duty of a moment

I recently read a post on my friend Beth’s blog about how difficult it is to know how much we should invest in others, especially others that may only be in our lives for “a day, an afternoon, an hour.”

Just hours before reading the post, I had found myself in the elevator, heading up to my apartment. The two people sharing the elevator with me were both clearly American students. There was that awkward moment in the beginning of the ride where I thought about saying something, asking a question, striking up conversation, but then thought too hard; the moment of opportunity passed. So, the three of us stood patiently in silence. It was just a short ride up five floors, not worth chatting anyway. A few minutes later I was at my door, unlocking my apartment and setting down my schoolbag.

However, Beth’s point was that people are inherently worth investing time in, even those we do not know. She said, “you invest in them, knowing that you might never see them again.”

Beth’s writing immediately clicked with me. Living can’t be about giving when we know there will be a long term relationship or conversing when we are guaranteed another exchange, or avoiding awkward moments by staying quiet in elevators. Our humanity has got to run deeper in our veins than this comfort-seeking attitude.

It is okay to meet somebody and then “move on to new adventures,” as Beth put it, since we are, in the process, “leaving His fingerprints… even if we forget each other.”

Maybe not every elevator ever time, but sometimes it is our duty of the moment to say something, even something seemingly unimportant, to the person standing next to us.

Don’t let the sun set before you’ve given

somebody else a reason to hope (1 Peter 3:15).

we have the Church Triumphant helping us: St. Anthony, thank you!!

In 9^th grade Christine, my youth minister, gave each high schooler a crucifix blessed by Pope John Paul II. This was about six months before the Pope’s death. I wore the crucifix throughout high school, a reminder of Christ’s sacrifice and the history of man’s redemption.

Summer of 2008, while working at Mar-Lu-Ridge, I lost the crucifix. I spent a lot of time looking for it, but that mountain is huge, and it could have been anywhere! Miles of trails and roads, swimming pools and cabins, it was so unlikely I would find it. And, despite praying for St. Anthony (patron Saint of lost items) to intercede for me, the JPII crucifix didn’t turn up.

I was so upset about it. This wasn’t just some earring or piece of jewelry—it was a religious article, a crucifix. And, after all, it had been blessed by John Paul II! But, my brother, Math, gave me a strong wake up call, telling me that while it was a blessed item, it was still a thing, just a thing. No matter how much it meant to me, the crucifix was not necessary to love God or do His will. If I was getting so upset over losing it, maybe Christ was trying to teach me that the real importance of the crucifix wasn’t in the thing itself. I was so wrapped up in it, the crucifix, that I over looked Him, my God. I had forgotten why I even wore the crucifix.

By the time camp rolled around again the next summer, I had long since learned my lesson. Of course I was (and still am) attached to worldly things and have struggles with materialism, but improvements were in the works. In fact, for my birthday that summer, my parents gave me a new crucifix. Wouldn’t you know, but that crucifix fell off my chain just a few weeks later. I was disappointed, especially since it had been a gift from my parents, but I was in nowhere near the same state I had been the previous summer—no angry crying, no frustration, just a general disappointment at my inability to be cautious. It is just so hard to be careful at camp when you are swimming, jumping, running and going crazy 24/7.

Matt and I pose with our group from week six on top of Shock Rock at camp last summer. With craziness like this, how could I have expected to not lose a crucifix?

A little later that summer, I was waiting for my campers to come out of the camp store when a fellow counselor, Miss Clare, excitedly told me that her camper found my recently lost crucifix! A little boy walked up to me and told me how he had found it in the dirt outside the dining hall. When he opened his hand to show me, I saw that it was indeed my crucifix, but it wasn’t the new one. It was my JPII crucifix from ONE YEAR previous!! I almost couldn’t believe it. St. Anthony had certainly interceded for me, how else would that crucifix have weathered one year on a lonely mountain? Through Christ, St. Anthony had protected that crucifix through icy snowstorms, dirty mud, hungry animals, food trucks, trampling children. I just had to be patient along the way. Once I had learned my lesson, Christ heard my prayers, as well as those of St. Anthony, and let me have my crucifix back.

Now, I am in Rome (see photo to the left of me in the Roman Forum with the JPII crucifix!), one of the greatest places of religious history. Wearing it alongside my Mother Teresa medal, the crucifix went here with me of course. But, this past Thursday, I was late for Mass. When I got off the bus, I had to run about ten minutes to get to church. My jacket was flying open and I remember thinking about how my medals were flying around. However, for some reason I didn’t think to hold them safely as I sprinted. I made it to church a few minutes late, but later that night, when I got to the apartment, I realized I was missing my JPII crucifix. Irritated at my own recklessness and pretty sure that I must have lost it on the way to church, I decided to wait until the morning to look for it. Catherine and I prayed for Mary and St. Anthony’s intercession, and in my anxiety to find the crucifix, I promised St. Anthony a blogpost of the story if I found the crucifix… Still, I kept in mind Math’s advice; it was only a thing.

Friday, my alarm woke me up at 6 a.m. I eagerly shot out of bed and got ready for my search. I’m not sure what my reasoning was, but I planned to walk to the church from my apartment first, then look inside the church, then try to retrace the steps from the church to the bus stop, even though I knew it would be near impossible to do so. I was so hopeful as I started out; St. Anthony wouldn’t let me down. As I walked the route (each passing Roman thought I was insane because I was literally staring at the ground and walking slower than slow), I realized how massive my prayer was. The sidewalk and street were practically the same color as the crucifix, and what I was looking for was little. How was this going to work? Getting a little unsure of St. Anthony and myself, I continued praying and begging, St. Anthony, please, please, please help me look.

I was almost to the church, and still nothing. Momentarily forgetting which way to go, I began to cross the street. I realized my mistake and turned back. But, for some reason I didn’t move in the direction of the church. I have no idea why, but I stepped back and decided to take a second look for the crucifix on the corner I’d just been by. This was the corner I had to turn sharply to get to the church on the way there the night before. After several minutes of search, I figured it wasn’t there. I carried on towards Santa Lucia to see if the crucifix had maybe fallen off inside.

However, as I took a few steps away from the corner, I heard something under my shoe. Before looking, I knew immediately that it must be the crucifix. I tried to keep my expectation at bay, though, just in case. I moved my foot. Lying in the middle of the sidewalk was a tiny, one-inch John Paul II crucifix. My crucifix, no doubt. I clutched it tightly in my fist and holding it to my chest, tears started streaming down my face. This was real.

My crucifix blessed by John Paul II is now safely back onto the chain which it belongs. It is pretty tarnished and beat up, but that is just what happens when you have gone though so much. I owe finding it (both times) to the beautiful intercessions of St. Anthony, the patron Saint of lost items.

You can call it chance or luck, but I know differently. Rome is a huge city with millions (literally) of people, and I covered a huge distance traveling from the bus stop to the Church and then back to the apartment. It could have been anywhere—down a gutter, in the stomach of one of the thousands of dogs here, scooped up by the street cleaners—literally anywhere. It could have been picked up in the wheel of a Vespa and dragged miles across Rome. If I hadn’t doubled back after crossing in the wrong place, I would have never stepped where the crucifix was waiting for me.

St. Anthony, thank you! For all of you whom I asked to pray for the intercession of St. Anthony to find the crucifix, thank you. Christ, for hearing these prayers and granting me this blessing, thank you.

We will just have to see if I lose this crucifix again, (I hope not!) and if St. Anthony will help me out yet another time. However, regardless of what happens to my crucifix from here on out, what I have learned from it will stay with me.

Faith is real. Prayers are real. Saints are real.

I keep this card depicting St. Anthony in my journal. A Priest inside St. Peter's gave it to me just a week or two before I lost the crucifix while dashing through the streets of Rome.

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peace&love

the pickpocket: part ii

Okay. I still can't get over the pickpocket story even though it has been quite a while since the adventure. What's the big idea?

I think my roommate Kat said it best as we discussed the adventure while exiting the metro station when she said, pickpocketing is like cheating, which is just so dishonest. Stealing, cheating, lying—obviously we teach kids that these are wrong, (which they are), but why?

Well, besides dishonesty, the act of stealing disregards the work of a fellow human being. It is a disrespect of both the person and their rights. Of course, I am not talking about necessity, such as stealing to feed yourself and your family; this is something different. I'm talking about this woman on the metro, the teenager who steals the CD from Borders (probably a crappy CD not even worth stealing anyway), or the politician using funds for dishonest things. Stealing isn't just unloving or not loving, but anti-loving because it refuses to recognize another person's worth in a very basic way. Stealing, cheating and lying go against truth and right order, which I, for one, am a fan of.

Maybe we can't give everybody we meet friendship, kind words, the simple smile. But, if we cannot give our fellow human beings anything else, let's at least give them respect through honesty.

the pickpocket: part i

Every Rome guidebook in the universe warns heavily of pickpockets, as they should. No big deal, though—all cities have pickpockets. In this way, Rome is no different than many other major hubs. I'm sure you have heard stories, or told them yourself, about losing money, wallets or passports while traveling to Rome and other places.

However, I thought when you were pickpocketed it would be while you fell asleep on the bus or accidentally left your bags alone for a minute. I didn't think the criminal ever really had an identity. Of course, these are ideal situations for pickpockets, but fortunately for us and unfortunately for them, it doesn't always happen this way...

A few weeks ago, while heading to the opera, my roommates and I witnessed some serious pickpocket activity. We were taking the metro just a few stops, and it was pretty crowded. As we neared our stop, the man standing next to me started yelling at a woman. He was claiming (in English actually, and very loudly) that she had just tried to pickpocket him. The woman, short, middle-aged with mid-length brown hair (so, basically average in almost every way), argued back, "Do you have a photo? Do you have evidence?" Meanwhile, somebody on the metro said over and over "control your pockets." Pretty good advice to all in a crowded place, but obviously the man was controlling his pockets as he didn't let this woman go through with her crime. The man's wife pulled out her phone and indeed tried to take a photo of the pickpocket. The woman was too cunning for this, however and put her hand up to the phone's camera lens as the wife snapped the unsuccessful photo. People on the metro were kind of shuffling around nervously and excitedly; most everyone was staring.

When the metro stopped, Gabi, Kat and I were just trying to get off in time. The man was holding onto the pickpocket's arm; he and his wife followed her off the metro. As we got on the escalators, we watched the scene continue to unravel below. The pickpocketer kept trying to walk away from the couple, while they continued to yell about the attempted crime, saying "We're taking you to the police!" And, wouldn't you know? Luck seemed to be on their side this evening because as they yelled, an undercover cop came by and flashed his ID and badge and asked what was going on.

Who knows what happened next—we were already halfway up the escalators—but from that moment on, I have paid special attention and certainly tried to 'control my pockets.'

My roommates, Catherine, Kat, Gabby and I dressed up for the opera; it was a compilation, so we saw a variety of pieces performed from several famous operas. Adding to the excitement, we saw an attempted pickpocket in route.