Roosters

Once there was a farmer named Bob who had a rooster named Larry. A farmer named Larry became Bob's neighbor. Larry bought a rooster and named him Bob.

(Later, Bob --the rooster--became a nuisance. So his owners turned him into soup.)

Bob the rooster checkin up on his free range hens. "Hello, Ladies!"

Goat Shank Redemption

With the farmer away on business, the goat wrangler and I got a second chance at goat milking triumph tonight. The goals: No escapees, clean milk, redemption.

The last time we milked, three animals put their dirty hooves in the milking pail and we returned to the house with an empty metal bucket. But we did end that episode with a full field of animals behind a locked gate--which was no small feat given the runaways.

This time, my milking partner secured the rope around the milking stand headpiece and held the goat's feet while I milked.

(She also produced a little pickaxe from her pocket and dug small tunnel-like holes beneath the milking stand feet as an added safety precaution to ensure those goats weren't goin anywhere...)

OK, that part didn't happen. I got the snaggle horned white goat half milked before she rammed her horns against the headpiece and we had to let her go.

The next goat let me milk her out completely. My friend took the goat back to the field and it darted off with the rope still around its neck. Attempts to recapture the goat and get the rope failed. (We still get points for having the goat behind the fence this time).

A grain bucket lure-shake only brought all the animals in stampede, so that idea was dropped with the bucket --as one of the goats stood on its hind legs to reach the container my friend held above her head.

Then we thought about h-a-y...just in case the animals were like children and had a reaction to hearing the word said aloud...

We brought in a bale of timothy hay, separated it into succulent sections in the large metal trough and watched the animals scooch each other aside with horns and hips to secure a better feasting angle.

I snatched the rebellious goat's rope when he looked around for a more profitable opening and the wrangler removed the rope from his head.

We win! Another victory! Thank you, Jesus!

War and Prayer

I had a dream the other night that it was the end of the world. Bombs exploded in the distance, dust darkened the air, and emaciated people ran barefooted with ashen faces, ragged clothes, and hopeless eyes.

Orphans came to me in desperation. There was no food. My heart broke for them.

Before I became despondent, two goats wandered into the scene. I sat down and began to milk. The children drank and drank the goats' milk, and I never thought this skill would be so useful.

My dream had a comical ending. But its beginning made me think of Middle Easterners who face the horror of war daily.

There is something more needed than physical food in this world. It is the hope that comes from prayer.

Prayer is powerful. I can't go to the Middle East right now to be with those people, but God can use my prayers to give them strength to persevere. Blessed Mother, be a mother to those people now. Amen.

Treehouse Saint

"St. Anthony spent the last months of his life recovering from illness in a treehouse from which he continued to minister to all who sought his counsel." -- holy card from the shrine of St. Anthony.

What a man! What a saint!

Lake Jumper Fully Alive

A dream came true today. I jumped in a lake.

For weeks I'd hoped that a friend would invite me to swim; there are no public beaches here. And today she did. I dove right into Pennsylvania's largest natural lake and felt fully alive. 

I was also thirsty and she gave me water to drink.

Towel-less and she draped me.

God provides everything.

Thank you, Jesus.

Praise the Lord!

Goat Milking Triple Play

The sun was still a couple of hours from its decline over the horizon. The flies were in full frenzy. And the next-door neighbor was perched upon his mower--a nightly ritual--to trim another quadrant of his vast yard.

I swung the metal goat milking pail in my right hand as the farmer's wife poured grain into the green bucket to feed the goats as we milked them. We wore baseball caps to keep the bugs from our eyes and squirted some sanitizer on our hands. We were set for success. 

The gate opened and two of our friends escaped. We didn't panic. One went straight for the grain; the other stood aloof and contemplated which clump of it's-always-tastier-on-the-other-side-of-the-fence grass to chomp first . 

We needed to return one goat to the pasture in order to milk without stress.

Fortunately, the farmer's wife is an experienced goat handler--well at least a couple months more than me. She quickly fit a rope around the the snaggle horned white goat's head and coaxed her back into the pasture. Phew!

The multicolored goat raced to the wooden milking stand; I shut the headpiece to keep her still and we started to milk her.

That goat's milk bag was still a third full when she decided to pull her head from the headpiece, stomp her foot in the milk pail and make her second escape of the evening.

It's not the first time this happened, but the lead rope was still around the other goat's neck in the pasture and this goat had decided the grain no longer suited her refined taste. She casually chomped grass and cleverly played a game of side-step and run as we attempted to catch her. 

An occasional rooster crow broke our thoughts as we stood still for a moment and contemplated strategies of capture. 

I walked a wide circle around the goat and moved with an uneven booted foot swagger in a zigzag pattern to lead her to the farmer's wife who stood poised with the rope on the other side of the trailer, which stood between the milking station and the fence. I thought if we lured the goat between those barriers, my friend could lasso her.

The goat got close to my milking partner, but darted again. We tried a few rumbly shakes of the grain bucket to no avail.

A short time passed before we resorted again to the grain and the finicky goat decided she'd like another tiny nibble. Like a football player and streak of lightening, my farm friend tackled that sweet little animal to the ground. I roped the squirmy runaway while the goat wrangler raised her arms in victory like we had just scored a touchdown for the home team--which we definitely did. 

Meanwhile, the neighbor watched. I saw his profile when my friend went down for the sack. The 78-year-old lifelong country man outfitted in a white cutoff muscle shirt that exposed his tanned arms pumped his gnarled fists in the air in solidarity, and laughed as he rode off on his mower.

We were equally amused by him and joined the crow of the roosters.

Next, we milked the second goat not even half way before she also stuck her foot in the bucket and backed off the milking stand for some tasty grass --she was smartly roped, however, and didn't go far.

Just for fun, we milked a third goat that we don't normally milk because she still nurses her kids. And just like the adage "third time's the charm" she stuck her foot in the pail.

There's no need for a football forearm workout when one's a goat milker. But a victory dance is quite appropriate when all the animals are back behind the locked fence --even if there's no milk.

God has a plan

Who has a plan?
God.

Who do you want me to love today, God?
Me: the person right in front of you.

Be patient.

Respond versus react.

Forgive.  Then, do it again.

Pray.

Even in the midst of wool carding and untangling wind chimes.

I have a simple, powerful plan.

The Boot

The Boot

I gotta gangsta cure-all boot

That brings out my inner swagga

I pump it up like Air Jordans

Cause dat left side is a lagga

Doctor says most homies got two bones in their toe

Three’s rare; my big’s got four, and neither of us know

The cause of this phenomenon

That tiny, extra calcified jawn

He said it might have fractured off

One of the other three

Or like a clutch Coach handbag

It’s maybe an accessory

A month will tell the secret of this wheel, tootsie mystery

I’ll either have three bones again

Or four with no pain

Another option’s no result

And I’ll feel just the same

In any case this boot is blessed

With water straight from Lourdes

I also took my foot to Him

To cure me of my sores

Prayer of Mary

"Mother, now that the need is at its greatest and the powers of darkness seem to have free rein, we come to you with childlike trust and implore your powerful aid.

We consecrate ourselves to you. Preserve us in the love of your Son, protect us from the evil of this world and lead us safe to the heart of God. Amen."

--Aid to the Church in Need, a Catholic charity under the guidance of the Holy Father

Go out!

"Do you love me? Is it reciprocal?" A woman who has prayed with me asked me that tonight after she told me she loves me and prays for me and has a special place for me in her heart.

I was taken aback by her love--thank you, God--and her question; I assured her that of course I love her.

Maybe she needed to hear it like every person needs to hear they are loved. (I know I need to hear it very often). Or maybe it was God using her to remind me of his words to Peter: "'Simon son of John, do you love me?' 

"Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, 'Do you love me?' He said, 'Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.' Jesus said, 'Feed my sheep.'" John 21:17)

I milk His goats. But do I feed His sheep? What does that mean?

When I went to Lourdes last month I prayed for Mary to heal me of depression. I felt like she told me at the baths, "Go out!"

I couldn't believe it. I spent half of my savings to go on the trip; I wasn't cured and I didn't know what the heck that meant. "Mary, how can I possibly go out of myself when I feel so miserable?"

So I cried. Then, I prayed the Stations of the Cross by the Gave de Pau river which runs parallel to the grotto where Mary appeared to St. Bernadette and encouraged that simple girl to go out of herself so miracles could happen.

At Station nine, Jesus falls the second time, I saw a man with intellectual disabilities sit in his wheel chair and point to Jesus, then to himself, smile and make a telescope with his fist over his eye while the other was shut tight. I read the reflection in the pamphlet I held and saw that it mentioned Jesus had just fallen, now He falls again. He is ready to pick us up every time we go to Him for forgiveness of our sins.

I thought, "This man doesn't have the capacity to freely choose wrong. How could he relate to Jesus in this station?" But somehow he did; he understood in a simpler, perhaps deeper way what it meant to go out and have Jesus mysteriously meet him there.

Then I stopped at the 12th station, Jesus is crucified. I saw a mom sit on a bench across from that station and nurse her child. My heart longed to hold that baby and I felt sad that I had no husband or babies of my own. I walked past her and then turned back.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, I'm from Texas!" 

(Ironically, everyone from the group I traveled with was from Texas).

"Can I hold your baby?"

"Of course!"

"Yes! Thank you! Praise the Lord!" 

The woman's husband, 2-year-old daughter, sister and mother shortly arrived on the scene. She told me they decided to take the trip because her mom always wanted to go to Lourdes and they weren't sure when they'd be able to make the trip in the future--"There's no time like the present," she said.

While we talked, the 2-year-old daughter switched my beautiful purple rosary that lay on the bench with her dirty white rosary from her purse. My rosary had been blessed by Pope Francis and dipped in the Lourdes baths. I hadn't observed the replacement.

"Give the nice lady back her rosary," the mom told her daughter. 

The girl looked at me, removed my rosary from her clutch, then dropped it back in and said, "A rosary for the princess."

Ha! Wow. I thought that I need to see myself as a princess and I'd rather have that child's rosary than a rosary blessed by the pope. So we kept the exchange. 

That moment was a gift because God gave me the grace to Go Out! If I had stayed in, I would have remained miserable.

A few nights ago, I was miserable again. I had the choice to stay home or attend a house concert. I procrastinated, ate some chocolate and painted my toenails because I wasn't sure that I had enough energy to exert with people. 

Grace got me in the car, but I still struggled. Then the Holy Spirit inspired me to pray to Mary. So I prayed, "Mary, cover me with your beauty so that people don't see my misery." 

I didn't pray that the misery would be pushed down and away, but that I could have a different appearance at this party so I could really meet people and Go Out.

My friend saw me at the party and told me my eyes were beautiful and had a different kind of light to them. I knew it wasn't me; it was the miracle of Mary.

Tonight I heard again, "Do you love me?" 

I still don't know what "Feed my sheep" fully means in my life. But I trust that God will show me the more I go out. 

Tonight I sat out on the porch with the farmer, ate watermelon and listened to folk songs played from a record through an open window. And that was a miracle too.

We marveled at the fog above the trees, the chickens that walked and pecked on the grass, and the lyrics from those songs--reminders of the dance of love and loss in life.

People suffer in this life. But there is joy. I see that better if I go out.

Lord, help me to go out again and again so I can learn more how to love. Through Mary. Amen.

A Good Neighbor

My neighbor hung banana leaf wallpaper in his kitchen because he thinks it's "sharp as hell." He has a huge garage called "Big Blue" where he plans to install crown molding. He's a gourmet chef, volunteer firefighter, wallpaper hanger, and one heck of a generous, creative and humorous man.

It was two nights before I moved from my apartment and I'd still not fulfilled his open ended dinner invitation from when I first moved in. So I called out to him as he drove his white contractor van into his unfinished driveway which he ripped up conveniently around Christmas.

"When can I come for dinner?"

"How about tonight?"

I'm busy tonight."

"Tomorrow. Our door's always open, babe."

So I went the next night at 5 p.m. and rang the bell. No one was home. I went for a bike ride and tried again at 7. Still no answer.

At 7:15 I ate a snack on my back porch and heard Frank Sinatra blasted from Big Blue. My neighbor was home. I called over the fence to see if we could do dessert instead.

"Come over right now!"

He poured wine and made leftovers from a gourmet feast he and his wife had for their children the weekend prior. He rinsed our dishes with the industrial sprayer above his sink after dinner. Then, he gave me a tour of his tree fort-like house.

His wife doesn't have a preference for the decor so he followed the inspiration of a client's house and chose banana leaf wallpaper for the kitchen. He added the MF (Monday Night Football) room with a step down to the left of the kitchen. The room includes a cardboard cutout of his daughter and her husband propped near the fireplace, a wall covered with other large and small family pictures, and a restaurant booth for intimate meals.

The kids took over the MF room as they grew, so he made the "Crystal Room" upstairs for him and his wife. The personal cocktail lounge makes the fourth bar in the house (including the one in Big Blue). There's also a cat door from that room to the roof where my neighbor created a ramp for the cat to run down. And there's a balcony off the second floor outfitted with a hot plate and coffee pot, and exercise bike discretely privatized with a window blind from the ceiling.

Outside was the masterpiece. "Little Blue" was pulled by a friend with a rope and construction machine farther back in the yard --past the waterfall and lighted pine trees-- to make room for Big Blue.

My neighbor turned on some Springsteen to its normal volume and asked if I could usually hear that over the fence. I admitted I could.

He cranked Margaritaville to the volume he'd like to play it and said he hoped to insulate the garage soon--right after the crown molding.

Once he papered a house with his music blasted too loud. A neighbor knocked at the door. "Mother of God," she said. "Yea I know who that is. Mary," he replied. The expression on her face made him quickly realize what she meant and he turned down the music. "Sorry about that, babe."

For another job, he recently contracted Mexican men who stood outside Home Depot as day laborers. He doesn't know any Spanish.

Fortunately, his wife Googled simple Spanish words and wrote them phonetically for him on a paper --which he left at home. So he made do with sick figures which he drew with marker on the dry wall where they worked.

He included shorts on himself and speech bubbles with "Hola" and "haha."

The men became friends that day despite the language barrier.

There was no language barrier when my neighbor and his wife first met at a nightclub--they spoke the same neighborhood slang.

My neighbor noticed that the girls in his area didn't like to be called "hun," so when he slipped, he'd say, "Sorry about that, babe." But his wife didn't mind, because she grew up a mere block from his house.

Neither wanted to go the night they met. My neighbor's friend convinced him. He said his wife owes her happiness to that man (to which she agreed). 

My neighbor was persistent in the pursuit since he wife did not readily fall for his creative genius.

Nowadays, he continues to show his wife how he loves her in inventive ways-- like when he bought her a motorcycle for her birthday, so he could drive it while she sat on the back.

He called their relationship a miracle. 

Recently I gave my neighbor miraculous holy water from Lourdes. He ironically called it "precious as hell."

My neighbor sees simple things in life as miracles-- like snow.

People were sick of snow by the final storm last winter, but not my neighbor. He smiled huge and told me how stupid snow blowers are because it takes all the fun out of shoveling. He said snow also gives people a break, and people need a break.

One day last winter, my neighbor told me all about his brother’s snow blower--how it doesn’t work half the time, how it takes the joy out of manual labor. 

His love for physical work and generosity was evident when he shoveled his neighbor’s driveway because her husband had a stroke. He then walked down the street with his shovel on his shoulder like a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins and asked me, “Where’s your car, babe?"

We went to another neighbor’s driveway where I had parked my car to get it off the street, and he said, “I’ll go sweep that off too,” – as if the five inches were a light dusting.

His own driveway was un-shoveled.

He also noticed my landlord’s driveway, which was cleared by snow blower.

“She used a snow blower on that?” he marveled. “I take back half the things I said about that damn machine.”

He redid his driveway a few days before Christmas, and my sarcasm about his impeccable timing was lost when he responded with glee, “I know, isn’t the weather beautiful?” – which, incredibly, it was.

The weather was not as great when he attached extension cords to a Christmas star suspended by helium balloon 30 feet into the air Christmas Eve. Curses flew as that ornament swayed into trees and all over the place.

My neighbor is the go-to man for homemade eggnog at Christmas, the one who entertains many, and the one who gets "the call" if my lady landlords needed a man to help them.

My neighbor was an excellent help when he arranged a funeral procession and prayers for my landlord's dog after another canine delivered a fatal bite to its neck– the girl too small to hold the larger dog’s leash watched in horror. 

He dug the dog’s grave with his son, took the deceased pooch on a solemn funeral procession to all her favorite places around the yard, and prayed a Hail Mary by its graveside for the sweet pet's soul.

My neighbor is a miracle. Amen.

Secret Life of Slurpees

Last night and today were a bit like The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. 

Walter Mitty pretends fantastical things happen in his life, but after he realizes how dull his life has become he actually does them. 

My life is not boring; I have a strong imagination like Walter, and perhaps a tendency to use the thought of adventure as an escape, but nowadays I strive to find the ordinary remarkable.

So, yesterday my friend and I got all day free parking at a $14 lot because the power went out shortly before we arrived to get the car, and the machines weren't working. 

After I climbed the Himalayas and fought ninjas in my dreams, I woke up at 10:34 today for 11 a.m. Mass at the cathedral 20 minutes from my friend's apartment. I got in my titanium rocket ship and made it at 11:05 because the Mother of God got me a metered spot across the street from the church. 

(The Himalayas, ninjas and rocket ship are creative embellishments just like the movie!)

And then my adventures got more real...

When I returned, a car full of young ladies pulled up at my friend's house with free Slurpee's in hand and told me how happy they are to be alive.

One even offered me her cherry coke concoction.

I ended up behind them in my car and one of the young women waved out the back window until she could no longer see me.

Two friends met me at an adoration chapel that evening, and when I got back to the apartment again, another friend drove up, blasted his radio and stood on the roof of his car to dance while I kicked up the driveway dust in solidarity. 

We decided to have an impromptu party and about 15 people split up like Rat Race and hit the grocery stores for refreshments.

Then we sat on the porch with a grill, iPhone stereo and told stories, danced, joked and played games.

Reality can be an adventure.

Thank you Jesus for spontaneous little gifts and childlike messengers of joy.

Street Beat Hope

Sunshine and the sound of live music stirred up gratitude in my heart yesterday as I walked the streets exhausted and looked for diversion. I needed a little break from the conference I attended, and man, I wanted to get down to that bucket drum.

The closer I got, the more I accepted the reality that it wasn't African dance party but a protest. People need just wages --that's true-- and I appreciated that the workers were outside using their rights to voice injustice. But I still debated if it would be appropriate to bodily jam with that old paint pail beat.

I shared my lament with a passerby, a young woman with short hair and fluorescent gauges in her ears. 

"Even in the chaos of the world, God has a plan," I told myself, but out loud to her.

"You gotta hope," she replied, to my delighted surprise.

It's the summertime and I don't have a routine schedule. I don't know where I'll live next month. My mind has listened to inner emotional strain and pain for many years. And I've been overwhelmed. 

But...

That's not the end of the story, babe.

Today I saw my friend who was forced to resign from her job, yet even in her tears, she has hope that something good will come out of her loss. She's already prays for new life in her career.

Last week I met a woman whose husband, and father to their seven children, died a year ago. This woman comforts crack babies at a hospital as therapy for herself. 

I also met a woman a month ago who is in her third marriage. She has been married to her current husband for 29 years. He supported them for decades through his air conditioner business that installed cooling systems in Houston attics, which heat up to 130°F. 

And last night I listened to a speaker tell 700 people about her mother who has dementia. She had everyone laughing for more than an hour, and at the end was given a standing ovation. She found joy in the monotony and annoyance of life repeated, sometimes every 10 seconds.

There's incredible pain in the world. And even more miraculous hope--in Faith and perseverance. Thank you, Jesus, for the hope in these stories that gives me strength to know I'll be OK. 

Stone beachy

It's a great day to go to the beach. 

I'm not at the beach, so I found a stone slab away from the thoroughfare outside the hotel where I'm attending a conference and discreetly laid on that instead.

Nobody told me to get off it. Perhaps  they assumed I was homeless--a mediation in my heart...he had no place to rest his head... But I have this warm stone flower planter...

And then a man I knew saw me and I was caught. But he affirmed my dignity and the freedom (autoCorrect says "free dominos") it is to be alive.

Another simple joy. Thank you, Jesus.

Raindrops and chainsaws

"I think I would just like to go home," calmly whispered the three-year-old girl I held in my arms during the tornado-like storm two days ago. 

Tall trees were uprooted and blocked roads, telephone poles were destroyed, electricity was out for maybe a 50 mile radius. But I stood in safety with a group of 10 people in a partially underground school gym and waited for the storm to pass.

I wanted to go home too.

But my response was not as serene that little girl's.

I didn't know the people around me; we had just prayed adoration together in the church upstairs. I didn't understand how bad the storm was until I saw people head to the gym and through the window watched the trees fall. 

The chaos outside matched the turmoil on my heart. I've wanted to go home for years. That storm and that child's words were only reminders that I've searched for home for a long time and I'm not  there yet.

But the hour-long obstacle-filled car ride back to the farm and the grace of concrete examples of love along the way gave me hope that one day I will find that place of peace-- in myself, in my vocation, and in eternity.

After attempts to travel three different roads to get back to the farm, I decided to wait in line with a bunch of other cars while men from various pickup trucks and SUVs pulled out chainsaws --as only mountain people can do (they keep these tools readily on hand for such occasions)-- and began decimating the trees that laid in our way.

Men. Ready to serve. To fix, to clear a path for movement. Creativity. Communion. And I was grateful.

I need men and women in my life to show me the way. To show me that even through roadblocks and broken trees, it's okay. Every person, every raindrop, every fallen pine has meaning in my life. God is manifested in the physical world and he created this concrete road to show me I am not made to travel it alone.

It's a work in progress. I've wanted immediate results for years. That's not how it has played out. I just know that I need to write and continue to love the best I can every day.

Constant and small. Personal and real. People and the sacraments. Child-like trust, and simple surrender. Amen.

Bourbon and Balm

Oh man I think I’m in love. Dirt under my finger and toe nails (still earthin it up!), goat milk in my face, fresh lemon balm tea floatin down my esophagus, and a sick summer thunderstorm viewed from the farmhouse balcony…today was a miraculous day. Thank you, Jesus.

There’s a simple joy to this farm routine. Alarm at 6:15, read a little paragraph about Jesus’ love, get dressed, Morning Prayer at 7, milk the goats, eat breakfast, go to Mass, then WEED!

I weeded at least 40 tomato plants today over a span of three hours. And my muscles got ripped! I also mulled over some thoughts that inspired me to pray a lot.

Before

After

My reflection today was thought control. Negative thoughts come in and I need to surrender them to God. Leave em like a bad relationship. And be lighthearted, thankful to God for present joys…which abound if I look.

The tomato plants were covered with morning glory vines—not at all glorious to the tomatoes, and surrounded by rocks and sod. At least four plants in the row were dead. It was hard work as I battled barefoot with my hoe the growth on the ground and weedy thoughts in my mind.

I ripped out those vines which choked the plants and yanked out other old plant roots three feet long. And then I fought with the thoughts that bothered me and whispered words of love and encouragement to the plants.

The farmer thanked me for my work and said, “Only someone who’s done it knows how hard it is.” That was true about the weeding, but I also thought in gratitude of the people in my life who have been where I’ve been, dealt with similar emotional trauma, and got themselves healed so they can help me heal!

I’m also grateful for a quote from A Visit from Heaven by Immaculee Ilibagiza about the Virgin Mary’s appearance in Rwanda as Our Lady of Kibeho. Immaculee survived the Rwandan Holocaust and forgave the murderers who killed her family. Her experience inspired her to share her devotion to Our Lady of Kibeho who appeared to warn Rwandans of the genocide years before it happened; Our Lady told Rwandans to rid their hearts of hatred in return for Christ’s love.

On faith and forgiveness, Immaculee wrote, “Many people have left their faith because a certain priest, pastor, church leader, or some other person of faith did something wrong or hurt them in some way. It made them question everything they had ever learned about their faith. However, Our Lady’s messages remind us that Heaven is real, Purgatory is real, Hell is real and that matters of faith are between individuals and God.

We are instruments to each other and if an instrument fails God we need to pray for him. Don’t risk losing heaven because of another human being!

Our Lady reminds us that in the first place we should seek to please God, not human eyes. We must lend each other prayer without losing our faith, because we are taking this journey together.”

Some of my negative thoughts revolved around people who had hurt me.

For some reason one statement I heard from a college professor stuck out in my mind, “Young people can’t think for themselves.” I prayed the last Joyful Mystery: the finding of Jesus in the Temple, and asked Jesus where He was in these words.

I thought if young people can’t think for themselves, perhaps they weren’t properly formed to know how to become mature adults. I’ve felt this lack of formation in my own past and it made me think that this woman had a lack of faith in the ability of young people to learn to think themselves. I also teach young people now and know how important it is to form them in the Truth, so they can think not only for themselves, but with an outlook for others’ good.

The finding of Jesus in the Temple reminds me that Jesus was young when He schooled the learned. Joseph and Mary formed Jesus, but He also had wisdom of which they did not know. Older people can learn from youth. Jesus also says unless you become like a child, you can’t enter heaven.

Perhaps it takes reconciliation with any lack of childhood formation to come to adult maturity. I think even adults need this re-formation through forgiveness of past sins against their formation as children of God, made in His image. I need to be open to this healing daily.

I also thought that the temple is my body and Jesus is there, just as He is in others I need to continue to forgive. God bless that teacher and give us both hope!

The weeds today were bigger than yesterday’s because it had rained, and I thought it’s incredible how weeds, like negative thoughts, grow overnight if they aren’t ripped from the root and trounced in the noonday sun/Son.

Someone once wrote that positive thoughts are so natural to humans, who were made good, that they flow right through us; negative thoughts, however, are so unnatural that we mull over them and think about them in an attempt to rationalize their existence in our bodies.

As my Zumba instructor said, I need to refocus on the positive thoughts…so I grabbed some to look at today before they left my mind.

For one, the Creator of the Universe made it rain! Not like makin it rain on the basketball court with jumpers, but like water actually materializing in the air.

Avalanches of water descended from the sky tonight as I sat on the balcony and applauded God’s thunderstorm like I was at a concert watching my favorite band. Way to go God – Yeah!

God made rain for me to enjoy. And for everyone else too, individually.

After the storm, I had a theological/philosophical conversation with the farmer who shared a time when God gave him a nature gift. He once saw a row of seven bluebirds sing. He said their reason for existence was to sing just for him – and his observation of them was his reason of existence for them.

He said some people believe “You’re here, some shit happens to you, and you die. Other people believe that everything has meaning.” He chooses the latter.

Over bourbon and balm (lemon tea), the farmer and I agreed that God created everyone and everything out of love for love. It's a daily work with grace to recognize this love, forgive and accept it. Yet there is poetry in concrete existence, and there is joy in childlike simplicity.

Jeep Wave

The "Jeep Wave" could quite possibly save the world. I road in a Wrangler today and received five waves in a half hour. It's a simple hand flick from one Jeep driver to another -- a quick affirmation of the cool decision to drive that brand of vehicle, and perhaps a recognition of the joy it is to be human, alive (and drive a Jeep).

My cousin introduced me to the Jeep Wave about a month ago. I saw him in the seafood section of the grocery store. He happily sauntered (because he has a bro walk) from where he worked behind the counter to whip out his phone and show me pictures of his latest off-road Wrangler adventures. He found about 20 other Jeep enthusiasts on an online forum; they met at a turnpike exit and traveled together on mud covered trails through the New Jersey Pine Barrens.

Excitement and spontaneous joyful chuckles rang from his low, cool voice as he told me all the improvements he made to his Jeep (like a Eagle roof decal with his name on it designed by my brother). I shared the only knowledge I had on the topic: my neighbor seemed to have refinished his Jeep the other night, but it looked like spray paint to me (I've no idea the look of a proper paint job).

He laughed because he knew the guy immediately upon mention and confirmed that it was spray paint; his friend couldn't afford a real paint job, but my cuz affirmed the vehicle looked better black than its former two-toned complexion.

So I learned about the Jeep wave at the fish counter. And I learned today that there's a Harley Davidson motorcycle sign of acknowledgement (like a low peace sign, I believe), and a Mini Cooper Wave.

This is all very cool and a great source of amusement to me. But what if I relate it to God? Yea, just upped the ante, bro.

What if I gave a little wave to everyone I saw not just because we happened to wear the same brand of sunglasses (like what's with Ray Ban anyway?) but because we actually all have the same Maker. And not only that, but we're all made in His image. What? Yea, that'd probably save the world.

When I went to Rome a couple weeks ago, I told my traveling buddy who talked about her boyfriend a good amount, that "Love would save the universe." I actually said it almost as frequently as she mentioned her beau so she'd know just how in love she was.

It became a little joke. But the reality is, Love already did save the world. Now I just have to live out that Good News.

Hey, neighbor, how you doin today?

Goats

The family.

"Here comes everybody," said G.K. Chesterton about the Catholic Church. And the white goat in the back right of this picture is part of the Witness Protection Program.

Banana Cream Pie

Today’s miracles: childlike joy and a unique variation of banana cream pie.

Today’s mishaps: my car in a ditch, flip-flops run over by a rototiller, and a reminder that my goat cheese tasted like lemony yuck.

So again I reached my hands to the sunblind sky and shouted, “God, you made me! Thank you! Amen!”

My eyes were primed to find excitement amidst the mundane in my morning reflection from Jesus Calling:

“I long to make your life a glorious adventure, but you must stop clinging to old ways. I am always doing something new within My beloved ones. Be on the lookout for all that I have prepared for you.”

After the farmer removed my car from the ditch, and we laughed about my quadruple-y doused lemon juice goat cheese, and I hoed my flip-flops out of the ground on which I was “earthing” – walking barefooted to weed the garden, a miracle happened.

(Actually all those instances were miraculous, but this one was delicious.)

The very great miracle happened around lunchtime. A playful volunteer joked that the farm chapel he painted yellow reminded him of banana cream pie and he wished he could have some. I retorted that I’d see what I could whip up in the kitchen for lunch, but admitted we didn’t have the ingredients and turned to walk back to the farm kitchen.

God had the fixings, however, and lavished those sweet gifts on his children in simple profundity.

Two French volunteers walked up the front stone steps and brought a cardboard box of food to the kitchen. I laughed when I saw bananas inside. I unpacked the rest and came across a black bag…filled with half a pound cake! And I remembered the whipped cream in the fridge…now that’s what I call banana cream pie!

One of the other painters said at lunch it was too bad the banana cream pie lover’s wish wasn’t granted…yea, man, because dessert wasn’t out yet!

Surprise! God makes miracles with the simplest of ingredients: joy, love, childlike faith and creativity. He inspired me to make that little dessert delight, but I wouldn’t have had the idea without the clever comment from that volunteer.

And we were all happy.

The banana cream pie man told me about adventures in daily life, that everyday inconveniences could be looked at as ways to battle the enemy or amuse oneself. He also shared a G.K. Chesterton quote about childlike exaltation in the tedium of life.

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, ‘Do it again;’ and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony.

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, ‘Do it again’ to the sun; and every evening, ‘Do it again’ to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that He makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.

It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

Last year, I cried of exhaustion from monotony, and a friend told me, “Do it again!” She reminded me to go to God for help again with the enthusiasm of a child who asks to play his favorite game or have his favorite book read to him for the umpteenth time (I’ve blogged on this previously).

So this morning was not the first time my car was immobilized. It was stuck in a snowbank three times this winter. And once, I drove a golf cart into a ditch…

And I thought, “Again? Really? Again?"

And God was like, “Yes again! Do it again! Get your car to move again! Practice patience and depend on me again! You are humbled again! You are not God (again!).”

The goat cheese I made was ruined because I was distracted and didn’t follow the directions. And I thought of other meals I destroyed in distraction. And God said, “Do it again! Forgive yourself again!”

Dirt covered my flip-flops so I could not see them. And I thought of the countless items St. Anthony found when I’d lost patience and given up the search on my own. And God said “Again! Do it again! Don’t give up the search! I am with you, here, very close! Again and again!”

God reminded me in today’s mistakes that I need forgiveness again and again. When I get impatient and think I can depend on myself, He shows me He is the only way to joy. He never changes—and that is not boring!

When I open my eyes like a child to her Daddy, He shows me again and again that when I depend on Him, He helps me and gives me boundless joy.

Today He showed me through an inventive banana cream pie and the miracle of a humorous volunteer's  joke that He loves me.

Today the sun rose. Today I am alive. Today I thank God for the miracles and miraculous mishaps that help me grow again and again.

Painted chapel

Independence Day

Independence Day. Religious freedom. Land of the pilgrims’ pride.

This isn’t day two of my Italy/France pilgrimage. It’s day I don’t know what in the pilgrimage of my life. (I’ll get back to the Europe trip soon).

I’m on a farm now for a month. I milked a goat this morning and I went for a walk/run in the dark rain last night with a flashlight. Three days ago, my apartment lease ended and my parents’ divorce was finalized.

The joy of this farm life mixed today with a sad feeling of homelessness, while I also thought of the meaning of light in darkness, and the Truth of liberty and religious freedom.

A few questions ran round my head:

Where is my home? What is independence? What is religious freedom?

I have no place “back home.” This feeling of homelessness isn’t a new thing in my life, but it isn’t more comfortable this time either. Is my home America? Or a building where I feel surrounded by love?

What about independence? I’ve been self-reliant many times in my life. And emancipated from my parents for many years. But is that the fullness of liberation?

There’s no machine gun held to my head when I attend Mass (thank God), but I know that chaplains are persecuted in the U.S. military (yes, in America). I can practice my religion in this country (the reason we celebrate Independence Day), but for how long? And is the legality of religious practice the whole of religious freedom?

This week I milked a goat and cleaned someone else’s fridge, but I lived by others’ schedule and that of God in nature and animals. I am tired. I cried about the loss of my own comfortable, safe-feeling timetable. I wish I had my own home and a self-made daily program.

But I grow here. And practically, right here, right now, I am home. Because my real home is eternal. I don’t really belong anywhere on this earth.

Also, the Eucharist is my home. Jesus is the source of peace in my body. He nourishes my weak little sad heart and gives me strength, mighty strength like that of a horned mama goat ready to bust a cap on anyone who might tryn mess wit her young. (My mama Mary is also mighty--she makes sure I get grace to receive daily communion.)

Right now freedom is naming my needs. I am independent when I tell someone else: I need daily exercise, healthy food, prayer and time to write. Why is this liberty? Because if I don’t name these simple needs, I let the desire for them fester inside and I get angry at myself that I didn’t voice them and at others that they can’t read my mind – that’s crazy slavery.

My freedom now is a little voice inside me that is me and God together. It says, “I love you. You are beautiful. You are awesome. You matter. I’m so proud of you.” Every day I strive to grow in the awareness and acceptance that even if I am criticized, I am still loved by God. And even if the basic needs I think are necessary aren’t met (like a regular schedule so I can feel secure and in control), God still takes care of me and continues to provide ways for me to grow – even in the midst of my discomfort, frustration, depression and anxiety.

And what about religion? I need to remember to pray every day that the American people will preserve the right to celebrate Mass in this country, as well as other religious freedoms we enjoy. And when that is taken away, I pray that I will have the strength to call God my savior in the midst of all persecution. On a personal and universal level, I pray that God removes obstacles that others and I have put in my own heart that prevent me from the free practice of religion in myself. If I am not free to worship in and through my own person, I will not care about religious freedom in my country or the world.

I used a flashlight to see through the darkness when I exercised last night. It was enough to lead me home.

My home is not just America or the house of my youth. Independence is not self-reliance or separation from the family. Religious freedom is not just the ability to attend Mass without fear of annihilation.

My home is heaven. My independence is the result of communal life. And my religious freedom is the liberty to follow God’s will in my heart, mind and life through the Eucharist, the core of my being.

Thank you, God, for the fourth of July to remind me of flickers of hope -- like the beam of a flashlight or bursts of fireworks -- on this pilgrimage to a free, independent life with You, my eternal home.

Pilgrimage Day 1

Praise the Lord for a sweet lil pilgrimage to Rome, Assisi and Lourdes at the beginning of June! I’m most grateful for the people God put with me on the trip – especially a group of Texans who kept it real with me throughout the journey. More about them later…now here’s Day 1.

I began my Italy/ France pilgrimage in Rome with Mass at St. Mary Major Church. I looked at the mosaic angels on the ceiling and thought of things that fly. I remembered the airplane that took me overseas and the stuffed toy cockatoo I made for a friend’s baby.

I thought about how much love and money was poured into those beautiful mosaic beings flocked in the heavens and I thought about the perseverance of artists so devoted to their craft and its impact on  generations that they persisted without the assurance they’d see the finished masterpiece. That’s way more perseverance than it took to create little Clarence the Cockatoo, though he’s filled great love.

And I thought of God who has a whole legion of angels fighting/flighting for me—a work of art more precious than any statue or fresco in Italy. God, grant me the perseverance to see myself as a work of art flyin high with your love in my life!

The Memorare reminds me to fly to Mary, who begs all the graces I need from her Son in the work of art in my soul.

“Remember O most Gracious Virgin Mary that never was it known that anyone who fled to your protection, implored your help or sought your intercession was left unaided.”

God give me the grace to fly to you again and again as you continue to clean out of my heart all that holds me back from soaring into the sunset of your resurrection. And when I die, let my soul fly to you with the swiftness of an angel or cockatoo, of the same genus perhaps as the dove which St. Benedict watched leave his sister St. Scholastic’s body when she died.

I was also grateful for Sunday Mass that day, which I didn’t think we’d have due to the arrival time, and for a young Texan woman who became my friend. She was the same age my sister would have been if she were alive and she was born on St. Anthony’s feast day -- because St. Anthony is the man and he loves me.

Thank you God for simple lovin and flyin friends in Rome.