Father Quinn and Father Luke really have no idea how much they mean to me. There are so many reasons I love them both. Today, the focus is on Fr. Quinn. The anniversary of his priestly ordination is today.
I find it hilarious that we, well, I didn't like him at all at first. And I held a grudge for a long time. But for whatever reason, he started to grow on me. Mayhaps it was because I knew I couldn't sucker him in to givinge me attention like anyone else. Perhaps it was because when I looked at him, I saw a very serious, strong, genuine man in love with his Bride. Or, maybe, it was the fact that he wore Chucks all the time. Or that he was a total goof on very rare occasions. But, most likely, it was because, deep down, I knew we were more alike than I cared to admit.
There is one thing that is integral to my continual conversion and relationship with Christ, and that's my relationship with Fr. Quinn. My love of Christ doesn't depend on Father, but being formed by him certainly helps.
I remember the first time I really got corrected by him. He didn't yell or scream at me (like I was used to with my own dad), he simply texted me a message: "I am VERY disappointed with you." I'd rather have screaming and yelling.
Over the years, I've grown closer to Father, and I'm no longer like a little child starving for his attention. It is interesting to watch people be around him; everyone wants his attention and approval.
And I used to. And I used to be so afraid that I'd do something to make him stop paying attention to me or keep fighting for me. or being my spiritual Father.
Two things happened recently to assure me that could never happen.
First and foremost, Father knows me. He knows it all and he loves me the same. He's assured me that his love for me is not incumbent upon how well I succeed or how bad I fail. I love going to confession with him because I don't have to start over. He knows what my wounds are, knows why I do half the crap I do, and knows how to help heal me.
the life I used to live was selfish and pleasure-seeking. It was fun and empty. Instantly gratifying and unfulfilling, and it's very hard to not go back to it, especially when I am lonely.
But every time I go crawling back to that old lifestyle, I have to look Jesus right in the face in the confessional and tell Him that I loved my sin more than Him.
And it's unnerving. And terrifying. And it makes me want to puke.
Because the devil doesn't want me in there. He wants me satisfied with where I was: selfish, irresponsible, wounded, weak, prideful.
The last time I want to confession with Father, I was on expedition and asked him to hear it before Mass. It's so mortifying having to tell these things to someone. The shame. The wounds. The past I can't and won't let go of.
But he already knows. His eyes, they're so beautiful and full of Truth. And he's hurt that I'm hurt. He's angry that I'm tortured. And I get in and I can barely speak or look at him. I stare at the wall and try to fight back tears and struggle to make sounds. Before I get a word out, I hear.
"He loves you, Jen. He loves you. It's ok. He loves you."
And he knows me. By Grace and patience and charity and fortitude, he knows and loves me. Outside of Communion, he's the closest to Christ I've ever been. And he knows me.
And he says exactly what I need to hear. That I'm safe. And loved. And forgiven. And there's no end in sight to that.
At all. Ever.
And then. Then I met with him a few weeks later to discuss managing Basecamp. And I told him that I was afraid. That I didn't want it to end up like last time. I didn't want to fail again.
He picked up on this immediately and said, "Don't say that. It wasn't a failure... and when you say, 'again,' you're setting yourself up. That's the evil one talking. Don't let him in."
Father has such an uncanny ability to call satan out.
Which leads to one of my favorite memories of him. Back during the summer of '10, before we dug up the propane tank and skinned the evergreen to make it into a flagpole. Before St. Joseph's flower garden was planted, we had a statue of Jesus and His Most Sacred Heart. Well, during expedition, the guys loaded it on the bus. We took it to the Cathedral and the men loaded it into the basement/museum.
Father was sitting on the curb watching the men unload, and I plunked down next to him.
"Father, my dad lives right over there," I pointed to the back of his house that was less than 100 yards away. "Could we park the bus out front and go pray on the sidewalk? Bust out the holy water?"
He didn't say anything for a few minutes and then finally turned toward me.
Now, Father's eyes are usually a pretty steady blue color, but when he looked at me this time, the were almost aqua. It was startling. He had this really far-away look in his eyes as he responded:
"Let the dead bury the dead." He said nothing else and watched and waited for the weight of it to sink in. When it did, he gave a quick, stern, forceful nod of his head that put a finality on the entire situation.
I sat there and said nothing. He knew what I was up to. I just wanted my dad to... I don't know what... but Father knew better. And instead of helping feed the lie that there was something wrong that I did to make my dad not love me, Father convinced me to let it go. That it wasn't my problem, but my dad's; that I was fully alive, and he wasn't, and it wasn't my responsibility to make him so.
That didn't heal the wound completely, but it stitched it up pretty well. This helped me realize that it's ok to let things like this go. I can't control everything (or anything!), and that people are accountable for their own actions (yay, free will!).
What else is there to say? I'm not sure, other than this picture no longer personifies my relationship with Fr. Quinn.
This was when I had NO idea what the priesthood WAS... when I looked at Fr. Quinn like a brother and not a spiritual Father. A brother might come close to fighting for his sister, but he'll never defend her like a Father can, like Christ can.
Thank God for Father Quinn's priesthood, his bravery, detachment, love for his Bride, care for his spiritual children, for his love. His life.
Jesus Christ through CYE, through Father Quinn, saved my life, and He continues to love, lead, and form me through the apostolate. I encounter Truth and Forgiveness, and sincere love with the kind of correction and challenges I need to make me holy, to make me make others holy, to get us to heaven, to keep bringing me back to the right path when I'm obstinate or bolt. To love me regardless.
And this is what happens on CYE. It's imbued with obedience to the Holy Spirit, a sincere and intense love For Christ in the Eucharist, and a devotion to our Blessed Mother.
And will always work to save lives.
It definitely pulled me up from the waves.
PS- It's also FTF's birthday!!! <3
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