I wanted to tell God He was wrong to give me this suffering-that I don’t have the character for it.

The truth is it’s easy to sound holy on “paper.” It’s easy to act like I get the point of suffering and that I know how to act. But reality is I haven’t always been happy with the way I’ve responded. I haven’t always been patient, courageous, steadfast and constant and trusted God the way the saints I write about have. I haven’t always, if ever, embraced my suffering.

But you probably can guess what’s God response is to this latest temper tantrum: that’s right, you don’t have the character for this, but you will by the end of it.

Must we always learn everything the hard way?

But that’s the simple truth of it. We cannot get to holiness—to perfection of our character—without suffering. It’s the iron the sharpens the sword, the fire that purifies the gold.

So maybe next time I do a little better and no doubt I fall again.

But through it all I see something emerging–who I am capable of being. The best version of myself, As Matthew Kelly would say. Someone  I didn’t even know I could be. We learn a lot about ourselves in our suffering. Some people have even been impressed by what I have been able to do in the midst of this. But truth is, we just don’t know what we can do until we have to.

God gives us what we need when we need it–and not until we need it and not more than we need but just enough.

Really that’s what we see. We see God’s strength in us.

And we know He can do all things. so we know we will get through–and it can be beautiful, even though we fall sometimes.

Elizabeth Ann Seton experienced a lot of loss:  Her mother dying when she was quite young, her stepmother rejecting her after she and Elizabeth’s father separated, the death of her husband, the death of two daughters.

A lot of times this loss brought a change of plans for Elizabeth. Even her conversion to Catholicism did not come without pain as the girls school she had started was soon being emptied as parents pulled their girls out because of the strong anti-Catholicism sentiment of the day.

Yet she served wherever she was. In her married life when she was a prominent society member, she was known for taking care of the sick and suffering. The Catholic school she established was free and her religious order was dedicated to serving children of the poor.

She served wherever she was. Life threw a lot of changes at her. She kept going on God’s path, she kept serving in whatever capacity she could find.

Suffering can change everything for us. It yanks us off our path of life and puts us on to another. What do we do then? Sit down on the path and stay still?

No, we begin moving in the new direction God has laid out for us. We keep seeking His will and being open to opportunities to serve Him while being thankful for those around us who have found their opportunities to serve God by helping us.

Our service may come in very small ways. Maybe it is just that our suffering gives us a unique perspective that helps us relate to someone who needs it. Maybe its just as simple as people seeing us attending Church faithfully when they know our lives are in complete turmoil. Maybe God has something even bigger for us on this new path.

But that’s what I see in Elizabeth, whose feast day is on my birthday by the way.  It’s the ability to adapt and change and keep serving, keeping our eyes on God and walking down whatever path He puts us on.

The thing we were pretty sure we needed is gone.

Here we are still alive.

It feels like such a great loss but when I really took inventory, I realized I had much more than I needed. And the truth is, we don’t need our health, our family’s health, all our family to be present and okay. . . .yes, those are strong desires. And very, very good and natural desires. But its not a need. When taken away, we don’t die. Maybe go into survival mode for a while–maybe a long while–but we can rise again.

But we do need God. We need our faith. We need to know that this life  isn’t everything. Without that, I have no idea why I would have kept going.

And that’s it. food, water, shelter. God. Our needs.

You see it clearly when things are taken from you: that you don’t need what you thought you did to survive. Even still–it feels like everything is taken. But it isn’t. If we look around there is so, so much to be thankful for.

And someday knowing that will even make me smile again.

And maybe someday I will get really good at this suffering thing, and be grateful for the suffering! Maybe I will even believe I NEED the suffering.

I will let you know if I get there!

Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.

Job 13:15

Do whatever He tells  you. The words of Mary at the Wedding at Cana. It is still the words of Mary today in her quiet, gentle way.

Do whatever He tells you.

Sometimes He tells us that we must suffer. Sometimes He tells us that we must carry our own cross . . .like He did.

And Mary is no stranger to that as she watched her son suffer and die. What did she do in the midst of her grief, suffering, and loss? She waited in prayer and hope. She was among the apostles, probably whispering to them as she does to us today: “do whatever He tells you.”

And so Mary brings us to Jesus. She brought Jesus to us through carrying Him in her womb. Now, she gently guides us on the path to Jesus.

A mother has a  unique role, a unique way of guiding her children. So it is no wonder that Jesus gave her to John, and by extension to us, on the Cross. And that is why we need Mary. So she can guide us to Jesus in that way only a  mother can.

Sometimes in my grief, I cry out to Mary. I cry out to her because she has a mother’s heart. Because I know that she hurts for me the way a mother does. And because  I know that if my own will is having trouble accepting what God has for me, that she will gently help me to accept it.

Do whatever He tells you.

For more on Mary and the Rosary, check out:

I am a pillar of salt.

Seriously.

That’s my whole problem–I am like Lot’s wife. I keep looking back. How many times has God told me that I need to let go. But I can’t. I can’t let go of the past. The past is the life that I want and I can’t accept the future which looks to me like a life that I don’t want at all.

The future looks terrifying.

And so I say, “Lord, save me.”

And what does He say? “Why are you terrified, O you of little faith?”

That was the disciples in today’s Gospel (Matthew 8:23-27). They were terrified of the storm. They thought that surely they were perishing. I mean that’s what it looked like. That was the logical conclusion to the terrible storm they were in the midst of.

But they did the right thing-they called out to Jesus. They recognized that the situation was so much bigger than them. They realized they couldn’t save themselves. They realized they needed help and that He was the one who would give it to them.

“Lord, save us.”

And after they turned to Him and allowed Him to work in the circumstance, there was a great calm.

I am terrified from holding on to something that is already gone. The calm comes in the calling out to our Savior and letting go, letting Him work.

It’s just where I’m at right now. For whatever reason, I’ve kind of gone back to the beginning of my grieving process–as happens from time to time. It’s a dark period, I guess.

So today, when I read the Gospel for the vigil Mass of the feasts of Sts. Peter and Paul (John 21:15-19), I felt like Jesus was asking me what He was asking Peter: “Do you love Me?”  In the midst of the dark moment, Jesus wants to know if I still have my eyes on Him, if I still am clinging to the one thing–my faith.  So  He is asking me the question again. Do you love Me? Didn’t I answer you already Lord?

Yes, but maybe I’m the one who forgot what the answer is

And then . . . at the end of this reading (after He tells Peter how He is going to die), He says, “Follow me.” Follow me through the darkness and uncertainty.

It’s a blinding, groping kind of Yes–like I am holding on to Jesus’ cloak in complete pitch darkness. I can’t see in front of me and I can’t see Him but I trust that He is there. I just keep holding on and walking.

So that’s it . . .that’s my message for this day; that’s the question Jesus is asking.

Do you love me? Do you trust me? Follow me.

This picture was taken from the rose bushes I planted this spring. I have always loved roses and I can see them outside of my laundry room window–a tiny ray of hope and comfort.

Suffering boils life down to its most basic level.

When we are not suffering, a lot of things have meaning to us. Little things bother us more  and little things mean more to us.

When we suffer, little things may still upset us . . .but not In the same way. Suffering gives us perspective. It helps us keep the little things little as we see them in the light of the big thing or things we may be losing or that have changed for us. In other words, we learn the difference between mountains and molehills.

That also works for the things we “love.” Puppies and our favorite color and sweater and foods don’t hold the same meaning as we fight for what does–our faith and our family. In this sense, this reality points back to the detachment from earthly things that we gain from our suffering.

Our suffering is painful because of the great importance of whatever is causing the suffering. And now we know just exactly how important it is. And, as is usually, if not always the case, if our suffering involves loss, we see that although the pain is incredible, we can live without this thing–even if it is so important to us.

So everything is boiled down to what matters and maybe something that matters is being taken from us. What do we have left?

Ever heard Robert Frost’s poem, Bereft:

Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and the day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out on the porch’s sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.

Its a good summary of what I am getting at: everything is taken. What’s left?

God.

God.

If everything is taken, we just need to hold on to God for dear life. He is still there-and He may be the only thing but He is there. We can’t control the situation or the suffering. But holding on to our faith is what makes us stronger through it instead of weaker. Recognizing that God is there, loving us and helping us is what allows us to pass through. Being able to say, “Blessed be the name of the Lord,” in the midst of our pain is what keeps us going.

In short, many things,  maybe everything can be taken from us.

Our faith in God is what matters.