marquetteandme

[marquetteandme]

I explored the world today and it was good. I am just grateful for the chance to have lived through another beautiful day.

[marquetteandme]

I explored the world today and it was good. I am just grateful for the chance to have lived through another beautiful day.

[marquetteandme]

[marquetteandme]

When the day around you has brought you to your greatest edge and back, sometimes all it takes is a reminder that the light still shines.

[marquetteandme]

Making sense of things?

For two days (okay more like two weeks) now, I have been trying to write something, anything. I've been dying to find the words that will capture the emotions and the thoughts and the realities and the experiences of this summer, but each time I have opened up a Word Document or a note in Notepad or a blank post template here in Tumblr, I have come up empty-handed. I stare at the vast nothingness that is before me and try to put down words that make not only make sense, but also will help me make some sense of who and where I am right now. I'm not sure I've gotten off to a great start again today, but at least I haven't quit yet.

Making sense of things - that's an interesting challenge when you think about it. After all, though we far exceed the strengths, abilities, and knowledge of other entities, we're limited as humans in our capacity to understand, define and express the realities and emotions we experience. We might find ourselves in a moment of clarity - a moment in which we have a sharper insight into our identity and our purpose for existence. But, these moments are fleeting. It always seems to happen that as soon as we catch these moments and acknowledge them, they slip past us and drift into the oblivion that comes with moving forward in our lives to the next moment we are meant to live. It's often the same thing with writing. The moments that drive us to write, that inspire our stories, that demand our attention with a ferocious urging - they all disappear too quickly. Just as we begin to process their importance and comprehend their influence on our lives, they are gone and we are left reaching out with arms flailing desperately.

And so I think it is with all of the moments in our lives. We often experience the beautiful, the graceful, the divine, the holy, the good, and the genuine with closed eyes and closed ears. We allow ourselves to become so caught up in the search for these things and the effort to achieve them that we fail to recognize the undeniable presence of these gifts in our lives exactly at that moment. Instead of believing that these are the moments of clarity which we seek, we only attribute value to them according to the manner in which they contribute to our achieving eventual success. Why do we not see that the sum of these small moments and our ability to hold them precious is precisely what defines our success?

All week, I have been trying to box myself into a formula for writing. I've been afraid to put words to paper because I couldn't find that quintessential life lesson that would captivate all of you readers. Each time I experienced something beautiful, thought-provoking, and memorable, I immediately analyzed it, searching for a way in which I could describe it and write about it and hold it before each of you. In essence, I stopped really experiencing it at all. I couldn't take the moment of clarity that I was having simply for what it was. I decided that I needed to be the engineer behind the greatness and the glory of these moments, rather than allowing God to accomplish what he meant to accomplish through them. I guess I thought it was admirable in some ways. You know, take this glorious moment and share it with others who would cherish it and enjoy it with me; but, I think my mindset was a little skewed. Now that I look at the experiences I have tried to write about over the past few days, I realize that maybe those moments were not meant to be opened and shared with you - maybe they were meant for me. I don't mean to be selfish, I think we all have moments like that and they all are different for a reason. You may not understand what it will be like for me to leave one last footprint (and a piece of my heart) at A Precious Child this week after I finish an incredible summer of working, learning, and growing with this organization. And, you may not understand what it will be like for me to leave my family again in a few days, knowing that my last summer home with them has screeched to an end.

At the same time though, I know I don't understand what it's been like for you to walk on the sand one day (relishing the feeling of the tiny crystals between your toes, I might add) and not the next. I don't know what it's like to sit around your family's dinner table as you experience a chaotic bliss choreographed to the tune of simultaneous laughter and tears. I don't know what you experience when you walk alone back to your house on a muggy, moonlit night after saying goodbye to a friend you haven't seen in ages. I don't know what moments pull you into yourself and captivate you with the sheer wisdom and peace they write on your heart. I know the moments that bring me to this place - there have been countless moments over the past few months alone (let alone my entire life) that have left me distraught, yet fulfilled because of the clarity they bring - and, as much as I try to share them, I know they cannot provide you with that same feeling. They aren't meant for you. That's not to say that I should not do my best to invite you into them or give all my efforts to present them to you. No, of course, it is my responsibility to do so. Yet, I write "moments" in my descriptions of these experiences because they are simply that, naturally limited and fleeting moments that hit each of us all the time. When we are aware of them, we can embrace them and revel in them. When we are blessed to share moments like this with someone else, even the extent to which we share them is limited as we each experience and respond to the clarity in our own uniquely individual ways and that is a beautiful, holy thing.

I started writing this in hopes of making sense of where my mind has been over the past few days and why I have been completely detached from the words I have been writing. I'm not sure that anything makes much more sense to me, but I'm hoping that this at least makes sense to all of you. I guess all I am trying to say is don't be afraid to experience something simply for what it is. Contrary to what this world often encourages us to do, not everything in our lives has to drive us to become more powerful, more successful, more independent, or more anything. Our lives consist entirely of these individual moments and if we focus solely on where they will take us, we will never realize that we are already where we are meant to be and we will never arrive exactly in that same moment again. Take it slow. Hear the sounds of summer, don't worry about writing them down and analyzing them to death. See the sunrise, don't worry about capturing it with the perfect photo. Let the experience guide you and embrace it fully. When you are ready (and I have no doubt you'll know when you are), you'll share what you are meant to and you'll keep what you need to close to your heart. Not sharing the feelings, the experiences, or the emotions does not diminish their value. They are worthy, valuable, and beautiful well before you establish the words to convey them.

peace.

[marquetteandme]

craving the quiet.

For someone who loves to talk and has a lot to say, I crave the quiet. No, I don’t need silence. Every now and then, I just need the quiet. I need the moments when the world hasn’t yet captured me for the day to shout its directives and demands in my face. I need the moments when peaceful existence is possible and necessarily occurs within an atmosphere of gentle, uncontrollable sounds that whir all around me and through me. I need the quiet so I can recognize the beauty of this world. I crave the stories of our world that the noise often overpowers. I seek what is natural and whole and pure and good. I want to harness the quiet and revel in it, letting its perfection wash over me.

I think that’s why I love the morning hours so much. I am more attentive to the world around me when I embrace the quiet. I’m sure you’ve caught yourself doing that – you run from place to place every minute of every day and the noise follows you, no matter your destination. The music blasts from the radio; the conversation is continuous at the office – someone’s always telling you what they need, what they want, what you can do for them and you’re probably doing a lot of the same; and you come home to your family and the playful, hopefully friendly banter is nonstop. And that’s just the external noise. What about the noise you carry within yourself throughout the day? What about the voice that stirs within your restless heart and drives you to move, think, act, pray, or doubt? Even if you are lucky enough to escape the outside noise for a few moments, how do you escape (or perhaps attend to) the noises running through your mind?

When it’s quiet, we notice it, right? We immediately sense that something has changed, and from my personal experience, we are initially apprehensive about this change. The pause in conversation drives us to uncertainty. We suddenly feel inferior, so we attempt to fill the seemingly detrimental void that exists. Instead of allowing the slowing conversation or the slowing wind to wrap us in the quiet it creates, we choke it. We swallow the potential for quiet attentiveness (to the world and to each other) with whatever phrase, thought, or emotion we feel will resolve the quiet. Instead of embracing the quiet, we beat it to the ground. It’s a competition that we’ve invented for ourselves to hide from the noises in ourselves that become so flagrant, so inescapable when the world around us is quiet. When it’s quiet, we feel it deep within ourselves. Even the smallest sounds of our souls capture us, moving through us until that’s all we can comprehend. This reality scares us, whether we admit to it or not. But, can’t we cherish it instead and let it free us? Can’t we let the quiet wash over us and empower us to unleash the noises we’ve been hiding and ignoring and fearing?

I’m stealing a few moments of quiet now as I sit alone writing in my living room. The rest of the house is still asleep and it feels somewhat strange to accept the quiet as holy and right. I haven’t had much quiet this summer and I’m not even just talking about external noises. No, I love living in this crazy, loud family and I wouldn’t trade the conversations I have had with them or with my friends at work or with my friends living in faraway places. Louder and more uncontrollable than these noises have been the noises inside my head and heart. I’ve fed my fears and my doubts and my uncertainties; they scream in my ears almost constantly and I’ve become strangely comfortable with letting them do this, with letting them win.

When I woke up this morning, I was tired of the noises I couldn’t control. So, I fought for the quiet, pushed myself to write, and created some noise of my own:

As I sit here, the world is far from silent. I know that even in the quiet I am creating noise and not just physical noise, but noise through my words and my thoughts. As I allow these emotions and stories to meet this page, the necessity of their noise hits me. There is a reason I cannot ignore the stories around me. I must listen to them – I have no choice. In the quiet, the hidden demands my attention and I finally have the chance to give it freely. The words within me force their way past the walls I have built to keep them locked away inside. I believe this is the case for all of our feelings, emotions, thoughts, and needs. We know the world will never be silent, but we hope (every now and then) that the world will be quiet enough for our individual stories and voices to be heard. We would never want a silent world because we would never want our individual words to be the only words spoken, the only noise the world hears. Instead, we seek a place of our own amidst the noises that are always present. We simply want the world to be quiet enough for our own existence to be acknowledged – to matter.

Today, my voice has its place somewhere between the tapping of my fingers against the keys, the subdued humming of the computer’s hard drive, the unseasonably heavy wind blowing outside, and the gently, sporadic squeaking of the chair in which I sit. I don’t know where that voice will land tomorrow, but I know it will land perfectly in a similarly quiet (and noisy?) place. I know it will land on the hearts and minds where it is meant to be.

Peace.

[marquetteandme]

"you ate you. loops are you. oops are." = You are you, so BE YOU.

Thanks to auto-correct and my poor thumb-to-phone typing skills, the words in this title became my response to a dear friend's apology. No, he wasn't apologizing for something he did wrong. He was apologizing for being weird, which means he was apologizing for a part of himself, for acting out that part of himself. He was apologizing for the person that I already know and love and accept and cherish in all of his weirdness.

Does this story sound familiar? (Maybe not the auto-correct part of course, but you know what I mean). If so, I am right there with you. I find myself apologizing constantly, but for all the wrong things. I actually find myself saying I am sorry for not being "good" enough or "exciting" enough sometimes.

What does that even mean? How can I apologize for not being "good" enough? To apologize for that - or for being weird, or for doing something out of the so-called ordinary - is illogical, self-demeaning, and completely contradictory to our identity as people who come from God and return to God. 

Unfortunately, I am not as confident as I probably should be, so recognizing the illogical nature of these apologies is not always an easy, second-nature process. No, I let myself falter, I don't stand for the person that I am or the person that I want to be, and instead, I apologize for doing every day things - like eating or taking a breath. Rather than standing firmly for the identity that I am creating every day, I am apologetic (more often than not) for what I accomplish, what I value, and what I believe in. I apologize too often for not meeting societal expectations, for doing things that are uncool, strange, weird, old-fashioned, bizarre, for being a little bit of a writing nerd.

But, I have to believe that I am not the only one who struggles with her own identity. I have to believe that we all do this self-depreciating apologizing all the time. I know I've heard it. Too often we spend too much time apologizing for the wrong things and not enough time making apologies where they are due. 

Look, I know it's not easy. We live in a world in which we are expected to apologize and that's not a bad thing. But, in order to apologize effectively when we need to apologize, we must be mindful. We must be attentive. We must discern and all of these things require the ability to let go. In order to be mindful, we have to be vulnerable. To be attentive, we must be willing to step outside of ourselves and make room for the needs of others. To discern, we have to acknowledge that, even in our brokenness and our imperfections, we are good and that innate goodness and all that stems from it will never require an apology. 

When we apologize for something, we have to make sure that it is really something we believe merits an apology. We've known this since kindergarten. We say "I'm sorry" when we offend someone or injure someone or cause harm to something. It's the right thing to do.

But, in my book, the right thing to do can never be to say "I'm sorry" for something about the way we look or the people that we are. We have each been brought to where we are because (whether we feel it or not or admit to it or not) we are needed in that place, in that moment as we are.

No longer should we have to apologize for the hiccups that inevitably come with our laugh or for singing off key to the blasting radio in the car. We shouldn't apologize for saying "I love you" too much or not having words to say other than "I miss you." We shouldn't apologize for "not being as _______(smart, funny, thin, charismatic, exciting, admirable, nice, you fill in the blank here - we've all heard the countless adjectives that can fill this void in our human confidence)" as the person next door. 

We are more than comparisons. We are complex, unique individuals who bring meaning, hope, energy, and passion to a world that would otherwise be monotonous and empty. We are each called to do something great in this world and, whether we believe it or not, when we apologize for even the smallest parts of who we are, we chip away at our ability to accomplish that for which we are intended. 

If you are still reading this, then thank you. Part of me so desperately wants to apologize for being long-winded, but I refuse to be long-winded and hypocritical. So, no, I am not sorry for the words that occupy this page. They are important to me. My writing is a part of who I am and, you know what, being vulnerable and sharing this blog with you is the only way I will ever continue to improve.

So, I hope that you you (after reading this) will make a commitment to yourself to stop apologizing for who you are. Stop apologizing for the body you have, the grades you get, the emptiness you feel or the excessive excitement you share. All of those are you and you are special to me for who you are - exactly as you are.

That goes for all of you. You don't have to apologize for not being smart enough. You are smart enough for me. You don't have to apologize for not wearing a certain size. You are worth more to me than some arbitrary number that is assigned to a piece of fabric so that it can cost more. You don't have to apologize for standing your ground, for standing up for what you believe in. I admire your ability to stay true to who you are. 

So, promise me this - that you'll stop apologizing for calling so late, for making weird faces, for drinking too much, for talking too loud, for driving too fast, for crying in public, for being weird.....I love those things. And, I love you. 

[marquetteandme]

Beautiful.

See more photos of Marquette architecture on Pinterest. 

[marquetteandme]

faithfully.

[marquetteandme]

You can learn something every day, if you pay attention.

If there's one thing I've learned so far from spending my summer as Interim Learning Manager at A Precious Child, it's that every day brings an opportunity to learn something new, something powerful, and something very real. Whether it's learning that something about a specific subject matter or about the person sitting with you or working alongside you, it's important - no, necessary, that you make a commitment and spend a few minutes learning something about another, about our world, about yourself. 

So, that's what this summer and this next year of my life will just have to focus on. I will learn something, a lot of somethings, this summer. In many ways, I already have. But, I know I have more to learn and more to explore and more to offer. 

And, that is a beautiful thing. 

peace.

[marquetteandme]

Celebrating. Giving Thanks. Finding what is right.

Celebrate what’s right with the world.

That’s not an easy thing to do when you first think about it. But, given time to believe in the possibility that it can be done and in the reality that people all over the world, every day decide to do it, you might recognize, as I hope to, that this is not something that has to be difficult or beyond us. Rather, it is a perspective, a philosophy, a vision, a course of action that we can and must implement into our daily lives.

Dewitt Jones, a photographer for The National Geographic Magazine, poses this challenge in his video (linked above and here too) about who he is, what he does, and – perhaps more importantly – why he does what he does.

In this video, he highlights the incredible consequences that can come from adopting this perspective, showing unbelievable frames of photography and relaying numerous, important pieces of wisdom to the camera, or rather, to those viewing the video. Two statements really struck me, though, and continue to move me and motivate me in the attitude I take toward my daily work and daily life. Dewitt says, “Celebrate the best in people. Find the light that shines not on us, but within us, when we trust enough to let it out.”

That’s a powerful thought, a really powerful thought. It is a challenge, a reality, a gift, and an opportunity all in one. He challenges us not only to celebrate the best in the world, but to believe in and, therefore encounter, the best that exists in each person – including ourselves. We ourselves can and must believe that every person in the world has some “best” to give the world.

So often in this world we are led to be doubtful. We avoid the edges of the cliffs – both external and internal – that, as Dewitt points out, are the very places at which we are able to soar to new heights. And, not only do we as individuals experience this fear and doubt, but we also (in many ways) encourage others to feel the burden of that doubt and fear. Too frequently do we adopt the attitude that “I can, so you can’t” and not only “you can’t,” but “you shouldn’t.” Our happiness, our worth, our very purpose as loving, Christ-rendered beings is tied to others. If we are celebrating the best in this world, we are to celebrate the best in others.

Still, this is only the beginning. In order to celebrate the best in others, we must be able to celebrate the best in ourselves. Each of us individually must accept this statement as reality: “I have a light that shines within me. I celebrate that light. I believe in its worth. I know I am called to share it with the world.”

As an (almost) graduate of a Jesuit university, I have become well-versed in the ideals of Ignatian spirituality and the importance of living my life to “set the world on fire” and “be the difference.” Yet, I have also come to recognize that relying solely on the efforts that I can make as an individual, the efforts that I can put forth on my own are not enough to set the world on fire. In fact, in many ways, going forth to “set the world on fire” is not about what I can do or about what I can bring, but it is about recognizing that the world is already on fire – on fire with the love of Christ, with servants of humanity, with the passion and the intellect and the justice and the peace and the beauty and the countless reasons to celebrate it. All of the things that we want for the world already exist perfectly within in it, but because of the chaos and competition in which we wrap ourselves almost constantly, we fail to believe it and thus fail to see it and ultimately fail to celebrate it.

Perhaps this is what Dewitt’s point about “trusting enough” is all about. We have to trust that the world is a place deserving of celebration and that each person is someone worth celebrating. We have the opportunity to be the persons that show this reality to others. No, we have the responsibility to be the ones to ignite this reality for others. We, as Dewitt says, must “make the subtle shift from pushing ourselves to be the best in the world, to allowing ourselves to be the best for the world.”

When I examine the ways in which I have lived me life, I see the numerous areas in which I still have progress to make. I still have yet to adopt this attitude of possibility, of celebration, and of gratitude in my daily life. Sure, I have moments like this in which I am blessed with the words necessary to express the profound truth and importance of these realities, but I am not (by any means of measurement or any set of standards) an individual who celebrates what is right with the world, with others, and with me on a regular and consistent basis.

Yet, I still accept the reality that there is so much right with this world, right that no one would ever dream of throwing away, because I know people who operate with this attitude in all that they do – from the work they complete to the way in which they treat people. And it’s these amazing individuals that keep me going – that enable me to believe in the importance of adopting this perspective in all that I do. They celebrate what is right in all situations; they show love and kindness and respect to all people. The individuals that I am so blessed to call friends and siblings and classmates and teachers and neighbors and coworkers and guides and parents and loved ones and family and supporters and mentors and so many other titles inspire me to see, as one friend puts it, “all as gift.”

Thank you, Dewitt, for sharing this perspective with me and with my family. All is gift, all is something to celebrate. There is no reason for me, who has been so incredibly blessed, to wallow in what is wrong with the situations I am facing or the changes that are right around the corner. Instead of worrying about or fearing the changes and challenges that lie ahead, I will do my best to choose to celebrate what is right with them, what is holy about them, and the many ways in which they invite me to become better for the world.

I challenge all of you to do the same. As Maya Angelou said, “Do the best you can until you know better; then, when you know better, do better.” I’ve known all along that I can do better. I think we’ve all always known that, even if we’ve never allowed ourselves to recognize that. But, now it’s time. Go out, do better, and celebrate the world that is already on fire with countless reasons to give thanks.

Peace.

P.S. If you have 22 minutes to spare, watch Dewitt's video. It's breathtaking. 

[marquetteandme]

[marquetteandme]

for the writers.

When I first thought about it, I thought it was a little weird. You know, coming home from work (at which I stared at a computer and wrote professional pieces all day) just to grab my computer about of my bag again and let my fingers fly over the keys again....it almost seems counter-intuitive. But, then again, what would you actually expect from a writer like me? I'm not even remotely surprised that as soon as I felt that itch to write, I immediately stopped everything else that I was doing and opened up my laptop and began these musings.

Okay, I know. You're sick of these intros that are just about the fact that I am still (sort of) (just maybe) accepting the fact that no, these strange urges to write are not weird, and yes, I am (maybe?, possibly? could I actually be?) a writer. 

But, that's the thing. When I think about the writers that I emulate, and I must admit there are several (with the number growing every day), I am always struck by their attitude toward their own writing. Somewhere, even if deep down in that place where their hearts hide (thanks, Toni Morrison), they must have felt used, confused, and rattled by their very ability to create and define with a pen and paper and a few words scribbled across the page. 

It's a powerful thing, I think, to be a writer. It means you have the capacity to fail and accept failure and something raw and perfect and real and necessary and it means that you work through that failure - that you continue to put the pen to the paper or the finger to the keys in spite of the challenges that are coming toward you or running at you from the very depths of your soul, clanging at the bars that you've tried to lock in front of them, screaming to be let out, to run free across the page. 

If you're a writer, it means you aren't afraid of a power greater than yourself. You know that when you are at your best, it honestly doesn't even feel like you writing anymore. The voice has taken over the page, the words, the emotion. The writing seems to come from a place and a power that extends beyond your wildest dreams and yet you are there, watching it form - whatever story or creation or project or sentence or thought or beauty - right before your eyes. 

If you’re a writer, though, it doesn’t mean you aren’t afraid of anything. No, no – far from it. If you are a writer, fear might be one of the greatest demons that you face. Why? Not because you are afraid of your own writing – you know deep down that your writing has significance, has depth, has power and has the ability to cause something, to change something, to influence something. No, you’re afraid of what the world will do when it gets a hold of something you’ve written. You’re apprehensive and suddenly sweating bullets that moment before you are about to submit the next piece that you’re working on because you realize that you stand on the edge of fate (so to speak) and you are going to fall into the hands of critics that may not accept your writing, that may not understand the depths of the world into which you’ve invited them, that may not appreciate the power from beyond that exudes in and through every word that you’ve written.

And the thought of being rejected by another hurts you. Sure, you can put every red mark into your seven hundred drafts and scrap piece after piece after piece. But, when you know what your finished projects assemble to be and when you know that your heart and soul lies on that page, well, shit, everyone is probably afraid to have her heart torn to pieces and revised and edited to shreds.

Still, writers overcome this fear because of the very power that they wield in their hands, in their heads, and in their hearts. They write to overcome this fear and to convey it. They write to conquer it.

Like I said, writing is a powerful thing because it is a freeing thing. All of sudden, the world seems to disappear and there is no reason not to question the very fabric of the human person, of our existence, of our purpose. When a writer begins to write, she no longer needs to be bound by the confines of the physicality in which she is trapped. No, she can fly if she so desires – because she’s finally in possession of the very ability to let go of all of the shit that is weighing her down (once again, a thank you to Toni Morrison). She writes whatever it is – beautiful, painful, powerful, or doubtful – and as she does it transforms and with this transformation, whatever it was and whoever she was becomes something entirely new and entirely different.

Writers persevere because they never stop seeing and then, they question what they see and they question it again and again until they’ve questioned it to death and it’s lead them to more questions and fewer answers. Yet, they write on. They must. They have no choice for without the writer, they stop functioning. For writers, writing is as much a physical reality as breathing and as sleeping. Writers write because they cannot survive without it. Writers write because it is how they understand and interact in and position themselves within the world.

And, you know what the truly amazing part is about all of this, writers recognize that writing is how they find, form, and create their impact on the world – their very purpose in life.  Writers actually get that they are supposed to be doing exactly what they are doing - even if they don't admit it all of the time and even if they don't always believe that they can be good enough to do what they are doing.

So many of us go through life wondering what we are to be and what we are meant to do. Writers have this strange and canny ability to understand that and act upon it. And, I believe that this is true no matter what kind of writer you are. Why? Because you find a way to write – always. No matter what age you are, no matter what skill level you have, no matter if you ever publish anything that you’ve set to paper, you find a way to write. You do. You know you do. You blog, you journal, you write letters, you take notes, you like to buy 700 colors of post-it notes just in case you ever need to remember something (because you remember things by writing them down. You email, you craft poems, you create stories, you write out answers to questions that people ask you because you know that you explain things better (and that you understand them better) when it is written out in front of you. You like written directions because they are concrete and, like what you desire for your own writing, they seem to have substance and significance. So, you find yourself making to-do lists (well, any kind of list or direction set). You write even when your writing is criticized. You write even when readers have stopped reading. You write because you no longer care so much about the audience that is going to receive this. You write because you have no choice. You write because your writing, whether anyone realizes it or not, is the essence of who and what you are. You write because you know that at the end of the day (and at the end of your life) it is not about the words that you could have put on the pages of your life story for that day (or for forever), but that it about the story you actually took the time to craft and create and fulfill with what you were given.

So, if you are a writer, write – and know that you aren’t alone when you sit in front of a blank document and wait for the words to come. Know too that the words will come. Know that they words – in so many ways – already have.

Peace. 

As an added bonus for all of you, I don't think I had quite finished writing this when I thought I had, so when the next sentence came to me, I had to edit this post: 

When writers write, all of a sudden the world stops being the biggest thing that they are fighting against. The demons stop having all of the power. The only thing that you are fighting against is finding the next sentence on the page and all of a sudden you realize that you’ve held it in your hands for so long that you can’t stop writing until all of the thoughts are down there on that page in front of you. That’s when you remember to breathe and that’s when you realize you’ve won. And, even if the demons come back seconds later, you just have to keep writing and keep going – it’s your biggest prayer. It’s your best weapon. It’s you – the real you – exactly as you were meant to be and nothing is more powerful than that. 

peace again. (because there can never be enough of that.) happy writing.

[marquetteandme]

looking back, stepping back, coming back.

Well, it's been a few weeks since the end of my junior year at Marquette (wait, is that right? I am actually going to be a senior in college this fall?) and I cannot believe (well, actually I can, I know myself pretty damn well and I know when I have the urge to right and when I don't... clearly I have it right now, because I am rambling and the thoughts are coming faster than I can type, but that's beside the point) that it's taken me this long to sum up the past year of my life. It's been a pretty crazy one, an unexpected and beautiful and at times frustrating, but in the end necessarily powerful ride, one that I cannot believe has - in many ways - come to an end and - in just a few short months - will continue to change and twist and drive my to places that I am not even sure I ever believed I would go. 

When I arrived at Marquette for the start of my junior year last August, I knew I was looking at a year of “firsts.” I guess I just didn't realize how many “firsts” I was going to experience. I was living in my first apartment. I was living for the first time on my own. I was going to have an on-campus job for the first time. I wasn’t going to have Friday classes for the first time. I was going to study Shakespeare for the first time. I was going to be a Group Discussion Leader for Orientation Staff for the first time, and I was going to be a retreat leader for the first time. The list of firsts continued as is probably a natural and necessary element of our process of growing up, but I had felt ready, confident, and excited even to take on the challenges that these firsts might present. Heck, I’d thought I’d conquered everything already. I mean, I’d had mono already, I’d co-coordinated Hunger Clean-Up, I’d already led my first MAP trip, I wasn’t new to my service sites – I guess I thought I’d had a great – no, a pretty damn unbreakable hold – on Marquette.

I hadn’t known that this year would be one that would throw me through a loop.

I guess, though, now that I look back at it, even at Burke Retreat this year, I’d had an inkling that this year would be different. I’d gone into that retreat without the same feeling I’d had for the past two years. Everything had felt a little strange, I’d felt a little distant – I’d recognized, though not consciously, of course, that I was different, that I was distant, that I was in desperate need of a little falling apart.

So, I guess, though I didn’t prepare for it. I was ready for a first, real, powerful, and vulnerable falling apart and junior year brought it to me more than once. That is, of course, not to say that it did not lift me up along the way. Falling apart this past year, even though it was small parts of me at a time and, actually left me stronger. It made me realize what matters. Suddenly, because of the falling apart and all of those firsts that I didn’t expect, I became more complete. I was more alive.

Breaking my first bone – the cuboid bone in my left foot - was a first I wouldn’t say I was ready for. My dancer’s feet were vulnerable to it, but I didn’t know it. Wells and 16th and that pothole I stepped into did and, though I never thought I’d say it, I’m glad I broke that bone in my foot.

Yes, for all of you who talked me through that pain and frustration and were probably driven mad by my stubbornness and anger at this small inconvenience, I just said that I am glad I broke my foot. Why? Because when I broke that foot, I think I finally let another piece of my unfortunate and misplaced and unnecessary desire to be perfect break too. I realized that I needed help, that I couldn’t do everything on my own – that I wasn’t always going to be the strong one, the one who’s right, the one who has all of the answers. I realized that I needed to break a lot more than just my foot to become the person that I wanted to be.

As usual though, I didn’t realize this necessity of this beautiful brokenness right away. Even now, I know there are still moments when I am frustrated, hurt, angry – driven up a wall and ready to punch through it – by the fact that I am broken. For so many years and at times, though not always, this year, I felt it profoundly. I am not enough. The work that I do to serve at Repairers of the Breach will never be enough to eliminate homelessness in Milwaukee. The love that I attempt to give to those who love me and care for me and never turn away from me will never be enough to show them the depth of my feelings and my gratitude for their presence in my life. My faith life will never be enough to deserve the sacrifice that Christ made for me or the guidance he continues to give me.  Regrettably, the attempts I make at fixing who I am, regrettably, may never be enough to satisfy (at least in my mind) my broken perceptions.

Yet, in my brokenness, I learned the power of what it is to embrace. In those first moments of real, inexplicable, yet untouchable darkness I experienced this year, someone – many (and you know who you are) – was there to embrace me, to remind me what it is to feel something. In those first times I genuinely felt incompetent in and disgusted by my service work and my attitude toward it, someone was there to remind me that service is nothing more than an embrace, an embrace of the injustices that face our society, of another’s hurting, or of another’s brokenness. Someone was there to help me re-embrace the fact that service isn’t about being the hero, being the best or brushing past the heartbreaking realities of poverty.

When I was asked to talk about the depths of my brokenness this year for the first time in a profound and vulnerable way as a retreat leader, again someone was there. Well, a team of you were there (along with forty or so retreatants) to support me in embracing that brokenness and in acknowledging the very reality that I am not alone in this brokenness and that I never have been. You all showed me how to bring that brokenness to the Lord. You showed me that we can glory in the brokenness, that Christ embraces us in that brokenness, and that he never stops loving us and stretching his arms out over us – even in our brokenness.

And, this year, when I felt like I’d failed horrifically as a leader for the first time (after I was robbed during my MAP trip to Kansas City this year and thought for a very long time that we weren’t going to have a way home), someone was there. Well, actually, five people were there to embrace me, to embrace each other, and yes, to embrace, even after being violated, the work that we were there to do. In my brokenness, uncertainty, and fear, they embraced all of it with unceasing power, gratitude, love, and faith.

You know, Casey, Jacob, Matt, Aly, and Annie – in case you are reading this – I wouldn’t trade a minute of that MAP trip this year. I knew I was broken in many ways by March of this year, I could feel it but more importantly, by this time, I could feel it in my service work and in my relationships and in pretty much every aspect of my life. (Except for maybe my faith life, but that was because I was running on a bit of a high thanks to Jessie and the rest of the Salt and Light retreat team.) And yes, the night before we left for that trip, I was scared to a debilitating level. Friends had invited me over to enjoy the start of spring break, but I couldn’t think or cook or do anything but try to breathe. I honestly didn’t think I could do it again, that we could have a MAP trip that would fulfill everything that I had hoped for. But, suddenly, we were there on that trip and you embraced each other. You played those silly hot seat games with me. You didn’t freak out when things didn’t always work out the way we’d planned (not that I expected you all to freak out, but that’s my natural response to most things, so I do have a tendency to expect it.) You were all patient with the newness that comes with service work in a shelter for the homeless – and you embraced what it means to give service through conversation. You embraced the questions, the brokenness, the process of deboning chicken. You embraced each other’s vulnerability and – at a moment when I needed it most – reminded me to do the same. You embraced my shortcomings as a leader, and worked with me to make MAP what it is meant to be. I didn’t facilitate MAP 2014 – even if my resume says I did. No, my brokenness was too big for that. You all took on that role for me.

And, when I was broken in my relationships and experienced those first powerful fights, those first nights when I felt alone, uncertain, frustrated, lost and confused, someone was there. Yes, I hope you know who you are. You didn’t turn away from me or push me far from you in the ways that I did. No, instead, you held me through the tears. You sat outside my door and waited for me to open it, even just a crack, so you could come back in and talk me down from the cliffs I’d created beneath my feet.

In those scary first moments of submitting my creative writing and considering myself a writer, you guys were there too. You were right there in it with me, learning with me, and teaching me to embrace the passion and the beauty and the life that can come with the freeing power of letting my fingers fly across the keys.

You all were there, whether you knew it or not, in each moment of this year. You were there when I couldn’t see it. You were there when I didn’t believe I needed it. You never gave up on me. You were there when I didn’t think I deserved a second chance and you embraced me in every single one of those moments. One of you embraced me this year in a way I never expected – you asked me to marry you in spite of (or, should I say because of?) my brokenness.

And, in those first moments of really questioning the path I thought I’d found for my life and in those first moments of fighting back against all of those doubts, you were there. All of you, each of you – you all know, or at least I hope you know, the incredible ways in which you impacted my life, walked me back from the edge of the cliff, took my under your wings again after I’d pushed you far out of my life.

You embraced me when I was sick and crying in my apartment at the end of first semester (and multiple times throughout second semester) because of the tonsillitis that was attacking me. You brought me soup. You brought beer bread when my mom and I were in that car accident on my first day back in Milwaukee. You gave me applesauce or popsicles and yogurt and whatever else you could find in the middle of the night during my recovery from my tonsillectomy. You were there for me and embraced me even after we’d fought and felt such a deep brokenness just days before. You embraced me, you loved me, and you helped me find the power to embrace once again.

And, now that I’ve thought about it for a bit, I can’t say that this year was about being broken. No, this year, was about embracing – embracing each other, embracing our uncertainties, embracing our challenges, embracing the future, embracing the love that exists all around us, and yes, even embracing the irony that my I can very much feel the remaining ache of my formerly broken foot at this very moment.

I love you all and I thank you for embracing me. I hope that, during the rest of this year and the rest of my years to come (however many years that may be), I can remember what I learned this year about embracing, even it just means I embrace you all a little more.

Peace.

[marquetteandme]

Photo by becomingthedifference. Where are you exploring this weekend? 

[marquetteandme]

So it hit me today....

Sometimes I think my best writing comes at the most inconvenient times, but then I remember that it's the beautiful chaos of our real lives that is exactly what inspires and creates and makes for beautiful writing. 

Like all of you, I should probably be getting caught up in the end of the year and the chaos of finals week or even the excitement of what is to come.

For some reason, though, I just can't. I'm not sure I want to leave the perfect reverie that I have found as I sit here and pretend to study in the Straz Atrium. Now, don't get me wrong - I was studying. I just think there are some words that we all need to hear, words that we often fail to say in these busy times of the year.

Breathe. Embrace this crazy ride. The beautiful moments that you are experiencing right now are fleeting. You might wish yourself through final exams right now, but before you do, can I caution you? Before you know it, these exams will end, but so will your time at Marquette and the incredible conversations that always seem to take place during study breaks with your best friends or as you say thank you to that barista for unexpectedly giving you a free coffee or as you make emergency "I need study food" Thai food takeout runs. Today is my last day of classes as a junior here at Marquette and I cannot believe that the past three years have already flown by.  Where did they go? Have I done everything I hoped to do in my time here? Will I have enough time next year to do it all?

I don't have the answer to any of those questions. I'm not sure I ever will. But, I do know that I probably spent too many nights worrying about what homework I had to do or what tests I had to study for than I should have. I know I have stared at flashcards instead of conversing with the friend that needed me. I know there have been moments in my college years that I have let my priorities sway from what they should have been. 

That's not where I want this story to end though. Marquette has too much to offer me, too much to teach me about becoming a whole person, a true woman for others for me - and for all of you - to sit by and wait to live until these chaotic moments of our lives as students are over. 

I want my Marquette story to end something like this: 

You know when you're out of breath because you've just finished an amazing run and your whole body feels somehow more energized, more alive, and more in sync with your true identity because of how much you've exerted? That's the full exhaustion that I want from my time at Marquette. I want my passions to have been used and expanded and shared and grown until there is nothing left. I want to know that I have given the full authentic reality of who I am - the person I've grown into because of my time at Marquette - to the community that has made me who I am. 

So, if you're a reading this and you still have a few years before graduation, I'm jealous of you. I'm jealous that you have all of these incredible years left ahead of you. Well, maybe jealous is't the right word, because I know that I have had those years and have had the chance and have, for the most part, accepted that chance to make some profound memories.

Make Marquette your own, my friends. Love like crazy, shine, exist with those around you. Let the final exams be what they are. Push through them, do well - do your best. But remember, you are more than that test, that grade. Marquette is more than this. It's tradition, it's life, it's excitement, it's crazy - it's yours. Seize it before it's gone. 

peace.

[marquetteandme]

I want to remember this moment.

Look, I know it's late and I know it's finals week and I know that there are probably a thousand other things I could be doing and probably should be doing. But, I can't do anything else right now, except write. 

This past weekend was one of the craziest, most beautiful, and most surreal experiences of my life and as I was sitting in my apartment tonight trying to study for my finals and finish up what has proved to be my wildest, but most fulfilling year at Marquette thus far, I couldn't help but get caught up in a perfect reverie. I want to remember what has happened to me over the past week and weekend. I want all of these little moments to seep deeply into the very trenches of my soul and lock themselves there permanently. 

I never expected to fall in love with so many things and people and places and opportunities when I first started at Marquette. I never expected that I'd learn how to love in the most unexpected, but profound and vulnerable ways. 

I guess I should just come out and say it, right? Here it goes.

Hey you? Yeah, you know who you are. 

When I come to you in one year, in five years, in ten years, or even in ten minutes and I am scared of losing touch with the person I've become here at Marquette and the person I've become because of you, can you remind me of something? 

Can you remind me of the way you held my hand when I was crying? Can you remind me of the ways we laughed through the struggles? Can you remind me of happy I was in this moment, this exact moment right now? Can you look at me like you did that one Friday afternoon in April and tell me that you'll do anything for and with me? Can you remind me that I made those same promises to you, too? 

I want to remember how I am right now in the moments when life gets tough. I know that I, that we, haven't chosen an easy path for ourselves, but I believe in it. I believe that God will provide. I believe that we'll find a way to keep making this work. 

You're the best thing that's ever happened to me and that fact will never change. I just need you to help me remember exactly how all of this came to be. Don't let me forget the silliest moments, like the times we skipped classes (more like the times you skipped classes) or the most profound ones, like the times we walked and talked for hours or the times when we held each other close because that was all we had. 

All I'm trying to say is that I always want to remember the way you turned toward me and said exactly what I needed to hear in that moment, yes of course, but not only in that moment - in every moment, in every conversation, in every interaction (yes, even those without words). 

I know this probably stopped making sense a while ago, but I just wanted you to know this so that you would hold me accountable, that you would make me remember - that you wouldn't let me forget. 

peace.