I felt ridiculously better after Mass last Sunday.

This, despite 3 cell phones going off. Let me break down for you how this sounds.

1. You hear the muffled ringing, in someone's pocket or purse.

2. You hear the flustered fumbling of that person trying to get their phone out.

3. You hear the suddenly amplified and amazingly shrill sound fill the entire building, as the ringing reaches up to the painted heavens on the domed church ceiling.

I'm not sure how better to translate the 'please turn off all electronic devices' entreaty prior to the beginning of Mass.

Somehow, though, the Holy Spirit managed to weave its way around my annoyance and find a point of entry. Somehow we've managed to hang together this entire week. And it feels good.

I loved the Gospel reading, but I'm uncertain of its meaning. Martha and her sister Mary, welcoming Jesus. Martha, the workhorse, sweating in the kitchen, gets pissed when she sees Mary just chilling by the feet of Jesus. Why isn't she helping me? Martha thinks? Why is she just sitting there?

When Martha questions this, and brings Jesus into it, he tells her that her sister has chosen the better path. Listening has trumped service. Contemplation has trumped dinner prep.

I admit to being confused by this. On one hand, I can understand how contemplation has to be part of the spiritual life of a person. On the other hand, I wonder what the lesson is, exactly. Should Martha have taken her seat on the floor? Let her anxiety go about feeding someone whom she loves greatly?

As someone who enjoys having company, I could feel her stress. If I don't do it, who will prepare the meal? But Jesus essentially told her she was fretting about all the wrong things.

I admit to feeling bad for her.

So ultimately, I'm not sure the moral. We serve others. We contemplate. But we're supposed to know which is preferable when? Should Martha have trusted that somehow the meal would get made?

Can you help elucidate this for me?

If I were smart, I'd have gone to church this morning. 8AM Mass, dragging the kids and all. It would have been just us and a few elderly folks, I'm certain. If I really could pick, I'd only take Hannah with me. Lillian likes to test me. Last Sunday, she kept kicking her feet on the wood to make noises, and also kept lounging about on the pew like it was a poolside chaise lounge. I know she's four and I can't expect too much. But still, the reading and homily was about the Good Samaritan, and I like to focus. (Even though the focus sometimes is a stark reminder of how much I suck.) Case in point...difficult people. Jesus instructs us to love our neighbor, to show them mercy as the Samaritan does to the man who's been beaten and robbed and left for dead. I don't know how to apply this to difficult people.

I mean, I know how I'm supposed to apply this. I know I'm supposed to be kind to them anyway, even though they might drive me absolutely batty, that I'm supposed to show them love and mercy even when they are complete a-holes. This, my friends...exceedingly hard.

Anyway, a digression there, but a worthwhile one. I'm all upset. The class I'm taking is ridiculously hard, an advanced science course condensed into a nightmare 6-weeks long. I'm stuck and not getting these concepts. That's bad enough. Add to that the notion of being forgotten by the online community I've been writing with for almost 6 years? I'm feeling rather lost and sad, and singularly self-focused. Church is good for ridding oneself of this.

I have to pass this course.

I don't have to blog.

I want to be a nurse.

Is there a Patron Saint of Chemistry? Because I'm going to ask a favor, that you invoke this person and their brain, that they may take pity on me, suffering through my last chemistry class. I'm in tears for many reasons this morning, and sitting in front of my online homework problems certainly is not helping, because I have zero idea on how to complete these problems.

I wish I could shower in holy water.

I also need to go home. Like it's a drug, I need to go home and get some wide-open air in my veins. I need to sit by the pond and play with my nephew and see my parents. I think it's because I feel like such a kid right now, helpless and lonely.

Pray for me, okay? I don't need an A. I need to pass with a C for the credit to ultimately transfer. I got an 87 on my first test, but my optimistic bubble was burst when I saw the difficulty (and calculus-laden) quality of kinetics and equilibrium constants. I never took calculus. For good reason.

Anyway, I should have gone to church this morning.

Please help out and vote

It's been a ridiculously long time since I've posted. Summer is hectic, and chemistry is even more hectic. I knew I'd be losing my mind, so things are going as expected.

In the meantime, could you do me a favor and vote for Blessed Sarnelli Community on Facebook? My in-laws occasionally work with Fr. Kevin, who does really good work with Philadelphia's homeless community, by, you know, actually feeding them.

If they remain one of the top 200 vote-getters through Chase Community Giving, they will receive $20,000, which is a HUGE deal.



If you're on Facebook, it takes a second. Please help out! Just search for Blessed Sarnelli Community, located in Phila, PA, on the Chase Community Giving Facebook page. Thank you!!

I've been praying a lot for patience.

I can tell you, without a doubt, I am a better parent when I attend Mass regularly. Because that's when I sit and ask God for the ability to recognize my awesome charge, and to not screw it up too much.

My children are generally a delight. They are the kind of children you wouldn't mind if I brought over to your house. Because THERE ARE children that you would mind coming over to your house.

My girls tend to use manners and help clean up (even if that requires multiple requests) and aren't troublemakers. (Okay, my 4-year old has been known to start a controversy, but still, that's fairly rare.)

It's when I have them, alone, that's the issue. More often than not, they do not get along. More often than not, they end up fighting over things that make me scratch my head. This morning, at breakfast, it was because Lillian was teasing Hannah about not liking blackberries.

And I was like, you've got to be kidding. All these tears over blackberries?

And I try to be calm and think back to when I was younger, and I know somewhere along the way I got angry or irritated over something not worth a second of my time.

But then I get all like, oh my Lord, we're talking fruit, here. Is this really a punishable offense?

Life. Life. Life. Those kids drive me crazy, and make me crazy with love.

At night I've been falling asleep before asking for forgiveness. I do, however, get in the heartfelt request for patience and a list of things I've been thankful for.

The other day, it was thanks for the sight of my girls swinging. Lily can pump her legs now, allowing me the unique position to observe them both. Their long hair blows with their movement. Suddenly, they're all legs and smiles. Last night, I gave thanks for the grace that found me in my kitchen, stunned with Hannah's sudden maturity. I was setting up a picnic for them with a neighbor's granddaughter in our backyard. I suggested we use a plaid flannel sheet used for camping. "I'll get it Hannah," I said. "It's in the basement."

"Don't worry, Mom. I'll can get it." And before I knew it, she was bounding down the basement stairs, and back up again, emerging with the sheet, only to run back outside again. So many things she can get on her own now. It is both exhilarating and heartbreaking.

Tonight I'll give thanks for Lillian coming downstairs this morning, still sleepy in her pajamas, but wearing sunglasses. It was a random thing, and it made me smile.

They drive me crazy, and I ask for calm. They make me crazy with love. So many things to be grateful for. So many things to thank God for.

Come to my assistance in this great need....

I'm completely and totally sick of these headaches. Not that I was ever really down with them to begin with. I was fairly gleeful of late to find that I wasn't getting them with my usual frequency and ferociousness, which I ascribed to a regular workout schedule. I still believe in this, that working my muscles and heart has benefited my head. For the month of May, however, I've been feeling like my body was hell-bent on giving me a headache.

And this, perhaps, might be the source of my feeling depressed, which I wrote about at my heathen blog.

The neurological effects of migraines are interesting. I've felt shaky, nauseated, sensitive to light, really sad. I've had trouble sleeping. And my medicine isn't working. I get 6 pills a month covered by insurance. Since Sunday, I've taken three. No luck.

So I don't know what this means. I guess it just means I'm due for pain. I've had my respite, and now I'm due.


I took the girls to a parish carnival a few weekends ago. On our way back to our car, I showed them the room near the back of the church that has all the candles. You can light one and say a prayer, surrounded by statues of Mary and Jesus and Joseph, and yeah, who's that guy back there? Oh, that's St. Jude.

Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases. Patron Saint of Unending Head Pain. Patron Saint of Sad People.

Or, that cool guy with the flame on his head.

Don't you wish you could walk around like that sometimes? Decked out in a spectacular flame? And you could answer people like this. Yes, why yes. Of course I've been touched by the Holy Spirit.

I'm doing a novena to St. Jude now, but it has nothing to do with my headaches. I've learned, since being diagnosed with migraines, that there is actually something called Chronic Daily Headaches. So while I may feel desperate and like a hopeless case in the midst of this pain, I've been informed that it could be worse. Like, every day worse. That would suck.

Maybe I'll write about the novena specifics some day. Probably not.

I remember, when I was younger, the area I lived in had a weekly circular called The Penny Saver. It advertised garage sales and appliances and estate sales and pets for sale and all manner of things. There were personals in there, and tucked within the personal were spaces dedicated to St. Jude, prayers and thanks for answers received. I used to read them, even though most said exactly the same thing, and wondered why someone had to take out an ad. Multiple ads. Multiple people. All saying the same thing.

I understand now. If my novena is answered with a yes, I think I might have to rent a billboard.

If it's a no, though, I get it. I would get the reasons why.

Still, I might just have to start another one. I wonder if a saint can be worn down, if they're like, Jesus...again? That woman is tenacious!

St. Jude, Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases Who Are Still Plucky and Determined Despite Being Sad and Headachey. I do believe that has an interesting ring to it.

This Day Will Not Come Again

When am I going to learn that 'vigil' means the night prior? I missed the Feast of the Ascension, and mass for two weekends in a row, and I'm feeling rather aimless, like I'm floating in the ocean, wearing only swimmies.

Very unprepared. And drifting.

I checked my parish's website and found that all the morning masses were -- surprise -- ones that I couldn't attend.

Did I tell you that the last time I attended mass, the celebrant used a decent amount of Latin? Also not good. And I feel bad about saying that, because there once was a time everything was in Latin and then there was a huge sea change, and I bet the old-schoolers felt out of it and unhappy. Something beloved was different. I know how hard that is to swallow. There is something restorative in the cadence of words we know by heart. Words we could recite in our sleep.

The new translations are coming. Can I tell you how bereft I am that I'll have to give up Lord I am not worthy to receive you? It's going to be replaced with something like Lord I am not worthy to welcome you under my roof. That's not it exactly, but the gist is there. And although both statements are completely true, I have a fondness for the one I've said forever.

Some people have said that because the words are so familiar, people tend to zone out while saying them, and that maybe a change will bring new life to mass. I'm going to have an open mind, though I say that with a grumpy look on my face and defiantly crossed arms.

Since I'm scattered and feeling apart right now, I'm going to close with some Thomas Merton. I began thumbing through Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander last night, and was a bit dismayed to find that a lot of it is esoteric. He's quoting this philosopher or this theologian. It will take some work to read it. But there are some brief parts where Merton is describing his surroundings at Gethsemani, and it's like taking a coffee break while listening to a lengthy talk on foreign policy.

A sweet summer afternoon. Cool breezes and a clear sky. This day will not come again. The young bulls lie under a tree in the corner of their field. Quiet afternoon. Blue hills. Day lilies nod in the wind. This day will not come again.

I Heard the Bells

I love a conversion story, whether it details the shift from absence of belief to the embracing of it, or perhaps a faith that isn't drawn upon or remembered, and suddenly something happens to jolt one into a new awareness.

I could read an entire book of conversion stories, and never grow weary of them. I stuck with Thomas Merton throughout his, and wasn't disappointed, as he transitioned from a college student swayed mostly by debauchery to newly baptized Catholic to a Trappist monk. And yes, that's quite a transition.

My own story is brief, and for some reason, or a myriad of reasons, I cannot share it in detail. Sometimes I feel like if I do, then I chip away at its meaning for me. Sometimes I feel like if I think about it too much, I start questioning its authenticity. When it comes to manifestations of God, I've always been more like Agent Mulder rather than Agent Scully. Agent Mulder believed in aliens, and not much else. Agent Scully believed in God, and always had a scientifically based rebuttal to Mulder's beliefs. (Oh, X-Files, I miss you!)

Unlike Agent Mulder, I do believe in God, but I always have questions. I don't embrace and believe as often as I'd like. So I worry that the more I examine my experience, the more likely I am to pick it apart, and chalk it up to coincidence or some other earthly reason. Additionally, there is the nagging suspicion that I am simply not worthy of God's voice. Why would He talk to me?

But He did. And, at least, that's the story I'm sticking to for now.

Sometimes when I think of the particular prayer I had said the night before my moment, and what I had asked for, I get this little chill. Goosebumps, I think, and laugh about it, like there's a bit of the Holy Spirit left in my memory of things, and it rises through firing neurons to manifest on my skin. To manifest in the remembering.

I think of my child -- who, at the time, was 3 years, 4 months old -- and how she answered my prayer the next morning. How she spoke of the concern I whispered in the dark of my room, as she slept. How she gave voice to wisdom way beyond her years in a single sentence.

Anne Lamott once wrote that she wished we could hear bells to announce the coming of grace in our daily lives, so we could embrace it more, and be aware of it. A celestial ding-dong to help us survive and deal.

I heard the bells, or rather felt them, but after, not before, when my eyes became ridiculously watery sitting across from my child, realizing at that moment God was talking to me. Me. And He was using my child to do it.

I wasn't faithless at the time. I was starting to re-explore, reading out of curiosity and starting to attend Mass again. So while perhaps my experience isn't exactly a conversion, I kind of view it as a divine kick in the pants. And I'm grateful for it.

Not worthy. But grateful.