Release the Kraken

 There’s been so much happening in my life lately, so I’m a bit overwhelmed.  The main thing is that I’ve left parish youth ministry.  For Good.  And I ain’t lookin’ or goin’ back, no matter how much debt I have.  I’m pretty bitter about that, so let’s move on.

Secondly, my heart has recently been bombarded by beauty.  And I feel much like this fellow.

It’s the kind of beauty that’s captivating, meaningful, and painful.  I’ve written several things about this, but they’re much too personal to publish online.  So, let’s press on.

I haven’t been writing a lot since October, and I only partly know why:

1.  Fear.

All of a sudden, I’m overwhelmed by all of these things: the good and the bad.  But, I still feel like I’ve got a handle on it.  However, once the pen starts scratching, I’m afraid it’ll open up a can of worms that I really don’t feel like eating. 

2.  Time.

Living in the world but not of it is a very tedious thing to do when my heart longs for simplicity and detachment.  I.  Am.  So.  Tired.  And it’s not just a physical exhaustion, it’s spiritual, too.  And, I’m not saying that to complain.  “It’s just,” as Bostone would say, “an observation.”  Heh.  Anyways.  I work, I pray, and I sleep.  When I’m doing the first two, I’m distracted about the third.  I just want to rest.  I feel exhausted.  I suppose getting 4-5 hours of sleep for the past few nights isn’t helping much.  Mayhaps I need to go back to Pacem for, like, a week straight.  Anyways, point is, gentle reader, that I have had no desire to write in the past month or so.  And, if I have, it’s because my heart overtakes my head with the Truth, and the pen obeys.  Heh.  This isn’t to say that I don’t have things to write about.  My brain is frothing with ideas.  But there are just SO MANY THINGS, and I’m a trifle overwhelmed.

I recently wrote in my journal after reading the Gospel on Sunday:

“I tell you the Truth.”

I absolutely detest lying.  It’s pretty much the worst thing that you could do to me.  I’d rather be punched in the face than lied to. 

Number of times I’ve been punched in the face?  2.

Number of times I’ve been lied to?  All my life.

And it’s disgusting.  I’ve been told (or shown, or hinted at, etc) over and over again that I’m not skinny, pretty, smart, funny, interesting, or anything else enough.  I’m never enough.

Conversely, I’m too much.  I’m too demanding, overbearing, impatient, too loud, obnoxious, short-tempered, too smart for my own good (or for anyone else’s), my expectations are too damn high, I’m clingy, I’ve done too much to be forgiven.  I’m overwhelming.

I’m not enough.  I’m too much.

I’m too much for anyone in my life to handle, even my parents.  I’m too much for any man to handle me, but I’m not interesting enough to keep one around because I’m too much and I scare him away.  I always scare people away.  I’m too much.  I’m not enough.

Hogwash.

Lies.  Lies.  Lies. 

It’s flabbergasting sometimes how I can’t get out of my own head.  Sometimes, I even freaking overwhelm myself.

o_O yeah.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it.  Or don’t.  Smoking is bad.  You’ll get the blacklung.  No, wait, that’s from coal mining.  Point is, proper ventilation for the lungs AT ALL TIMES.

And, in response to this, whether it’s my love for Fr. Larry Richards’s startling slap of reality or the subtle art of Tolkien, one word keeps popping up in my head over and over:

 Precious.

 A little jaunt down memory lane, eh?  There was a point in time where I would have been revolted and insulted has this adjective been applied to me:

“I’m not precious!  Precious means weak!  Precious means someone else has to care for me!  Precious means tiny and fragile!  And I’m not weak!  I can do it myself!  I am big and loud and you have to deal with me and like it or you can go to Hell.”

Such brokenness.  And I see it all the time whilst working retail.  Women are not told that they are precious: worth waiting for and fighting for.

And you know what?  Half the time, it comes from the mouths of people in our own Church.

GAH!

Stay with me on memory lane, here.  After my conversion (summer of 2004- Confirmation in Jan 2005), I kept going on Chamber’s Island work retreats.  I started helping with LifeTeen, etc. etc.  I’d help youth ministers with their retreats, give talks, lead small groups, the Holy Blowtorch was fueled and firing.  (I would always say “yes” immediately to helping because I knew it was an invitation from Jesus and not the person asking me.)

Well, then, (deep subject, that) in about 2006, I met one of the nicest, holiest guys ever. We met on the Chamber’s Island college-age work retreat, and I told him about CYE.  I must have intimidated the hell out of him (this was confirmed in a letter he later wrote me.  Hah!).  He was quiet, shy, and funny, and we had quite the conversations.  While I must admit that my attraction to his holiness emboldened me to speak to him, my zeal for souls and love of Christ egged me on to get him to come to CYE.  Fresh off the conversion train from my encounter with Christ on CYE, I wanted EVERYONE I MET to go on CYE, which is how some people ended up on expedition, and eventually, on staff.  I’d just meet random young Catholic adults, and I’d pog them.

He was a bit stand-offish at first, but then he called me over the summer to tell me about TEC.  So there I was, almost 25 years old, being invited to spend a weekend on retreat with teenagers.  I asked for some more details (and found out that at least half of us were in our early 20s), and it sounded like a good idea- something I’d be in to.  I responded with, “I’ll go on TEC with you if you go on expedition.”

BOOM.  He agreed.  Well played, Holy Spirit.

So that expedition, needless to say, was epic.  It was the one in which Kurt Krauss dropped his pancake-on-a-stick in the fire and then he and (Fr.) BJ Vandynhoven (I think) sang a medley about it to the melodies of Phantom of the Opera… back in the days when the Big Blue Beast and the Paschal Mystery Machine were our only vehicles, and tricked out buses were a far-off dream.  Bahahaha.  I love CYE.

Anyways.  I went on this TEC in 2007 as my goofy, loud, snarky-black-t-shirt-loving, wallet-chain-&-combat-boot-wearing tool for Christ.  I’d also recently been relieved of my braces, so I wasn’t afraid to smile anymore.

Observe:

My shirt read “It’s better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”  I also wore another one that said, “TACT: For those not witty enough to be sarcastic.”  Ah, youth.

I’d rather not say much about the entire experience, as it was not a good one for me.  Don’t get me wrong, everything was good and formative, and there was no paganry of any kind, but there were some things that just didn’t sit well with me (as an arrogant veteran of over 30 retreats at that point.  I'm arrogant.  Sue me.). 

However, the most important thing that I remember about this retreat experience was that I started taking my vocation seriously.  I started praying for my future husband.  And this wasn’t some shallow, Pollyannish optimism about a beautiful gown and the perfect wedding day.  It was a desperate plea to the Lover of my Soul to send me someone strong enough to handle me and holy enough to get us both (and our children) to heaven.  Even then, as a fledgling Catholic, I knew it was serious business.

I always say, rather tongue-in-cheek, when I ask people to pray for my future husband, “If he marries me, he’s gonna need all the prayers he can get.”  We all chuckle.

But.  It is immensely true.  And I’m so afraid that he’ll never find me and have enough courage to even try to love me.  I feel like an impossible task.  I FREAKING FEEL LIKE A TASK.  (rolls eyes.) 

Because why?

Because I’m “not enough,” and I’m “too much.”

Stay with me here.  (I’m sure you’ve felt this way or similar in some capacity during your life.  One, or the other, or both, yes?  No?  Liar.)

So, on this TEC, the Holy Spirit told me to pray aloud (a lot) for my future spouse, which I found nerve-wracking, but, I was obedient.  And I’ll post about how I “hear” the Holy Spirit another time.  So, during intercessions or whenever I could, I’d pray something along the lines of “for my future husband.  Keep him safe and far from harm.”  Not “give me one.”  Not “send him to me.”  But for him.  Not for me.

I’m not surprised if you’re astounded.  It baffles me how much I pray for, love, and care for a man I probably haven’t even met yet.  And, yes, I’m completely aware that I’m a total whack job.  You needn’t remind me.

Anyways, I experienced TEC, and, as we all prepared to close the retreat, everyone was sitting around signing Bibles.  It was at the end of a three-day, sweaty retreat  in an school building with no air conditioning at the end of June, so I had my jeans rolled-up to my knees.  There was one team leader in particular that I wanted to say goodbye to.  His talk and witness were pretty powerful and had made quite the impact on me.   

Well, I went up to him and started to thank him.  We chatted for a little bit, and suddenly, he says, “Jenny, I heard you pray a lot this weekend for your future husband.”

“Yes,” I replied.  My heart started pounding fast because I thought maybe I’d be getting some advice on how to be holier, or a good wife, or how to self-sacrifice, etc., etc.  I was excited.  However, the next two words out of his mouth were, “What’s that?” as he pointed to my right hip.

Caught off-guard, I looked down and grabbed my wallet chain.  I pulled out my wallet and said,

“Oh, this?  This is my wallet chain.  It’s cool.  I hate purses, and this keeps my wallet in my pocket.  It’s got cool blue flames on it, see?”

“Yeah.  And what’s that on the back of your leg?”

“Oh!  That’s my MxPx tattoo.  It’s the logo for my favorite punk band.  Funny thing: they’re a Christian punk band, and I got it done when I was an atheist.”  He wasn’t smiling.  He had this weird, far away look in his eyes as he said, quite matter-of-factly:

 “I see.  You know, Jen, you pray for your future husband, but guys aren’t attracted to broads with tattoos and chains.”

 I don’t even remember what he said after that, because it all fell on dumbfounded deaf ears.  Someone actually got a picture of that moment (they had no idea what we were talking about).  You can’t see the expression on my face, but my body language is screaming (my arms are crossed, my stance is wide, and my head is cocked a little to the left).  The walls were up, the gate was sealed, and ain’t nobody gettin’ into that fortress.  The vulnerability, suffering, and eventual healing that I’d experienced on that retreat was suddenly flayed open and agitated by a dirty palm full of salt.  (Because, in my immaturity, I let those things define me.  I know better now, but it didn’t/doesn’t make it hurt less). 

Because, in so many words, what was this man saying to me?  “You’ll never be enough.  You’ll never be pretty enough to attract a man because he’ll be too revolted by your wallet chain and tattoo.  You’ll be too much because he won’t be able to handle them, therefore, he won’t even try.”

I don’t know about you, but being lied to at the end of a RETREAT is not my idea of a good time, and is, subsequently, the reason for my aversion to all things TEC related.  (I’m a hypocrite.  And I know it.  Sue me.)

Anyways.  I was also an in-home nanny for my kid-brother that summer, and this was one of the unfortunate conduits that brought us a bit closer.  As soon as I got home, I kind of told him what happened, that someone had really hurt my feelings.  I didn’t go into detail, because he was only 12, but he understood hurt feelings.  He saw the pain in my eyes.  I told him that if I was really quiet for the next few days, that was why.  He understood (being a melancholic/phlegmatic), and he gave me my space.  I love that kid so much.  To date, he’s one of my favorite people on the planet.  I was so distraught that I didn’t speak really (except to bawl and cry during prayer) for two days.

For almost two days I battled with feelings of worthlessness and ugliness: I’d never mean anything to anyone because I wore what I did.  And, the impact was much, much worse, because it was spewed forth from the mouth of a fellow Catholic on a retreat- a “safe” environment supposedly free of judgment.  Satan’s a sneaky little egg-sucker.  Finally, I called the second-best man in my life.  My Irish twin.  My Nynan, who’d also recently converted, and, truth be told, was a much better Christian than I.

As I recalled what happened to him over the phone, I remember hearing the rage in my brother’s voice.  And, as a woman, having a brother, or a male friend, outraged at my being mistreated is music to my ears.  It means you want to fight for me.  IT MEANS I’M WORTH FIGHTING FOR.  He  kind of “talked me up” from the bottom of the pit I fell into.  Among the encouraging things my brother said, the most memorable was:

“Jen, your future husband won’t care about your wallet chain.  No.  Actually, he’ll love your wallet chain.  Why?  Because it will be hanging off of YOU.”

Instant salve on the wound.  My heart, it soared.  Truth.

Why did I believe the lies so easily and readily?  Ignorance and experience.

They were soon smacked-down by brotherly love.  Punched.  Beaten.  Waffle-stomped into submission by Truth.

So.  I got off the phone and played some Bible Bingo.

Ready to come full circle?

I landed on 1 Peter 3:3-4:

“Your adornment should not be an external one: braiding the hair, wearing gold jewelry, or dressing in fine clothes, but rather the hidden character of the heart, expressed in the imperishable beauty of a gentle and calm disposition, which is precious in the sight of God.”

I have the entire passage underlined in my Bible, and the word, precious, is circled.

In the darkest most desperate moments of my life when I sincerely, utterly, and unabashedly search for Truth through the pain I experience, He is there.

And today, He’s here:

“Since you are precious and honored in my sight, and because I love you, I will give men in exchange for you, and people in exchange for your life.”  Isaiah 43:4  (And I love me some Isaiah).

“A wife of noble character who can find?  She is more precious than rubies.”  Proverbs 31:10.  This has always struck me, as rubies are my birthstone.

 Recently, I saw this post on facebook: 

 "It is the prized and valued stone that is polished.  allow yourself to be cut, gratefully, because God has taken you in His hands as if you were a diamond.  An ordinary pebble is not worked on like that." 
-St. Josemaria Escriva.

KA-FREAKIN BOOM.

When everyone else is telling me I’m not enough or I’m too much, the Truth pushes a lock of hair behind my ear and whispers:

“You’re enough.  You are.  But I want you better.  I want you holy.  I want you to reflect Me and not you.  It’s Me,not you. You are precious and beloved.  You are not ready yet, and it’s ok.   It’s Me, not you.  You are enough.  You’ve done nothing wrong.  I’m not withholding from you.  I need to make him ready for you.  To fashion him into a warrior who is enough to love you like you deserve.  When you’re both enough for each other, you’ll be ready.

 …AND THEN I SHALL RELEASE THE KRAKEN.”

 LMAO.  I love Him.  And yes, He does say ridiculous things like that to me. 

He tells me that all the “love” I’ve experienced thus far is counterfeit, and boy, does He have something astounding for me, but I need to be satisfied with Him first.

It’s SO difficult.  As a woman.  It feels impossible. 

To wait for the eyes that delight in my beauty, the voice that affirms my dignity, and the arms that defend my purity.  GAH!  I’m so impatient.

Anyways.  This is why I go to Mass.  There, I’ll be romanced by Truth- the only One who’ll ever fully satisfy me.

I can’t wait to be a reflection of this Truth in my vocation.

But I will.

St. Joseph, patron of my vocation, ora pro nobis.