working on it
I was too ill to attend Mass on Sunday, so - after waiting all day to see if I felt better - Joseph took Thomas and Therese to the evening mass. When they came home, while the children scurried about preparing tea, Joe slumped on the sofa where I reclined in state and said "I really, really didn't feel like going to church tonight, but I'm so glad I did."
I think, to me, this is where one of the jewels of Catholicism - at least as I see it - lies buried. There are expectations and requirements of believers, and we have to do (or not do, as the case may be) many things and while we may not "feel like it", the sustaining gladness that we have done as we should upholds us among the vicissitudes of this mortal coil.
Every time I look my own moral and spiritual failings squarely in the face and, rather than despair and give up, grit my teeth and try again, I thank God for His Church. Every time we are all quietly wondering if we should just let the evening unspool without recourse to prayer, because we are tired or cross or sad, but Joseph (it is always him, and his goodness and faithfulness is why I have given him that pseudonym) says "Thomas, can you get the rosaries please?", I thank God. Many, many times, for me prayer is a mere reciting of words, Sunday obligation is a yoke that feels heavy, an examination of conscience is a sort of torture because while there may be many other sins to confess the one that weighs most is "being so half-hearted towards God".
But, the beautiful and amazing truth, is that joy and wholeheartedness always returns in the end. Sometimes it feels like the consolations of faith are like a star observed at a unimaginably great distance: a promise that somewhere there is true warmth and true light, just not right here, right now. And sometimes? The comfort, the warmth, the light is so great and overwhelming it feels like approaching the sun.
I think, to me, this is where one of the jewels of Catholicism - at least as I see it - lies buried. There are expectations and requirements of believers, and we have to do (or not do, as the case may be) many things and while we may not "feel like it", the sustaining gladness that we have done as we should upholds us among the vicissitudes of this mortal coil.
Every time I look my own moral and spiritual failings squarely in the face and, rather than despair and give up, grit my teeth and try again, I thank God for His Church. Every time we are all quietly wondering if we should just let the evening unspool without recourse to prayer, because we are tired or cross or sad, but Joseph (it is always him, and his goodness and faithfulness is why I have given him that pseudonym) says "Thomas, can you get the rosaries please?", I thank God. Many, many times, for me prayer is a mere reciting of words, Sunday obligation is a yoke that feels heavy, an examination of conscience is a sort of torture because while there may be many other sins to confess the one that weighs most is "being so half-hearted towards God".
But, the beautiful and amazing truth, is that joy and wholeheartedness always returns in the end. Sometimes it feels like the consolations of faith are like a star observed at a unimaginably great distance: a promise that somewhere there is true warmth and true light, just not right here, right now. And sometimes? The comfort, the warmth, the light is so great and overwhelming it feels like approaching the sun.
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