in the ocean. They were created for a wild adventure in the safari. So were we. A Greater Lion We are not alone. Revelation 5:5 states, “Then one of the elders said to me, ‘Weep not; lo, the lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has conquered …’”

It seems like a pretty insensitive question. The disciples come across a person who had been blind from birth and ask Jesus, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” Jesus, of course, sets them straight. This guy is not blind because he sinned. He is blind so that the work of God might be made manifest in him. And then—BOOM—Jesus heals him. Blindness, disease, misfortune—when we encounter these things it is not God sending down his wrath because we have been bad. God does not work that way. Jesus comes to bring life, to breathe healing. In this fallen and imperfect world, God allows us to experience trials and misfortune so that His work might be made manifest in us. But what about when Jesus does not heal? Redemptive suffering, you say. It is the correct answer, but it is not an easy one. The whole point of this Christianity thing is that the path to heaven is the cross. We will all come to Calvary. We will all suffer. Yet, because of the Cross—because of Jesus— our suffering can have meaning. Our suffering is a part of our sanctification. It is meant to be offered up to Jesus in order to “complete what is lacking in Christ’s afflictions” (Colossians 1:24). Knowledge of this fact may not make the chemo easier or the grief hurt less, but at least, because of Jesus, we can do something with our suffering. We can give our hurt to Jesus. Not to make it hurt less, but to allow it to be used for good. Still, it is a bit difficult grappling with the fact that the same Jesus who healed the blind man sometimes allows us to continue in our blindness, our sickness or our pain without manifesting His power through a miraculous healing. Yet I also know that Jesus does not owe me anything. I know that on this side of heaven there will always be suffering. I really do not presume God to grant me miracles to reward my good behavior, and I know my struggles are not Jesus punishing me for bad behavior. Sometimes bad things just happen. But if I am being totally honest, sometimes my “God doesn’t owe me anything” attitude has less to do with faith than it does with just not trusting God all that much. I spout off fancy, two-dollar phrases like, “Redemptive Suffering,” while on the inside, I am asking with the disciples, “Jesus, who sinned? Why did this have to happen?” After all, God causes it to rain on the righteous and the unrighteous alike? What, then, is even the point in praying? Is it all just essentially “points” and chugging along so that you can end up in the right place when you die? When my knee-jerk reaction to suffering or trials is, “Well, God doesn’t owe me anything,” I think there is something sort of “off” in my relationship with God. The statement itself is true. God does not owe me anything. He has already given me everything and then some. Yet, God loves me with the love of the Father. When I am crushed in spirit, His response is never simply, “Well, remember, I don’t owe you anything, Mary.” It might not be in His perfect will to take my suffering away in the way that I am praying for, but it is not out of contempt or forgetfulness on God’s part that miracles appear to not come. It is out of love. God understands my pain. He wants me to draw near to Him in times of trial, not as some kind of test of my love for Him, but because He has a plan and purpose for every moment of my life. God causes all things to work together for my good—my ultimate good, yes, but the seldom spoken truth is that my ultimate good and my immediate good are actually not in opposition to one another. I once heard a priest (I think it was Father John Riccardo) say that the only thing that is going to happen at the end of our lives/at the end of time is that the veil separating us from seeing things as they truly are will be pulled away. It will not be that we suddenly will not remember the events in our lives that caused us great pain, we will just finally see them in their fullness. We will see where God was and what He was doing in our lives’ greatest trials. We will see that God never abandoned us, not even in our weakest moments, He was drawing us closer to Himself. We will finally see all the ways in which God has made His work manifest in us, even in those times in which it seemed He left us in our blindness. We should never tire of praying for miracles; we can be assured that God is always, always at work within us.

Do you know what really bugs me about Advent? Or rather, the way people approach advent? Everyone skips to the end. We are happy about the fact that Jesus was born but even then we are honoring His birth mostly in terms of how His life ended. It makes sense that we do. Freeing us from sin is the reason He came to earth in the first place, so it is understandable to want to skip to the part where He fulfills this purpose. We have all of lent for that. What is there to take out of advent? Something that really hit me recently is that Christ’s first miracle was becoming a baby. His First Sacrifice He performed a lot of miracles, but the first was to become a child. He gave many sacrifices, but the first thing He sacrificed was self-sufficiency. When I was a little kid, my two goals in life were to be an adult and to be perfect. Easy, right? I went out of my way to show my teachers and my parents that I was more than capable of taking care of everything myself. My proudest moment in kindergarten was being left in charge of a classroom of my peers at five years old. I had decided that grownups were self-sufficient, as they should be, and as such, if I wanted to be mature, I could never ask for help. From anyone. Ever. Something I was missing was that there was a lot more to Jesus’s life prior to public ministry and death. Just like what many do with advent, I glanced over the beginning and wanted only the end. Heaven was the goal, but I forgot that the journey still happens on earth. Jumping to the End I wanted to be like the saints who so often seem strong and tough, ready to die a martyr for God. I wanted to make the biggest sacrifices and fight the roughest battles. Though I had good intentions, this quickly turned into an intense fear of needing people. I told myself that things like friendship and love were luxuries, so I hardly needed them; I could accomplish more and be stronger with independence. Slowly but surely, I began pushing things down, believing this was a necessary sacrifice to make in order to be who God wanted me to be. But I could not sustain it. Eventually, this strategy of mine began to crumble as the secrets and unexpressed emotions piled up and up until they burst. When they finally did, I found myself on my knees, sobbing to God, begging Him to help me. I needed my Father. Since that prayer, God has been slowly teaching me that it is okay to be vulnerable sometimes and it is okay to need help. Even so, I still fall into the old trap. I look at the cross and I want so badly to emulate Him right now that I put the weight of the world on my shoulders. Four years after that desperate prayer, I found myself on my knees again, this time filled with anxiety and crying to God that I cannot do it—I cannot be holy, I cannot be like Him. In my mind, I replay all the times I failed. All the times I had been selfish. All the times I had snapped at my friends. All the times I had sinned. I wanted to spread joy, but sometimes I needed help with my own problems. I wanted to be kind, but I still snapped at people. One day I could not imagine putting anything before heaven and the next I spent hours preoccupied with temptations. One day I thought I would never waver and the next it took an hour to convince myself to pray. I believed that God had a plan for me, but the plan was too unattainable; I was never going to get it right. Inevitably, I would let Him down. Awaiting Baby Jesus Then I thought of Baby Jesus—long before His miracle working, long before His preaching, long before His passion, He chose what His first act would be and He chose to become a child, a child that would need to slowly grow up, nurtured by the love of His family. Christ did not jump straight to the Passion, so why do I? I might not be holy enough to die for Him but, fortunately, He gave me a much more attainable first step. I remember to go back to the beginning and always start with the first step. Who I am can be pretty messy and, yes, vulnerable, but that is who God made me to be. If vulnerable is where Jesus started, then it is a pretty great starting place for me.

I am five years old. I am sitting in my bedroom, pondering as I tend to do at this age. “God, I just want You to know that I am here when You need me,” I silently pray as I gingerly caress a favorite image of Our Lady. “I want to do great things for You one day.” This was not an uncommon prayer for me as a little girl, though I later discovered that it was unusual for most kids to be thinking in such a way at such a young age. For me, it was a fire that had been planted in my heart at Baptism. That fire awakened when I began Catholic grade school, and it only emblazoned all the more fiercely as I grew older, received the sacraments of First Holy Communion, First Confession and confirmation. The Holy Spirit set His seal upon my heart. It was time for me to discover my purpose on earth. We are all anointed, brothers and sisters. Our Baptism seals us as God’s beloved ones. As such anointed people, we are all called to greatness, to do great things for God as I once prayed as a youngster. Your calling differs from mine, but they are all from the same great source: the Holy Spirit. How do we live as God’s anointed ones when life is so hectic and seems to get in the way of all we long for and dream of? I am not sure I have an exact answer, but I do know that it involves the risk of vulnerability. When you and I are vulnerable—that is, open to authentic and wholehearted living—we become clay in God’s hands. First, we must become broken, and that brokenness is what we feel on a daily basis: lost, alone, afraid, overwhelmed, exhausted, confused. Maybe we just feel nothing, a sort of numbness that has led us to a place of complacency or apathy as we maintain the daily drudgery of life. God wants more from you and me, my friends. He is calling us every day to continually hand Him our brokenness, our weakness, our littleness. How can we truly serve Him when we are still serving ourselves? Living our anointing means that we become totally His—Totus Tuus, as was Saint John Paul II’s personal motto—and belonging to another means we no longer live for ourselves. That is why we feel broken and alone in such a cold and calloused world. To move beyond where you are, you must allow that brokenness to reach a place of His wholeness. Recall how He allowed Himself to suffer and die an unthinkable death so you and I might live eternally. His brokenness became our wholeness. That is why being broken ourselves and living in total dependence on God each day is a necessary first step in living our anointing, or our calling on earth. I have come to understand that living our anointing extends beyond what we expect. It is more than going to work every day. It is more than doing the laundry. It is more than taking the kids to soccer practice or piano lessons. It is beyond the mundane. Even if your life ends up being one that is hidden, like Saint Thérèse of Lisieux’s was, when you live your anointing, you are moving beyond the ordinary into the eternal. Doing the laundry becomes an opportunity to pray the rosary. Taking the kids to soccer practice becomes a way to discuss with them how life is going and what kinds of issues they are encountering in the real world. Going to the office is a place where countless opportunities arise to evangelize others. Live your anointing. It will not be easy, friends. It will challenge you. It will change you. But you, in turn, will encourage others. You will, one by one, change the world through the influence of your life: through every conversation, every smile, every act of kindness. Do not underestimate the simple ways you are called to be Jesus today and to encounter Jesus in others. Be open. That is the first step. When your heart is open, you are ready to become malleable clay in His hands. Even should He choose to shatter you when you are a finished clay pot, you will not be dismayed but, rather, overjoyed. For a life lived in and for Christ is a life fulfilled. There will be no greater way you can give back to Him than by giving Him everything, starting today.

Every driver knows that one of the worst places you can find yourself in—is the "blind spot" of another driver. That is the little space in the line of sight between the coverage of the rear view or side mirror and the actual car next to us. I think we have all had the experience of checking our mirrors and then changing lanes, only to hear the mad blast of a horn as a car that was previously unseen to us speeds past. While our heart races over the near collision, we practically break our necks double checking the next twelve lane changes. And then sometimes the collision does happen. We could have sworn there was no car next to us but the accident happens and the problems and trauma ensue. One of my friends noted that this is true in our personal lives as well. How many times have we "run into or over" others simply because we did not "see them." It is the boss who regularly becomes angry and screams at his employees because "that's just how he is." It is the meddling mother-in-law who cannot get through a conversation without saying something cutting or judgmental, when "trying to be helpful." It is the spouse who is more concerned about him or herself than the marriage or family. Often no one wants to confront these issues and so the problem continues. Self-awareness is minimal and the pain it inflicts on others pours forth. Most of the time, our ‘blind spots’ come not from an area of malice, but simply from a lack of self-awareness. We do not know ourselves or our story well enough to understand what it might be like to interact with ourselves on a daily basis. I am often personally convicted when I complain about others because people have to live with me as well! They have to work, interact and relate to me—broken, fragile person just the same. But there is also another aspect to ‘blind spots’—we often do not see ourselves as we truly are in our deep lovingness to God. As Saint Paul writes in the context of speaking about authentic love, “For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Corinthians 13:12). We all long to see face-to-face. Our deepest desires involve loving and being loved, knowing and being known. This is an ache for eternity. When we see God face to face, we will finally see, know and love in fullness. Until then, we undergo this process of revelation, of knowing only parts and pieces as we move towards the whole. It is beautiful and sorrowful, wounding and life-giving. It is the path of true love—to behold ourselves and others as unique, precious and unrepeatable creations of God Himself. We could ask the Holy Spirit to reveal our ‘blind spots’—that He reveals the areas where we “run over” and miss people because we just do not see them. Let us ask the Holy Spirit to speak to our true identity, our true lovingness, and live in that reality rather than relating to ourselves and others from our masks, our wounded and skewed vision. We often do not know what we do not know. Let us ask to see clearly, all the way around.

What is God’s Answer to the Problem of Suffering and Pain? There are good, intelligent and true answers that we can gather from philosophers, scholars, saints and Doctors of the Church. A lot of those answers can feed the mind and when it is not us or someone we love who is suffering, we will find our intellectual appetites satisfied with those classic responses to the problem of pain. In the abstract, when we are not suffering, it is a lot easier to see why a good and all-powerful God would allow evil, pain and even death. For example, God allowed that fire down the street because He gave us the gift of free will. Free will means that people can abuse their freedom by being irresponsible and failing to regularly check their smoke alarms. Even though the building burned down, which is bad, it created an opportunity for a lot of people to rise to the occasion and act heroically. That is good, right? By allowing it, God created space for good to win over evil. Something like this might forever change the future for those involved. It could have a ripple effect down to people’s grandchildren. It serves as an example to lots of other people who will now more regularly check their smoke detectors. This wake-up call would therefore prevent other fires from happening. More than that, is it not the case that great tragedy has the potential to turn people back to God? We suddenly and sincerely start praying for other people. We might even realize that we have neglected our spiritual life and this event makes us ask some really serious questions about the things that matter most. It is a lot easier to see your way through the woods when you are safe, comfortable, only thinking about the journey and merely looking at a map. It is a whole different story when it is dark, lonely and you are actually lost. Do not get me wrong, maps and intellectual answers are really important, but when it is personal and when it is painful is it really enough? When it comes to suffering, these right answers are in fact right but they are not really enough. That is why we still cry out to God with our “Why?” We beg. We plead. We bargain. We get mad. We say things like, “Why did you allow it God? Why did You not stop that from happening? What is the point of all of this?” We ask these kinds of questions as if we really just want an answer. However, try imagining what would happen if God actually showed up. Imagine if He strictly responded to your question of why and gave a very clear, direct response? Then what? Would we, as Dr. Peter Kreeft, Boston College philosophy professor, points out, really be satisfied with any rational explanation to our questions about suffering? Even if it is God’s reason—which is the best possible reason from the best possible source—would that not stop Him from leaving us with even more questions? Would we not, much like a child to a parent, ask, “But why that?” Would not every answer lead to another string of questions? If He indulged us and gave more answers, would we not just go on asking questions? Could this be a sign that we want something more than rational answers, no matter how often we demand them? Maybe what we are longing for is not just a something but a ‘someone’. Maybe the God, who knows us better than we know ourselves, knows this as well. Maybe that is why He does not often respond to our questions, especially when we are suffering. A classic example comes right from the Bible in the book of Job. Job, a good man who honors the Lord, suddenly finds everything—his success, wealth, family and health—taken from him. The story opens with God directly acknowledging Job’s faithfulness and proceeding to allow his life to fall apart. By the end of the story, Job, although broken and beat, refuses to “curse God and die.” He refuses to let God off the hook for the misery he endures. He demands a response and, as the story continues, God shows up. If we jump to the end of the book, we find that Job is content. It is only after this satisfaction that God returns to him all that was lost and more. The interesting part of the story is that Job does not find satisfaction based on God’s answer to his questions. In fact, God did not answer Job at all. When Job finally stood before God, his questions faded away and God turned the tables and instead asked questions to Job. These questions went beyond the scope of what Job could ever understand or answer. They reminded him, and us, that maybe we do not get an answer from God because our questions are too small and, right now, His answers are too large. God knows, like a good parent, that some answers must wait and, for now, all He can say to our demands for answers about suffering is, “Yes, I allowed this to happen. And for now, that has to be enough. For now, just know that I’m here. I’m with you. I love you. Let that be enough.” In our own experience, we know that love and suffering are somehow already united. Though suffering is not explainable in a satisfying way when we are actually suffering, it is shareable. We can allow those that love us to suffer with us and when others suffer we can suffer with them. This is why, even more than fixing it or removing it, we are at our best when we love each other in suffering. It makes sense then that the cross is the central symbol and persistent paradox at the heart of Christianity: God, who cannot suffer or die, shares in our humanity to do these very things. God becomes man so He can be “with us,” not merely to take away the suffering—at least not yet—but to first let us know that He has always been there, that He Is here now, that He Is Emmanuel, that He is with us. He is with us when it feels like our hands are held down and nothing is within our control. He is with us when we are taken advantage of. He is with us when we feel betrayed, when our body no longer can keep going, when innocence is robbed and hearts are broken, when senseless violence destroys hopes and dreams. He is with us when there are no answers and when there is only silence. Jesus actually died on the cross so we would know that even in death He is with us. So let Him be with us in those happy moments—celebrate life!—but also in our suffering, in the small ways we suffer or, like Job, in the big ways. The Gospel is Good News because it promises that if we let it start now—this God-with-us existence—then we, like Job, will find contentment knowing He is present even in our pain. We find in His presence not just a God who shares our death, but a God who has risen from the dead and promises that we will not only get back what we lost, but more than we could hope to imagine!

A Golden Trail to Follow In the year 1897, when Sister Thérèse was on her deathbed, a young nun in charge of her care was helping the sick sister to arrange her habit. Sadly for Sister Thérèse, the nun inadvertently stuck a pin through her flesh. Did the Sister who was already in much pain complain or yell at her? Far from it, she suffered the wound and left the pin where it was until evening when Sister Celine found the veil over Sister Thérèse’s shoulder soaked in blood. No wonder, this dear Sister came to be known as Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus, one of the greatest saints of modern times. Be it big or small, Saint Thérèse’s little way is all about suffering with great love. During my college days I happened to read her autobiography “Story of My Soul.” Inspired by her heroic suffering and love for God, I was sitting in front of Jesus in the tabernacle. I felt deeply that I had not given Him anything. My life then was a mixture of joys and sorrows, but still I did not have a great suffering to offer. I lamented over this, crying out saying, "Jesus I want to suffer greatly for You! I want to take up that heavy Cross for love of You!" Little did I know what I was asking for … In my childish simplicity, thoughts of saints who suffered valiantly for Jesus lit a fire in my heart. In this great zeal I longed to accept everything from His hands. Dark Night of the Soul Years later, I had forgotten all about this solemn prayer. Halfway into pregnancy with my first child, I did not know that my trial of faith would soon begin. I was imparting faith to my baby right from the womb and spinning dreams of seeing my child grow in faith and love of God. I was the only ‘mom’ who could sing lullabies and pray over her tiny one pinned on all fours and strapped to all sorts of sophisticated instruments—some with never-ending beeps to show that she was alive, another to support her breathing. Her condition was oscillating and her fragile little body with loose skin at every joint was put through several blood transfusions. Even when doctors spoke hopelessly, I believed my baby was safe in the hands of Jesus. Such was the peace I felt in my heart even when darkness crept around. But it slowly turned into a nightmare when every report showed that her condition was worsening. The more I confided in God, the more was I tested ... The doctors concluded that my baby is suffering from severe brain damage and micro-cephaly; this would affect her physical, mental and emotional development. I could not grasp the reason. Like any mother in this world I complained, cried and fretted, “Why my baby? You could have given me anything, but why make a little baby suffer?” He Weeps With Me Asking for more was easy. But when suffering did make its way, I was distraught. I wanted everything to end, but there was no turning back. I had to face it. The heavy cross I had asked for did not end with my first child born with disabilities. The chance of having a normal, healthy baby also slimmed down—every visit to the pediatrician and Sundays at Church became painful. The sight of children of the same age as my daughter, prancing around, looking at me and smiling innocently, broke my heart again and again. When babies nearby called their mommas, I sighed deep inside—far from calling, my baby does not know that I am her Mom. In these distressing times, I could not pray. I was struggling to pray because all I could do was endlessly cry. One day as I sat before the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus with the heaviness of a sick baby on one hand and a devastated family on the other, I saw tears flowing down His cheeks. His eyes were red with crying and tears were gushing in extreme agony. I was shocked! I could not look anymore. Why was Jesus crying? Did I do something wrong! I found the answer in the Bible. I found Jesus, who was moved in the depths of His spirit to see Mary and those around her weeping the death of Lazarus. Jesus wept (John 11:35) … Contemplating the impending fate of His beloved Jerusalem, which was about to crucify Him, Jesus wept over it (Luke 19:41) and the bitter tears He shed in the darkest hour before crucifixion (Hebrews 5:7) How comforting to know that Jesus really shares our feelings. The book of Isaiah prophetically speaks of Lord Jesus as “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). Jesus still weeps with me in my sorrows. Often the pain felt in the heart can never be fully understood by those around, even by those close to us. But there is one who can truly know and feel what we are going through and He is Jesus. How often do we turn to Him in our sorrows? When we rely on friends and relatives to understand us, we forget about Jesus, Who is always beside us to console and comfort. Dawn of Realization Suffering is inevitable. Everyone has sufferings in life, in different ways. Once I heard a testimony by a chosen soul. He said the only child he and his wife received, after years of waiting, was bed ridden and could not look or even smile at them. His heart ached seeing other children playing around when his own son had several bouts of epileptic attacks a day. They went to numerous healing masses for a miraculous cure. The message they always got was the same: “This child is a gift from God and specially given to you because Jesus wants both of you in heaven with Him.” We miss being thankful for all the blessings and looking closely at all that is missing in our lives. If we gain everything in this world, what have we gained for Him? When we feel that going forward is impossible, God’s grace makes everything possible. He sealed our family with His love and made it possible to see beyond our baby’s indifferent behavior, sudden epileptic fits, and her inability to even look or grasp anything, to stand or walk. Curiously, we found inner joy around her. In all that seems a weakness for the world, we found greater strength and this was possible only by God’s amazing grace. Her happy demeanor while we are praying is profound. She looks around, lauding with the invisible angels, and through her blabbering she sings the perfect hymn of praise. Our little one is a piece of heaven itself, a promise of where we are destined to be. She reminds us that God works for the good for those who love Him. Every new deed she does, no matter how trivial, is a great miracle from God and we thank and praise Him unceasingly for the great gift of His love. The Joy in Suffering Being a Catholic does not make us immune to sufferings but rather we must be ready to accept everything from His hands. Truly, suffering is a reminder: Jesus really wants us to be with Him! To the one who has never known the searing pain of even the prick of a needle, the sufferings of Jesus would only be knowing and never feeling from the depth. When sufferings come into our lives, let us rejoice like the saints who gladly accepted all for the love of Jesus on the Cross. The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us (Romans 8:18). How fruitful our sufferings, big or small, when offered for the salvation of souls. In the words of Saint Thérèse, if we can pick a pin from the floor for love of God it can surely save a soul. All the pain and sorrows we go through when offered for those who do not know Jesus, for those souls lost in the darkness of sin and ignorance… how great a work of salvation we do. During her agonizing death, Saint Therese wrote, “I am not dying; I am entering into life!” Let us remember this life on earth is a journey to heaven. At any moment, when the mist lifts up, we may find ourselves in that unknown, well-known land of heaven. With joy in our heart, let us take the beautiful path leading to Heaven!

He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of the Father. Therefore... Let us lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the Cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God (Hebrews 12: 1-2 NASB). I do not remember his name. Mike, I think. But I remember the last time I saw him. It was nearly forty years ago. I was standing on a street corner when his mom stopped at a red light. Mike sat in the passenger seat. He and I graduated high school the year before. I had not seen him since. "Hey Mike!" I smiled and walked toward the car while the light was still red. "How are you doing? Haven't seen you in…" The rest of the words stuck in my throat as I glanced at his legs. The right was missing. Amputated just above the knee. "WH-what happened?" I stuttered. "Vietnam." The light turned green and I muttered something like, "Oh wow," as they pulled away. It is not hard for me to imagine the sorrow Mike's parents have endured these many years for their son. I now have three grown children and I know how I would feel if any were so horribly wounded. When Mike and his parents sat at the dinner table, or watched television, or went for a drive, they had only to glance in his direction and see his missing leg. For the rest of their lives, their son's wound will remind them of war's horror. Scripture speaks with somber regularity of our involvement in a lethal spiritual war (for example, 2 Corinthians 10, Ephesians 6, the Book of Revelation). We know that the Lord Jesus was a casualty of that war; He was wounded, suffered and died. But when He rose from the dead, the Glorious One ascended to His rightful place on His kingly throne. The Righteous One's death reconciled us to the Father. The Wounded One purchased our lives with His holy blood. Although the grief of parents for their children cannot compare with the sorrow of the Divine Father for His Son, as a father myself, I can begin to imagine the eternal Father's sadness each time He sees His Son's wounds. The lacerations from thorns pressed into His forehead, the slices of the whip across His back, the punctures of nails and lance--they remain ever-present marks of the spiritual war in which Jesus gave His life so we would not face eternal death. I do not know if Mike's parents take comfort knowing their son suffered so others might be free. But Scripture tells us that the Heavenly Father is pleased to know that His Son's suffering brought us freedom from satan's grasp (Isaiah 53). America awards the Purple Heart to its military wounded in battle. But what shall Jesus receive for His wounds? What mark of thanks could properly honor His sacrifice? What jewels could adequately acclaim His worthiness? The only award worthy of His sacrifice is that we give Him our heart, soul, mind and strength. Each time we recite the words of the Creed, "Christ is seated at the right hand of the Father," we have the privilege to do just that. Prayer (from Saint Ignatius of Loyola): Lord, teach us to fight and not heed our wounds, to toil and not seek rest, to labor and not ask for reward except that of knowing that we do Your will. Amen.