I've heard a lot of people complain over the years about "Catholic Guilt". You know. How somehow, being Catholic and having to "earn" your way to heaven, you've been ingrained to know that it's never enough, and that makes you feel guilty. Or how those Catholics have such a long list of rules and regulations, if you break one, you feel guilty. That kind of thing. Guilt. Shame. A feeling of "not being enough". Can't we just enjoy the gospel and get rid of the fear? Where is the security of knowing for a fact that we're going to Heaven? Where is the contentment and peace?
You know what? Part of it is true.
But it's not coming from the Church.
In my own journey, I feel like every time I grow a bit in my spiritual life, God says to me "OK. Now I want more". And I groan and resist and hold back. MORE? But I'm already busy! I have a young family! The house is a mess! I'm busy with work! I don't have more to give! And then I feel guilty. Who am I to say "No" to Almighty God??? But I do. A lot.
And I realize, it's because I'm holding some back for me. And He knows it. My time, my effort. Where I spend my thoughts. Those things are firmly entrenched here and now in this little bubble I call my life on earth, and He wants that bubble I've created to pop. He wants ME. All of me. Am I willing to give?
So yesterday, because time was short and half my family was sick, we went to the small local church instead of our regular church. I almost didn't go. We were half way there, and I was debating, since we were late, to go all the way into town and go to our regular church and be on time, or take the convenient route and go to St. Anne's locally here, even though we'd be late. Quinn decided for me.
"Mom, it's only five minutes late. Just go here to St. Anne's". So we did.
We made it just before the Gospel reading, of Jesus' death on the cross, and the words hit me like a ton of bricks. His sacrifice. The words, as they floated through the air, seemed sacred, like I should have been face down on the floor instead of standing to hear them. Commending His spirit to God, in the act of ultimate, self-giving love. I was nearly crying, not five minutes after walking through the door.
And then Father Ben began the homily, and it began with an explanation of purgatory, and related it to physical therapy. Hello. I'm a physical therapist. It caught my attention. How apropos, he was talking about my field. Huh. It didn't take me long to realize, though, that he wasn't just talking generally about my career path. He was talking about ME. To ME. Well, not Father Ben, because he doesn't know me from Adam. God was talking to me through Father Ben. Very, very specifically.
See, two years ago, I was given an idea for a book, and it gelled for a good long time, but the idea wouldn't go away. So I began writing down, every single morning, the ideas that would spontaneously pop into my head when I first awoke. Complete scenes, characters, plot. It was all complete, and was given to me, a day at a time, for about a year. I would wake up, and write down the next thing. Things that at first seemed completely unrelated I later realized fit perfectly at some point or another, and eventually, a solid story formed. Last year in October, I was encouraged by a big-name published Catholic author (personally! It's in my inbox!) to write that story down. She had written a post about how God gave her a dream that she needed to encourage SOMEONE to finish the story they had started, and she gave her readers resources and encouragement to get started. When I commented on her post, she responded directly, encouraging me. OK. Got it. Write a book. In my spare time. What spare time? And I started, in the month of November, for National Novel Writing Month.
I got to chapter 8 in my book before life got too busy, and I had to stop. There was no time set aside that I could focus on the book, and so it languished. I'm not a novelist, who was I to think I could write a book anyway? It's probably no good. The few people I had read it didn't seem all that interested. Just a waste of time, and I had things that needed done around here. I wanted to continue, but... where is the time? I am a mother and a therapist. That's got to come first. I'll write when the kids are grown.
But then I went to church yesterday - not our normal church - and Father Ben gave a homily just for me. You know what he said in that homily?
The plot of my book. The VERY PLOT OF MY BOOK. Exactly.
I scoured my brain to remember if I had read the analogy before coming up with my plot, and I'm pretty sure I haven't. I remember writing a post on this blog about an analogy for Salvation, as it makes sense to me, and that analogy became the basis for my book. I know for a fact that Father Ben doesn't read this blog. He didn't hear it from me, I didn't hear it from him, and I'm pretty positive I didn't hear that exact analogy from anyone else, because I remember the day the analogy came to me in the shower, very clearly. And I wrote it down soon after, because I was thinking about my atheist nephew, and later shared the analogy with him.
So, here was Father Ben, telling the whole congregation about the plot of my book. Although he didn't know he was doing that. Really, God? IWhen? How? You want me, with my lack of skills, to write THIS story? Is that what you're asking of me? Isn't there someone better suited, more talented, with more time?
He wants all of me.
It's officially National Novel Writing month again. Time to get back on the horse.
