The Last Beatitude

I received an email this morning from someone asking me how many beatitudes are in the official list. I went to my Essential Catholic Handbook, and there were nine listed. I quickly recopied them and sent them to her in an email, but when I got to the last one, I realized that God was trying to speak to me through this little request.

I had been mulling over an exchange I had with the previous editor at the St. Louis Review - about 18 months ago. The memory is a heartache for me, because the Review is the paper that published me first (as a Catholic writer). It is my home paper, and I enjoy reading it very much.

I had received numerous positive emails from the former editor during the years I wrote for the Viewpoints page. The editor (at that time) was a great encourager on a number of occasions. But then something happened. Out of the blue, he wrote to say that he was troubled by my writing. Specifically, he felt I had unresolved issues concerning my father's death, and this theme seemed to pop up too often in my column.

I didn't know how to respond to this, except to remind him that he knows me only through my writing, but I wanted to point out that my father's death had been the catalyst for my conversion. Dad's suffering was the downpayment on my journey home to Mother Church. Of course, this experience would come up now and then in my articles.

But not because I was still struggling with the loss. But because God, in His mysterious plan, used even this to bring me my greatest joy.

This morning, as I thought about the exchange of emails a year and a half ago, I felt sad about how things ended. And God used the last beatitude to calm my spirit.

Blessed are those who are wrongly accused as they seek to work for the Kingdom. Blessed are those who experience heartache and misunderstanding on account of their service to Jesus Christ.

I still wish there would be closure here. I am confident that all will be worked out, if not in this life, on the other side.

Rosalind Moss wrote me an email once and reminded me that God knows everything, and he is working all things for our good, even when things seem tangled. Even when others misunderstand. Even when a door is shut - hard.

It's all grace.

And you know what? The net result of all of this is that, while I continue to have articles published in other diocesan papers and Catholic venues, because I am not popping up in my own paper, my life remains little and hidden. And I prefer that.

It is good. I wouldn't be surprised if that is the reason God permitted this misunderstanding in the first place. He wants me to have a quiet life in my home diocese. He wants me to have plenty of room to grow in grace.

The Last Beatitude

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

Going Home, to write

I like Christina Capecchi, the Twenty-Something writer. Her column has spunk. She writes about ipods and buying a too-small dress for a friend's wedding with the hope of getting into it before the big day. She writes about young life and weaves God into it.

Then there's George Weigel. His column is deep. He has a grip on the nexus between public policy and the Catholic faith that I can only begin to fathom.

And Fr. Frank Pavone and Deacon Keith Fournier. I know that God cares for the unborn very much - because He has put these men at the front of the fight. Their writing is strong and motivates us even though the day of battle seems to go on and on.

I sometimes wish I could be like these writers. I wish I had the vibrancy of Christina Capecchi. The brilliance of George Weigel. The rallying success of Fr. Pavone and Deacon Fournier.

And the list goes on.

But I am just me. A woman who loves Jesus Christ and His Church. A woman who has lived as many lives as a cat. Preacher's kid. Pastor's wife. Divorcee. Single mother of three. Poor. Not poor anymore. Protestant - of almost every flavor at one time or another. And then. . . I am carried along by grace to a new place.

One scene changes and another takes its place.

There's the soft bubbling of the holy font at the entrance to the sanctuary, where I dip my fingers and remember my baptism at the age of 13. I walk to the front and kneel, eyes on the altar, where Jesus waits. I bow my head, hardly able to grasp the privilege I have been given. Not only to begin again, but to encounter this One I love in such a concrete and tangible way. And I cross myself. I am yours, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And it is good to be here, safe, in Mother Church.

In this place, my heart discovers my deepest love. And I go home, to write, as one who is neither young nor old, neither brilliant nor witty, not powerful or winsome. But as one who loves very much, and that is enough.

Going Home, to write