Courage, dear heart.featured

Dear heart,

There may come a time when the weight of the world becomes unbearable. When darkness pushes so intently on every side that you begin to doubt that light is true. That love is steadfast. That holy, beautiful things can exist alongside so much pain and suffering.

I plead ceaselessly that God will let me live my vocation of motherhood beyond your childhood. That He will allow me to help you carry the crosses you’ll bear. To weep with you in your pain and remind you of the truth that beauty tells. If I am not given that chance, I pray that the time and words I have now will speak comfort and peace to your weary, broken heart. And that our faith will assure you of my steadfast love and care.

There is immense freedom in recognizing that deep sadness over our own brokenness and the brokenness of our world is not something to fear or fight. It points us to the beauty and wholeness we are meant to live. A wholeness that through Christ we can participate in bringing to our world.

Knowing beauty and brokenness intimately and faced with our own inability to give you a life without pain, we have worked tirelessly to saturate your childhood with beauty. To make the assurance of its truth as familiar and innate to you as the air you breathe. To safeguard against despair.

We travel far and wide to see the vast beauty of humanity in all corners of the world. To delight in the familiarities and differences in language and history and tradition. To see the rich, varied ways our Catholic faith is lived and celebrated. We visit national parks to immerse ourselves in the grandeur of creation. To soothe our overstimulated minds and let the silence soak deep into our souls and speak the truth of a world created for wonder. We visit art museums to seek out beauty and marvel at the creative instinct that images our creator in shockingly unique ways. We work to make our home a sanctuary of simplicity, order, and beauty to hold us in our days together.

We read stories that capture the truth of our humanity. In biographies that introduce us to heroic figures. In myths that capture our suffering and striving and sacrificing and overcoming. In poetry that delights us and draws us into a story far more intricate than the words on the page. 

We visit churches to see the story of our faith depicted in familiar images and scenes. We learn to recognize beloved saints and events told through different styles of art that reflect the local culture and make our universal faith familiar to all. We attend mass to place ourselves in the presence of our creator and savior and to receive His immense gift of Himself. We return to Rome again and again. We lay on the sun-warmed stones of Piazza San Pietro as darkness falls and marvel at the gentle curve of the colonnade’s embrace that holds the entire earth in the globe of its warm, golden glow.

We do all of these things because they tell the truth of the world and ourselves as we were created to be. And they show us how to live in a reality that falls short of that fullness.

We do all of these things so that a whiff of incense or a glimpse of sun filtering through stained glass or the sound of a well-known hymn can stir a familiar longing that draws you back to the heart of our faith. 

So that a statue of our beloved Saint George can make you smile at the silly anecdotes of The Reluctant Dragon and wonder at the heroic knight who saved a kingdom. And an image of Our Lady of Guadalupe can remind you that Christ and His mother will always be found closest to those who suffer and mourn.

We do all of these things so that you remember you were created for this story. You are necessary to its unfolding. The vocation you discern and the ways you live out that vocation will resound through its pages. The friendships you develop, the work you do, the vows you make, and the children you raise will be indelibly marked by your presence. As a quiet whisper of companionship to those who feel alone. As a gentle voice confirming that each life holds inherent, inexhaustibe dignity and worth. As a relentless call for peace and justice. As an unwavering example of joy and delight.

We do all of these things so that we are not tempted to shy away from suffering or hide it. Since we have told you the story of salvation brought to fruition in Christ’s excruciating journey from Gethsemane to Golgotha, the true story that holds fullness, fracture, and redemption, we are honest about our own suffering knowing that it can be joined to Christ’s. It can become our participation in His making all things new. And we share the truth of our human history even when it is uncomfortable and painful. Recognizing that these are the wounds we are called to heal.

We do all of these things so that when darkness threatens to overwhelm you, you can rest in the assurance of a beauty just beyond sight. And you can let beauty’s perseverance revive your hope and steady your heart. Like Samwise glimpsing a star in the hellish pit of Mordor: “There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.”²

When life threatens to overwhelm you, return to the places of safety, warmth, and delight that we have woven together into the fabric of your soul.

Go to mass. As often as you can. Hear the familiar creaking of the pews and words of the liturgy. Listen to the stories of our faith. Kneel in penitence and rise to meet your God in humility. Allow beauty and peace to envelop you.

Walk in the frigid air and listen to the gentle, muffled quiet of the earth covered in snow. A sound few will venture out to hear. Soak in the warmth of the summer sun and the pungent smell of the fresh spring earth. Trace the familiar constellations of your freckles. Listen to the roar of the waves and let the sea breeze remind you that you are small, but bold. An essential part of the symphony that creation sings.

Light a candle to remind you of our St Lucy’s Day celebrations. When we captured the last of the fading winter light and returned home to the warmth of twinkle lights, steaming bowls of nourishing soup, and hot toast with a great deal of butter on it.³

Belt songs from our road trip playlist and laugh at the cacophony of yelling, off-key voices and ridiculous dances we created to pass the time as we crisscrossed the country.

Read The Green Ember to remind yourself that bearing the flame can mean tending to the beauty of the home you create as well as fighting to protect that home. As Maggie O’Sage says, “‘Some must bear arms and that is their calling. But this,’ she motioned back to the mountain behind her, ‘this is a place dedicated to the reasons why some must fight. Here we anticipate the Mended Wood, the Great Wood healed…We sing about it. We paint it. We make crutches and soups and have gardens and weddings and babies. This is a place out of time. A window into the past and the future world. We are heralds, you see, my dear, saying what will surely come. And we prepare with all our might, to be ready when once again we are free.'”⁴

Watch The Two Towers to hear Sam tell you, now that you are old enough to understand, why the great stories stay with us: “It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn’t want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something..that there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it’s worth fighting for.”⁵

Recall the Old Testament tales familiar to you from childhood, tracing God’s faithful covenant with His people through salvation history. Revel in the promises of Isaiah and Jeremiah. Recite the Canticle of Zechariah and the Magnificat. Read our beloved Gospel of John and watch The Chosen to see the drama of the Gospels come to life. Feel the soothing rhythm of the rosary and the chaplet of divine mercy. The predictable cadence of your voice as you recite the first prayers you ever learned. The tempo of your fingers as they follow the path of the beads.

Delight in a good meal enjoyed with beloved friends and family who draw you deeper into life and beauty. 

Write the story you long to create with your life.

You are never alone, but loved beyond imagining. You are not abandoned, but saved. Courage, dear heart. I love you.

^{1 Joy Marie Clarkson, and Joy Marie Clarkson|AUTHOR. Aggressively Happy Baker Publishing Group, 2022.}

^{2 Tolkien, J. R. R. 1892-1973. The Return of the King: Being the Third Part of The Lord of the Rings. New York, N.Y.: Quality Paperback Book Club, 2001. Print.}

^{3 Kate DiCamillo, and Kate DiCamillo|AUTHOR. Mercy Watson to the Rescue Candlewick Press, 2013.}

^{4 S. D. Smith. The Green Ember: Green Ember Series, Book 1. Unabridged Story Warren Books, 2019.}