Climbing Mountains

My ankles were throbbing as I climbed up the mountain. Overwhelmed with nausea and fatigue, I kept going. It was toward the end of my year as a Jesuit Volunteer in Mobile, Alabama and I was celebrating my 23rd birthday in the Smoky Mountains National Park when a group of us decided to embark on a hike to Rainbow Falls. It also marked about one year since I began aggressive treatment for my chronic autoimmune condition, Lupus.

I was diagnosed with Lupus in 2013 and upon my college graduation, my illness was progressing. So it began - intense immunosuppressants, steroids and chemotherapy. In the midst this, I also prepared to move across the country to begin my year as a Jesuit Volunteer. My symptoms intensified and I had chosen to back away from high impact activity to give myself some space to heal.

During the trip, my heart was aching to climb the mountain. I love to be active and be outdoors, but had been pushed to take it easy for awhile because of my health. I was nervous but I went for it, pushing myself into the unknown, away from my anxious mind that feared how my body would hold up, unsure if I could handle it, but feeling that I had to try. I think this is how I found myself in Alabama too. I felt called to live among the poor and passionate about accompanying people with disabilities. So I had to decide - follow my heart, enter into the risk of leaving the comfort that home had offered me as I struggled with my health, or stay safely where I knew I could thrive, but be haunted by a feeling that there was more out there for me that I was giving up on. I knew the feeling well. Then too, I pushed myself into the unknown.

The hike was rocky and steep, an upward climb switching back and forth into the mountain fog. My knees ached from pain, each step impacted more by the rocky trail. I was overwhelmed, and anxious about holding the others in my group back, which only added to the stress my body was facing. Sometimes, the pain of chronic illness isn’t just difficult to live with because it hurts, but because it can be a deep reminder of a life I feel like I have slowly lost parts of. With each step of pain shooting through my body, I also felt loss, anger, shame, sadness toward this part of who I am, for struggling with something that used to easily bring me happiness. The pain intensified as my emotions did too. I just wanted it to be over.

In some ways, the last year of my life has felt much like this. One steep mountain climb after another, struggling to catch my breath and never quite able to catch my footing on the climb. With stings of pain in each step along the way.

I entered into the vocation of sharing life with adults with disabilities, as we call core members. L’Arche, French for “the ark”, is symbolic as a place of refuge, where one can come to find safekeeping in the midst of life’s storms - a place of belonging. The community became my refuge in the midst of my lifes raging storms during the year. L’Arche provides homes and workplaces, but on its broader mission, it hopes to create inclusive communities of companionship of those both with and without disabilities. It seeks to reveal the gifts of others, to show each person their value, worth and belonging, and to transform society through relationships which look beyond societal standards. I moved to Alabama expecting to be moved by the joy and love I would encounter at L’Arche and I was, more than I can tell you, but I never imagined the weight of pain that would also accompany me on that journey too. And like the painful hike I experienced as I climbed to the summit of Rainbow Falls, sometimes I just wanted the year to be over, to escape from the pain of it and move on. 

About half way through my year, news came to me that a core member in our community had a horrifying history of sexual assault. I was completely broken about it - shocked, disgusted and hopeless. How could this happen? What could I possibly do to walk alongside her in this? I did my best to care for her through the emotional pain of it. Each day brought hardship. She was broken and healing as best as she could...and I was angry. I came to discover that on top complex medical conditions, several other core members also had histories of abuse. The stores of the people who had become my family shook me. I was so angry at a world that lets this happen. 

I was also angry as I heard cries of pain coming from the marginalized groups whom my JVC community mates worked with - the incarcerated, immigrants, domestic abuse survivors, and those living beneath the poverty line. I felt more pain as marginalized groups in my own country feared their own safety, and a president who spews hate was elected. I was so angry at all of the stings of pain in the world around me. 

And there was also some pain within myself, as the fears I had when I decided to move to Alabama came true. I continued to struggle with my chronic conditions, away from my support systems and adjusting to a new life. Managing new doctors, new symptoms and a new life added stress, and I missed the ones in my life who I could count on to understand. I tried to ignore the pain I was deeply feeling but it didn't work - I ended up developing severe anxiety and depression. I went days at a time without sleeping and suffered from panic attacks sometimes multiple times a week. I felt robbed of who I was, like I had lost my own cheerful perseverance that I had always loved about myself. When I tried to push my pain to the side, it came back deeper. And I was ashamed for feeling so lost when it felt like I had everything going for me.

I think sometimes pain and heartache make us feel like we aren’t enough, that it’s wrong to feel so hurt and that we are damaged. Society has taught us that it is shameful to feel broken, that we need to be strong and overcome things to be successful. I remember pulling myself through the hike so ashamed for what I was feeling, and embarrassed. Why do we sometimes run from our pain and push it away instead of embracing it, letting it change us and grow? 

I try to remember that even Jesus felt pain but leaned into his emotions and embraced his sorrow as a way toward eternal healing and relationship with God. He was betrayed, abandoned by his followers, mocked and abused and ultimately faces the ultimate source of physical pain as he cried out “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?”

Running from the pain in our lives just doesn’t work because it finds a way back in. I've tried to hide from pain, afraid of what letting it in might do. But when I don’t acknowledge my pain, when I don't let myself feel it, it overtakes me. Learning to embracing my pain during this time of my life allowed me to be able look at the blessing within and beyond it. It gave me my cheerful perseverance back.

Henri Nouwen wrote in his book Life of the Beloved, 

“Befriending our pain and putting it under blessing does not make our pain less painful. In fact, it often makes us aware of how deep the wounds are and how unrealistic it is for them to vanish. The great task becomes that of allowing the blessing to touch us in our brokenness. Then, our brokenness will gradually come to be seen as an opening toward the full acceptance of ours as beloved”

I think that when we come to accept our brokenness, our pain and the pain around us, we can run freely with it instead of away from it. We can find healing, learning to live with our pain but with our hearts turned to seek love in the midst of it. 

As I finished my painful hike, we reached the top of the mountain and a glistening waterfall came crashing down in front of me. I collapsed down on a rock in amazement, letting it all soak in. A cool breeze rushed by and a light mist came through the air.

I let the pain of it all move through me and I finally acknowledged it, not as something shameful but as something that I had to accept that I deal with, that I was learning to live with everyday. In the midst of my brokenness, I was befriending my pain. I thought back to the hike and the beauty of it. The blessing was there all along. When I let the pain in, I let the blessing in too. I felt peace. I joined the rest of my friends as they sat beside the falls, overwhelmed with love and thankfulness as they too had accepted my own pain on the journey.

My time at L'Arche Mobile is really what showed me the importance in this. I saw how deeply the core members loved, how strongly they rejoiced - I saw God in each of their faces. I saw each of them accepting themselves as they were created and overcoming some of the most painful parts of life that lived in their hearts. They allowed God to penetrate their brokenness, still sometimes hurting but reflecting light brightly. Celebrating always. Allowing blessing to touch the broken parts within their heart.

Their hearts and sacred stories are forever with mine. Elmore, greeting me every morning as he asks for his cup of sweet coffee and tells me I am his best friend. Peggy, as she would check in with me every week about how I was feeling and how my doctors appointments went, never forgetting to thank me for even the smallest of tasks. Annie Pearl, as she told me how precious I am and that I am always in her heart. Courtney, whose laughter could make anyone smile. Willie, who could be having the worst day but still turn around and start dancing, offering a hug. Mark, who always let me know there would never be anyone else like me. Jonathon, though little in words would always let me know that he was thankful I was there. BJ, who never failed to ask me how I was doing, and give me a kiss on the cheek. And so many more, who have blessed me in ways I cannot even begin to describe.

                                   

  

They all know how to rest in the view of the waterfall, living peacefully and full of love for themselves and others. Recognizing their brokenness, but finding healing among it. As my L’Arche family poured this into my heart this last year, I have started to gain peace in my own pain and I have found some healing in it too.The biggest piece of beauty beyond the pain of my year - my L’Arche family - will always remind me of how loved I am, how to find joy and celebration, and how to to accept our brokenness and turn it into healing.  



It is a daily practice, to look past our pain and continue to see beauty, to let God enter into our brokenness to find ourselves whole again. I’m so thankful to L’Arche Mobile for accompanying me through that journey. As I continue, I think of them often. And when I feel overwhelmed, I imagine myself sitting among them, resting in front of the waterfall, out of breath but overjoyed with peace and healing.

Brokenness Made Whole

It was this month three years ago that I was diagnosed with Lupus, a chronic autoimmune disease, which has drastically changed my personal journey. Sometimes I feel like a broken record, because this challenge of mine inspires a lot of my writing and much of what I do. It forces me to often have uncomfortable conversations with others, to miss things I would rather not, to plan ahead, to be proactive in taking care of my self and to advocate for myself. It truly invades each and every aspect of my life, and I do not go an hour without having to think about this part of me. So this makes a "carefree" lifestyle that so many people admire and wish for a luxury that I can't afford.

It is not easy to share about. Although I am very open about this part of me, it is still painful for me to talk each time. But I have learned that vulnerability is essential for compassion and understanding. Without it, we cannot even come close. Even with it, we sometimes fall short. It has also been a key to empower myself. This is a constant challenge I face with many layers that come with it. And I have had to learn to love this thing that I most wish had not happened to me. On this quest to love, I find acceptance and healing - I find freedom from it.

As Lupus Awareness Month and Mental Health Awareness Month are coming to an end, I'm sharing this to continue to be authentically who I am, to escape the shame this can sometimes bring on and to continue to allow more love and peace into my life.

This last year of this journey been one of the most challenging years of my life. Last summer shortly after I graduated from college, my illness symptoms progressed quickly and I found myself in one of the lowest points physically that I had ever faced.  The physical pain in my body during these months was horrifying and intense. My Lupus treatments were not working and I was switched to a chemotherapy treatment which had equally as horrifying side effects and did not show any difference in my health. After trying various different treatments, I started to slowly improve by the end of the summer.

This was when I made a drastic life change and moved to Alabama to participate in a year of post-graduate service. I was able to function most days but really struggling with managing my symptoms, which occurred most days but with less intensity. I would often ignore them, push through them, and tell nobody.  The transition was quick and I felt left behind, unable to adjust to the changes - having little control over my body but expectations from others and mostly myself to adapt to a new life. I found myself experiences "Lupus hangovers" or a mini-flare, days or periods of time where you feel extremely depleted and symptoms are high, so much so that doing normal activities feels almost impossible.

I found myself in a strange emotional state. I was relieved and thankful that I was doing a bit better, but I was also filled with worry.

Life with chronic illness is a life of uncertainty - never knowing what could cause me to go into a flare, what will leave me feeling depleted, what I can and won't be able to handle , when I will feel good and when I will feel awful. I started to constantly worry about whether my disease would progress again, laying awake at night wondering if there could possibly be something else wrong or if I could have been misdiagnosed because I should be feeling better. I started to develop extreme anxiety. Planning trips or outings would sometimes give me panic attacks, because of how much I worried about what could go wrong or how much rest I could get. Any day could be a day where the pain is too much to move, where my life will need to be put on hold and where my illness becomes the ruler of what I am capable of. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop worrying. And because chronic illnesses are heavily influenced by stress, the stress of my out of control emotions caused my physical health to decline as well. It was like the pain that I had faced had scarred me, and the emotional damage leftover was almost just as painful.

I started to feel very sad too - for having to try so hard to take care of myself, for having to rest more than others, for having to skip things, for having to constantly evaluate my decisions - wondering if this thing or that might push me into another flare. Depression and anxiety are two very common side effects of living with illness and I had fortunately avoided those circumstances until now. I always have considered myself a grateful and joyful person, but I felt completely robbed of who I was - that now, not only was my physical body flawed, so completely out of my control - but my mental and emotional self too. I felt completely broken.

I've always had a love for looking up at the clouds and the sky. My phone is filled with pictures of moments where I just looked up in amazement. The beauty of the sky never ceases to put me in awe and I often find myself driving my car, staring into the sky, just smiling. During my recent silent retreat in Louisiana, I was staring into the beautiful sky of illuminated clouds right before dusk. It was completely magical.

I wandered around the grounds of the retreat center and started to think about one of my close friends, who used to say "Feelings are like clouds. They float in and then they float right back out". 

I think it's true. Like our different emotions come in and out of our lives, sometimes uninvited and sometimes warmly welcomed, so do the different moments we face. They float in and out, like the clouds above us moving about the sky. Some are bright and luminous, others grey - invoking anxiety or fear. But all of them have some stroke of blessing beneath them - a beautiful sunset painted among them, shade over the bright sun looming over us, or giving us the rain our Earth needs to keep going.

And even among the changing nature of those clouds, one thing remains constant - the sky beyond them.

Just like the clouds, the moments we face and the emotions we feel in our lives come and go, some with great beauty and some where the beauty might be more difficult to witness. But each with their own blessing, their own opportunity for gratitude to a God who walks with us through them, our sky beyond the floating and chaotic clouds of life.

Brokenness arrives in the moments of life - when we feel deep pain or shame, when we come to know grief and loss, when we lose our grasp on the fact that we are loved beyond compare. And sometimes that brokenness can stay - it doesn't float in and out easily and we wonder how their could be anything else beyond the heartache and pain it brings.

I have learned that our brokenness is an opportunity. An opportunity to look beyond our pain and let God enter in and make us whole again.  Jean Vanier writes "Our brokenness is the wound through which the full power of God can penetrate our being".

God only invites us into a relationship with Him. And in our hardships and our troubles, he is with us. He knows our pain and feels it too. And by accepting His invitation, by letting God into our own brokenness,  we can be made whole even when the pain is still there, even when the brokenness remains - because we can know that we are loved deeply and that our lives have purpose beyond anything that hurts us. Brokenness is our opportunity to find blessing, gratitude and beauty in every moment. Do not let your heart be troubled by it, but let your heart be opened to the healing power of Jesus's heart.

I don't want it to sound like I am just saying that the cure to mental illness or chronic illness is gratitude. It is not. It is a harmful thing to say that a person can stop being depressed because they suddenly become grateful and I want to be clear about that. I still often feel depressed. I am still very much chronically ill, and anxiety still overwhelms me. I still sometimes feel like I have lost a big part of who I am, and this is hard stuff that takes work and practice to overcome. I do not feel gratitude for any of these things right now and I think it is silly to suggest that any person might.

However I do find love this part of me, not for what it is and has brought into my life but for continuously pointing me back to God, for bringing me closer to His love and the love of those around me and teaching me how to be better. This love brings me to acceptance, awareness and freedom even among the toughness of all of it. And I do feel grateful, for a God who is preparing me for a life of excitement - each moment inviting me to feel whole in His love.

As I Have Done For You

"When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. 'Do you understand what I have done for you?' he asked them. 'You call me 'teacher' and 'Lord' and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and teacher, have washed your feet, you should also wash one another's feet. I have set an example that you do as I have done for you.'"

John 13:12-15

       As I read over this story in John's gospel, the story of Jesus as he washes his disciple's feet, I imagine what it might have felt like to be in this scene, having Jesus - the man who performed miracles, a man people gave up their lives to follow - kneel down and wash my own feet. 

     The disciples were shocked by it. Why was the Son of Man washing their feet? He was too good for this. But this simple act was so significant, as Jesus didn't pay attention to his own social status or his ego, but he simply knelt down to wash the feet of those who followed him, an act that a servant would usually perform. Jesus's willingness and humility as he easily prepared to wash his disciples feet was an act of love and service, a plain action which displayed our common humanity and the truth that in this world: that there should be no one who is deemed better or worse, but that we all belong to each other. And then he asks us to follow his example: serve one another "as I have done for you."

     Before Easter, we held a foot washing ceremony at L'Arche. In this ceremony, we formed small groups and sat in a circle. We turned to the person next to us, removed our socks and shoes and they would pour water over our feet into a basin and dry them with a towel, washing our feet. This person would then turn to the person next to them and have their own feet washed, and so on. As I sat in this circle, John's gospel in my head, I realized that this year has almost felt like a continuous washing of my feet - that I have again and again encountered God in my last 9 months with L'Arche and more than anything, in a year where I expected to be giving my own service, I myself had been served and loved more fully than I could have imagined. 

     Peggy, a core member at L'Arche who I've grown very close with, comes straight to my mind. She has such a spirit of compassion, love, sassiness, humor and just outright kindness that I hope to embody. One of my personal challenges this year has presented me with has been managing my physical health while working full time for the first time, transitioning to a new area and balancing several changes in my Lupus treatments. This has often left me feeling very frustrated, stressed and sometimes even alone. And something that has helped me to keep going despite this challenge has been Peggy's love, concern and compassion towards me. 

     As I've been missing work for different doctor appointments and dealing with some side effects from my treatment changes, I'm walking alongside the core members of L'Arche who are living a shared reality with me, often facing some of these same challenges in their own ways, and I am finding that as I am caring for them - I am being cared for too. In this, I find a profound sense of belonging and connection to my place here. 

     Sometimes I'll chat with Peggy about my upcoming appointments, when I will be late the next day because I have an appointment or if I'm feeling a particular way that day, I'll let her know. She always remembers. She will ask me the next day how the doctor was and tell me about how much she hates going to the doctor herself. She lets me know she missed me. She will ask for the next few weeks how the pain in my foot is, or how my headache is, or if I finally got a good night sleep. She makes me feel intently heard and listened to what I am struggling with, when often in my life this really hasn't been the case. My health has often felt like a burden, or something that I need to prove to doctors, people around me, etc. It is something that unfortunately I know most of those close to me will never be able to fully understand because they don't live it. Feeling misunderstood is a really hard place to be. But Peggy understands.

     This feeling of belonging and understanding is radiated by all of the core members I am with at L'Arche. Sometimes Mark can see me struggling throughout the day and continues to asks me if I am okay. Elmore and Marcell welcome me back with a big hug, saying they prayed for me while I was away sick. Jon and Willie give me their giant hugs and unforgettable smiles. Their love and understanding is my daily encounter with God, a renewing, refreshing and humbling daily washing of my feet. 

     When I pictured what my year living in Alabama might look like, I didn't imagine that it would lead me into an overwhelming feeling of love, care, attention and belonging from those I came to serve.  I feel that my experience with L'Arche has not only been a continuous washing of the feet, but a washing of the heart and soul too. And I am so grateful for it.     

An Obligation to Awe

     The past few months have been quite overwhelming.

     I find it interesting that there are no other words that can quite replace the word - "overwhelming".  I sometimes find myself trying to search for another word to describe the emotions that have filled me and nothing fits - I'm haven't been always sad, or angry. I'm not always happy.  I certainly feel those emotions, some more than others, in waves that come and go. But not one of them can describe the state I have been in since my move to Alabama. I'm overwhelmed, and I don't think there is a better way to put it. A state of constant movement, worry, change, emotions - both good and bad, wonder and complete awe.

Downtown Mobile, Alabama at Christmas time

     In my final semester of my undergraduate career, one of my favorite college professors told the students of my Gender Communication course that we need to "have an obligation to awe".

     I'm starting to really know this and understand it. I believe that we can be called to this feeling of being overwhelmed - filled with awe for the world we find ourselves in, the joy of God working in the lives around us, the surrounding sounds of love and forgiveness and even the heartache, the struggles, the darkness and hardness of it all.

     These overwhelming emotions I've been feeling are important - it tells me that I'm learning, growing and changing in the midst of the movement.

     I've been in what I call a low point, or a flare, in my battle with my chronic illnesses for almost eight months now. The transition period of my new life in Alabama has challenged this more than I expected, and the transition much harder than I anticipated. I'm far from the things I have found healing and comfort in before - friends, my love, family, the pacific, and the old routines I had built after being diagnosed with Lupus two and a half years ago. And finding those new ways to heal, to build up those routines again that took time to configure aren't coming as easily as I hoped.

     The intense pain I had in the summer time has subsided and I'm so thankful for that. I thought that meant I was doing much better, into a period of remission and better health. And for the first few months after my move, I told myself that I was just stressed, transitioning and adjusting to a new lifestyle. But, it isn't just stress and I think I wanted to ignore this struggle and be able to come into the year with a new start.

     Months after I thought I had come out of one of the most challenging times of my life, I was told that my Lupus was still very much active and the doctors weren't sure much what else to do.  Things started to add up - I became anemic almost overnight. Dizziness and nausea has become a common part of my everyday and my fatigue has become increasingly more challenging to pretend isn't there. I was told that my kidneys are in the very early stages of complications, possible diseases or failure, a common thing that happens when Lupus remains active for months at a time, and that I needed to stop a medication that was helping with some symptoms I had but was causing more damage to them. It is reversible and we are watching it closely, but I am still very much sick and have been simply ignoring it, hoping that I could escape it once I moved away. This only made things worse.

     The emotions that come with all of this are not easy. And at the same time that I am managing the emotions stemming from struggling with my health, I am managing a huge life change. Far from my family, friends and hometown for the first time in my life, I moved across the country to the South - a culture so far from my own that I feel lost and living in a community with six women, working on getting to know them, having no idea how they felt about me. My work with the intellectually handicapped has brought such feelings of intensity that I didn't know existed. Happiness, grief, frustration, patience. And witnessing the work my housemates are doing - with the incarcerated, victims of domestic violence, work with immigrants and those in poverty and not to forget the intense emotions that come with our changing political climate - it has been so much to take in.

        L'Arche dance party with Lucy!        

                                                                                        Carolyn and I at the Mobile Marathon

     And in the midst of the changes I have been experiencing and the emotions that accompany, I'm realizing I haven't been just overwhelmed by all of this but completely taken over by it. 

     I started to feel depression that I had never experienced. On top of these new experiences I am having- both overwhelmingly incredible and challenging, I have been fighting this low point in my health for months. I sometimes feel stuck. It is physically and emotionally exhausting. I started to hate myself for feeling this way. I started to truly believe that everything that was happening was my own fault for the way I was viewing things.

     I always try to be strong and positive despite the challenges that chronic illness brings and I always try to face stress and new experiences head on with bravery and strength. But this time, my emotions had me feeling anything but brave and I started to feel isolated and anxious. I felt incredibly negative, starting to doubt my new environment and life here in Alabama.

     In the times where the awe of life doesn't just overwhelm me, but overtakes me, I tend to be filled with doubt. Doubt about who I am, what I am doing and why.

     And in those moments, where it is easier to push away the feelings that are causing tension in my life, I simply ignore the importance of acknowledging them. I deny myself the right to feel it. This turns those overwhelming feelings into feelings of self-destruction and doubt.

     I'm not sure where I got the idea that strength was an essential part of who I am. I know myself to be a strong person, I've overcome many obstacles and I'm proud of myself for that - but it isn't who I am. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I always had to be strong - that negativity, frustration and brokenness were not options. 

     The last few months, I started to get so down on myself for being negative, for being weak in a time where I felt like strength was the only answer. I was tired. So very tired of having to be strong all of the time. Instead of taking a look at my circumstances, at the weight of everything that had recently come into my life and just how overwhelming it really was, how easy it was for me to feel overcome by it, I looked to blame myself - not for what was happening to me but for who I am as a person.

     I wasn't giving myself the space I needed to take care of myself, to accept my emotions, to mourn, to accept and to heal. The space to feel negative. The space to feel weak. Often we don't want to accept our own emotions - both good and bad, because healing and acknowledging them can be painful and vulnerable. The weakness made me feel worthless and it made me start doubting the love and acceptance of those around me.

     But I'm recognizing now that my worth isn't found in my own personal strength, it is found in the strength of an everlasting God who loves without borders or reason. A God who calls me beloved no matter what.

God has never asked me or anyone else to be strong through the trials and joys of this life we have been given.  He only asks us to claim the truth of our lives - that we were loved long before anyone told us any differently. He wants us to know His voice can overcome the voice that tell us we need to prove our worth - whether we think that comes from our strength or our deeds or our lifestyle. He is urging us to claim His unconditional love for ourselves, a love that exists no matter what we do or how we feel.

     When I turned my attention from the voice telling me that I couldn't be weak, that there was no way out and that the overwhelmingness of everything happening around me had to overcome my life and instead turned it to the gentle voice that allows blessing to touch me in my brokenness and meet me at my weakness with love, I felt that sense of awe. I felt obligated to it. Awe for overwhelming love, for struggles, for peace, for patience, for my new home in Alabama, for those I left behind, for a God who guides me through a life of beauty and pain. 

     I started to read a special book during this time called Life of the Beloved by Henri Nouwen, and it spoke right to me,

"When we are thrown up and down by the little waves on the surface of our existence, we become easy victims of a manipulative world, but when we continue to hear the deep gentle voice that blesses us, we can walk through life with a stable sense of well-being and belonging"

     I certainly have felt thrown by the waves of my life and I certainly have felt like that voice that tells I am loved beyond measure has fallen silent. A few months ago, at the height of all of these emotions - I felt God was absent. It is so easy for us to ignore the voice of Gods love when we are filled with voices, sometimes our own, telling us we are no good, worthless unless we can prove otherwise. 

     I came into my job at L'Arche one morning, feeling particularly low about myself for some reason or another. I had several doctor appointments in the weeks prior, had stayed back from a trip my community took to New Orleans after realizing I needed to be taking better care of myself and was feeling very homesick.

     I sat with Annie Pearl, one of our core members, a community member with an intellectual disability, who I had been sitting with for the last few weeks. She is so full of love, she is chatty, she is incredibly caring and she looks out for everyone. Annie loves to tell anyone who will listen how important they are. Over and over again. 

          Annie Pearl hugging Wally and her sister Barbara Jean

     Whenever I sit with her, I listen to her ask me again and again, "You know why I love you?"

     Her answers are different with each time - "Because you're precious", "Because you're special", "Because you're good to me", "Because you're in my heart", "Because you're my friend"

     She will continue to repeat this to me and she continues to ask me if I know why she loves me. Her constant voice tells me of the appreciation and value she has for me - not because of anything I ever did, but because of who I am. This goes on sometimes for hours at a time. She tells me this almost everyday, several times a day. 

     I respond each time, "I love you too Annie!" or "You are so special too Pearl".

     And on this particular day, I found myself getting annoyed with her at times. Which made me laugh. Here I was, feeling like I wasn't worth anything and I was feeling annoyed at hearing how loved I was. I couldn't hide from her, I couldn't ignore her. I had no choice but to listen. There she was, loudly declaring my sacredness to the entire room and right to my heart.

Annie Pearl and I at the L'Arche Activity Center

     This is the strength of the love God has for who we are. He is constantly telling us the truth of who we deeply are - we are chosen, we are precious, we are special, that we are His friend, that we are in His heart and we are good. And if we were only always listening, it might even annoy us. 

     The weight of God's love is so urgent and His invitation to feel that love is always there, always telling us, like Annie Pearls' voice in my ear, over and over again, that we have value and worth - just in simply being. The constant love God pours into our hearts is so continuous, so loud and so vibrant that it should be annoying. And when accept that love and feel it fully in everything we are, there can be greater peace and a sense of belonging in our lives.

     Annie Pearl was the physical presence of a voiceless God when I needed to open my heart to listen to Him, letting me know that it didn't matter that I felt weak and that it didn't matter that the overwhelming nature of the last eight months had felt overpowering. She reminds, annoys me even, over and over again with God's truth that I am beloved and that I don't need to always be strong to feel worth something. That I am always precious in Gods eyes.

Enjoying the San Diego Botanical Garden during my trip to California last month

     And when I start to forget this, when I start to close off my heart and slip into doubt, I can start to hear her voice and the voice of a God who meets me exactly where I am, telling me over and over again that I am in His heart, that I am His beloved. So much so that it's annoying. And I am in awe all over again.

Learning to Be Irrelevant

This weekend I had the opportunity to spend some time in silent prayer and reflection as a part of a retreat with Springhill College, the local Jesuit college in Mobile, which overviewed St.Ignatius's spiritual exercises. Spending time in silence is challenging to me, and in some ways I think the weekend of silence reflected some of the ways I have spent time in silence in my new work place, which hasn't been the most comfortable thing. However, I found this particular silence to be clarifying - just what I had been looking for in a sea of distraction I have recently been facing.

                           Thankful for this group including three incredible Springhill students and two of my fellow JV housemates!

As a Jesuit Volunteer, I commit to living out four values during my year of service - one of them being simple living or simplicity. I've spent some time reflecting about what simplicity truly means. I live on a very modest stipend, eat simple meals, spend less of my personal time consuming in general and am aiming to be more sustainable in my lifestyle. But are these actions or circumstances that I have essentially been forced into truly the definition of living simply?

I have always been the type of person whose mind never stops moving, always wandering from place to place, thought to thought, often stumbling into places it ought not to. These past two months my mind has been particularly racing...

"Where will I be in a year from now? Should I apply to graduate school? When should I get married? What graduate program is right for me? Should I move home after JVC? Go somewhere new? In what direction is my life headed?"

I've only just gotten to Mobile and yet my heart is flooded with constant questions of worry, wondering what comes next.

One of the themes of the retreat was the obstacles we can face to living a life with God. As I sat in a rocking chair, silently overlooking the shimmering water of Mobile Bay, I recognized this was it, the obstacle to God in my life. My lack of presence. 

My view during my silent prayer time

I'm learning now the ways in which simplicity is more. More than just a check list of ways to live right, more than just the actions you can take to simplify your life. At its core, it is the power of being present, the way of coming into your life each day with awareness and awe for where you currently stand.

I've been missing out on this. In my community life, in my work days at L'Arche, in my quiet moments with God. I am physically present each day but in all honesty, some days my mind has been anywhere but. I have become so wrapped up in whats next that I've seemingly forgotten what is right in front of me. The circumstances God has crafted for me in the present are waiting for me to enjoy them, learn from them and love them. And I'm ignoring it, searching for fulfillment in what my life might be someday. 

                                           community L'Arche dinner                                       After serving lunch at a Little Sisters of the Poor home

For one of the first times in my life, I've been slowed down. My days no longer move from class to meetings to homework to more class but have been replaced with eight hour days at the L'Arche Activity Center (AC), surrounded by eighteen individuals living with varying intellectual and physical ability - tasked with simply loving, caring for, and being with them. The days be slow and mundane. I often spend time sitting in silence, sometimes because core members are unable to communicate with words, sometimes because they would rather not speak. I come home and have time to rest, to unwind, something I almost forgot existed. I've been forced out of my comfort of busyness into a new space of an almost unrecognizable pace - an opportunity screaming for presence where instead most days I've chosen absence.

                                                  AC days on the porch swing                         Taking a break from the AC for a dairy queen run

What is striking me most is the sometimes overwhelming feeling of unproductivity that comes with the quietness of my everyday life. I am craving to get things done, to move from task to task and seeking the satisfaction that comes with making decisions, accomplishing tasks and moving.

Henri Nouwen writes about his own experience moving into a L'Arche community in his book In The Name of Jesus,

"I was suddenly faced with my naked self, open for affirmations and rejections, hugs and punches, smiles and tears, all dependent simply on how I was perceived at the moment. In a way, it seemed as though I was starting my life all over again. Relationships, connections, reputations could no longer be counted on"

As I leave my old life behind and enter into the L'Arche Mobile community as a Jesuit Volunteer, my old self has become irrelevant. Core members and team members alike do not know my story, and I am not here to tell it. It is almost a feeling of uncomfortableness, to become irrelevant in a society that thrives on our individual success and establishment of self.

So my mind has been wandering to find my own self-worth . I've been looking for opportunities to feel relevant, productive, successful - to avoid becoming vulnerable and feeling useless.  I'm looking to my future wondering what it holds, looking to make these big decisions, not necessarily because I feel called to but because the world has told me it is what is right or natural. That this is how life works - we must always be seeking to make it bigger and better and bolder.

The truth is God isn't calling us to be successful. He only calls us to be faithful in Him.

I think God is inviting us into a life of complete irrelevancy, into simplicity and into true, unromanticized presence. Because a life that is lived for others isn't rooted in successes and it isn't grounded in achievement. It is a life that seeks to strip away the things that society deems important to make room for the importance of people.

At my community spirituality night this week we discussed a quote from a Jesuit priest Dean Brackley which speaks to the vulnerability it takes to live simply and be present. 

“I invite you to discover your vocation in downward mobility.  It’s a scary request… The world is obsessed with wealth and security and upward mobility and prestige. But let us teach solidarity, walking with the victims, serving and loving.  I offer this for you to consider – downward mobility. And I would say in this enterprise there is a great deal of hope. Have the courage to lose control. Have the courage to feel useless. Have the courage to listen. Have the courage to receive. Have the courage to let your heart be broken. Have the courage to feel. Have the courage to fall in love. Have the courage to get ruined for life. Have the courage to make a friend.”

It takes courage to be irrelevant, to consider downward mobility, to lose control, to feel useless, to listen and receive, to be broken and to feel in a society that tells you to do anything but. I can tell you that when you start to lose whatever mask it is you may be hiding beneath and be fully alive and present in who you are, you will fully see people for who they are. And when you see others, you can love and serve them more fully.

When we learn to accept our irrelevant selves, learn to find our self worth in God and God alone instead of our successes and learn that God loves us no matter what we do or accomplish, we can finally stop seeking to be productive, to keep doing and going - and simply offer ourselves, simply just be where we are called to.

It isn't an easy task. I've spent most of my life looking to please, to live up to the impossible standards of the perfection of living a "successful" and "meaningful" life. But now I'm coming to find more meaning in who I am, my true identity behind the stuff that sometimes clouds it. I'm learning to be present in this time and in each moment because God brought me to it, for a reason much larger than to worry about the next step after.

Sunrise over Mobile Bay

Maybe I will apply to graduate school, move to a new place, get married, and do all these things that have sped through my mind in the last few weeks. But I'm trying not to pursue them for success, or my own desire to be better, or because I feel that the world is telling me this is what is next for me. I am trying to be faithful that God is leading me into a life I belong to, a life where things don't matter but the way I live and work for people does, a life I can only experience with simplicity at its core, a present heart and mind - offering my vulnerable self.