My Thorn in the Flesh - one among many

My family moved from northern Iowa to the southwest corner of the state during the summer before my senior year of high school.

I was angry with my parents for most of the 1981-82 school year. And that wasn't the only attitude problem I had that year.

I was one of three new students at Manning High School. The other two were two foreign exchange students from Kenya and Germany (as I recall).

Manning had a tradition. Foreign exchange students were featured in the school paper, encouraged to join every extracurricular activity, and they were automatically on the Homecoming Queen/King Court.

Students who moved to the Manning school district from another Iowa school district didn't receive the same treatment.

And I was green with envy.

I tried out for the flag team and made it. I auditioned for the school play and made it. But nothing could appease my jealousy. I was angry that I had to work for new friendships - not an easy task when one enters a new school as a senior. Friendships take time. Effort. But the student body laid down the welcoming mat for exchange students. Everyone wanted to be their friend.

It was a classic case of jealousy.

There are moments when I still wrestle with this emotion. Oh, I'm not as immature about it. I recognize the attitude when it comes along, and I offer my weakness up. I get on my knees and let the Holy Spirit get me rightly ordered before I have a chance to mess up the good thing He has going in me.

What is it that tempts me? Who are the foreign exchange students in my adult world? And what's the name of the school I've transferred to?

The school is the Catholic faith. The foreign exchange students are the former Protestant clergy and their wives who are featured on Catholic radio and television. The red carpet of Catholic publishing spreads out before them. As Catholic speakers, they are in high demand.

Protestant preachers' daughters and ex-wives of Protestant ministers . . . not so much.

I am ashamed of myself when these emotions enter my spiritual journey like a virus. I remind myself that it is not the temptation that is sinful . . . it is what I choose to do with it. It can be a moment of grace. Or it can be a sin against grace.

With God's help, I let it be an opportunity to identify with the little ones who live the Catholic faith with quiet, hidden tenacity and a heart for those who are even smaller and weaker and poorer. My heart finds this longing sweet with no bitter aftertaste.

That's when I realize that God has given me precisely the right amount of exposure. Just enough to use my talents. And no more, lest I forget the author of the journey and lose all that He has done.

My Thorn in the Flesh - one among many

Inspiration for the budding Catholic writer

I used to collect quotes about "the writing life" by famous writers. I still have them, tucked away in some box or dresser drawer. Most of the quotes are by secular writers who took themselves way too seriously, like those actors who are interviewed by James Lipton on Inside the Actor's Studio. I was the fan in the studio audience, the wanna-be, clinging to every piece of advice like it might actually make a difference, like it might actually get me published one day. Always trying to attain that elusive status of published writer - or better yet, New York Times Bestselling Author.

And then, it didn't matter anymore. Writing became a way to find myself and to find God. I willed myself to explore the pain or joy or mystery and begged God to meet me there. I stopped quoting those contemporary writing icons and started jotting down verses from scripture and poetry by Tennyson or T.S. Eliot and, eventually, the wisdom of the Saints.

Writing wasn't the most important thing anymore. Finding God. Wisdom. Truth. Peace. These were the treasures I wanted. The prize was not the writing. The prize was the finding.

The saints are my new heroes, though I am still partial to the quotes by the writing-saints. I'll leave you with one of my favorite quotes - from Story of a Soul by St. Therese of Lisieux:

It seems to me that if a little flower could speak, it would tell simply what God has done for it without trying to hide its blessings. It would not say, under the pretext of a false humility, it is not beautiful or without perfume, that the sun has taken away its splendor and the storm has broken its stem when it knows that all this is untrue. The flower about to tell her story rejoices at having to publish the totally gratuitous gifts of Jesus. She knows that nothing in herself was capable of attracting the divine glances, and His mercy alone brought about everything that is good in her (15).

Inspiration for the budding Catholic writer

Confirmation Class - 2009

I didn't plan to work in the 8th grade Confirmation classroom this year. I didn't expect to step into a classroom at all. I thought I had put that behind me when I stepped away from teaching a couple of years ago to write.


But last September, when I realized that our deacon didn't have a permanent assistant, that he would have to rely on a different parent every week to help keep the class in order, I heard the Spirit prompting me.


I argued for a few minutes. But I don't want to teach. Middle school isn't my strong suit, you know that, Holy Spirit. And John and I won't have any free time at all. We like our weekly mom-and-dad time alone. Drop our daughter off. Head to Dairy Queen. Okay, okay. I'm going.


And I walked up to the good deacon and offered my services. He was shocked. That kind of thing doesn't usually happen without a lot of arm twisting.


Last week, I not only helped out in the classroom, I taught a portion of the class on my own while Deacon led a special class for another grade level.


I took a moment to tell the class what Confirmation means to me.


It means that the Holy Spirit comes upon me with greater power and seals me for greater service. It means that I am empowered to do those things that the Lord has called me to do.


Things God has placed on my heart and I desire to do. And those things that God has placed on my heart and I really want to resist.


Like helping out with the 8th grade Confirmation class instead of eating ice cream at Dairy Queen on Wednesday evening, alone with my husband.


The students looked at me closely and saw that I was smiling. They smiled back, realizing that this year had been a bit of a sacrifice for me, but I counted it worth it all. They were worth it all. (They know I really do like them and care about them.)


Then I told them something about me that they didn't know. The Holy Spirit will also open doors for you in areas that you greatly desire to serve.


For years, I wanted to write. I wrote and wrote and wrote. Publishers and editors sent me rejection after rejection - all throughout my twenties and thirties.


When I was 40, I converted to the Catholic Church and was Confirmed in the Faith, sealed by the Holy Spirit, empowered to do those things God has called me to do.


In the last four years, since the year I entered the Church, over 26 diocesan papers have carried my articles. I have written for online Catholic magazines and Catholic women's magazines. I honestly don't have enough material to keep up with the demand. That has never happened before.


Sure, sometimes the Holy Spirit closes doors to places we would like to go. And sometimes, what we want isn't really what God wants. But when our desire matches what God desires, Confirmation is the key to the whole thing.


The fire of the Spirit begins with Baptism. This fire receives rocket fuel at Confirmation. And there is no limit to what God can do.


He can prompt the heart of man (and woman) to do things he never would have wanted to do, and He can open doors to the very things the man (or woman) was created to do.


How are you fulfilling your call?

Confirmation Class - 2009

Snares That Compromise The Catholic Writer

 

from THE DECEIVER by Livio Fanzaga:

"[The Enemy] pushes us to excell above others, to enforce our talents and strengths, . . seeking always consent, approval, and applause from others. Satan exerts himself without our awareness, to take us away from God, feeding the cult of our "selves" in the secret of our hearts." Then Livio Fanzaga writes: " . . . you are either an image of Mary or of the demon. Seek to be a living image of the very humble one, who never puts herself on display and knows how to pass through the world unknown, she who is the greatest of all creatures. Work solely for love of God, love being an ordinary person . . . You will then be a flower that Mary cultivates in this world of external appearances. Her scent will rewaken in the hearts of men nostalgia for being little and humble."

Snares That Compromise The Catholic Writer

The Purple Crayon and Harold

In 1955, Crockett Johnson introduced the world to a character named Harold, and we fell in love with the toddler who expressed his imagination through a purple crayon. Harold could wield that crayon and create almost anything. If he could imagine it, he could create it.

As a writer, I have a bit of the Harold Syndrome. My imagination likes to run amuck. I want to write about grace and conversion and the good news of the Gospel. I want the stories to inspire and convict and generate a zeal for the New Evangelization. I can just imagine how the stories might go – and how those stories might stir the hearts of readers.

Unfortunately, reality is rarely good fodder for my pen.

My imagination typically resembles the world of purple crayons rather than the reality of God’s plan. As a writer, I imagine how another’s conversion should go, and I want to write the story into reality. The story is big and fantastic and dripping with grace. All the ups and downs come together for a climactic moment that rivals the best of conversion stories.

The fundamental problem with all of this is that the story is just a story. It exists only in my imagination. And living in the land of purple crayons ultimately leads to frustration and disappointment. It isn’t real.

Real life is messy and difficult. Grace doesn’t usually show up when or how I’d like. As a Catholic writer, I am writing nonfiction. And nonfiction doesn’t consult the writer. Nonfiction is a combination of God’s will and human weakness. It’s usually messy and difficult, and only rarely good for spiritual storytelling.

As much as I would like to be Harold with his magic crayon, I am just a woman with a pen and a prayer. Thankfully, I have a role model in my patron saint.

When I converted, I chose St. Teresa of Avila for my saint. She was a Catholic writer who lived hundreds of years ago, but in reading her books, I saw the Church in a new and beautiful way. It made me want to be Catholic. Eventually, it made me want to be a Catholic writer.

I wanted to stir another person’s soul as she had done for me. I wanted to write words that would cause another to see the Catholic Church as the treasure that she is. I’ve come to realize one thing about St. Teresa of Avila. It wasn’t her pen that converted me. It was her prayer life, both on earth and in heaven.

She didn’t change my world with a purple crayon (or a quill and inkwell); she changed my world through prayer.

My life was messy and difficult and you know what? It still is. I think St. Teresa can relate to all of that. And I think she would say that the messiness of life can be a good thing. Maybe it doesn’t make for a good story, but it certainly drives us to our knees and keeps us there. Prayer is the most important tool in our spiritual arsenal. She may have been a writer, but St. Teresa chose prayer over the pen.

The Catholic pen simply captures what prayer has wrought.

Like my beloved saint, I find the greatest peace when I am on my knees in front of the Blessed Sacrament, not when I am writing. I find my greatest contentment when I am yielding to God’s will, not writing story lines as my imagination would have them go.

And I thank God for my saint, who continues to intercede and guide and to teach me to put down my purple crayon and embrace the greatest tool I have as Catholic Christians. Prayer.

St. Teresa of Avila, pray for us!

The Purple Crayon and Harold