Hi. I'm still alive.

And out here in cyberspace. I really dont have much to report of as of late. Spiritually or life wise.

I took care of the drama. I told some people if you're going to keep acting the way you do, I'll be nice to you but I'm not going to tolerate people who lie to me and talk crap about me behind my back as friends.  Needless to say, they're cut out of my life now. And I'm much better off for it.

School has started back and these kids seem so much nicer than last semester's.

Had lunch with Ireland's sister in which I received my good rosary back. Bless that girl! She had to go into his room to find it. Also learned that he lied like 12582397643-8u634-0u60-349u63-4906ydjshgadjf times to me. (And that's no exaggeration).

And then I kid you not, as soon as I felt at peace about that situation, I met another guy at the bar the next day.

His pick up line was "Hi. I'm The Ginger. You're super cute."  And he ran off another guy who tried to pick me up that night. And he asked for my number three times that night. And he asked me on a date. And I told him no, I wasn't any ordinary girl and he'd have to work hard to get me. And he's stuck around. And then for the entire next week he asked for my number, so I finally said yes. And now I keep getting asked for a date, but he says "I'll stick around in any capacity possible so long as I get to hang around you." Right now he knows he's in the friend space because he knows I have trust issues, but I kinda like this kid. Like, I might even like him more than the last one.

Church is good, I guess. I've heard quite a few things from the pulpit that disturb me,  and I've seen quite a few practices that upset me. I signed up to teach catechism to 7-12 grades because I figure it's the least I can do with my teaching skills for the church. And all the old people love me. They're so amazed at a 25 year old coming to daily mass. I just want to look at them and say "This is parish is dead as far as the youth is concerned." But I know why they're there. They're praying for their children and their grandchildren.  I had one old man told me seeing my face in daily mass gave him hope for his kids. I didn't even realize my mass attendance could do that.

I want to come back to St. Joe's soon. I miss you guys! But I won't be able to as I won't get paid for another two months.  But when I do, I'm coming to visit!

This Is a Simple Post of Thanksgiving

I'm really happy today.

I mean, I'm really happy.
I'm at peace with myself
And the drama is gone
And I have the answers I need

And I am just really, really happy.

Thank You Jesus. 

Let Me Be a Dog, Then

Okay, so I found the word I was looking for in the last post.

God humiliated me.

And I don't mean in the modern sense of the word "to make ashamed or injure one's dignity." No, I mean that God knocked me off my high horse about what I thought I knew was best for me. God humbled me through humiliation.

It all kind of became clear after hearing the Gospel Sunday at mass, (which ironically enough, Father prepares quite well for Sunday homilies) and reading this.

I really, really did like this kid, Ireland. And after the quick split, all I could do was pray that it work out. To which it seemed God was completely ignoring me.   And then, the answer seemed to become "No! I said No. What part of NO don't you understand?"

And then finally, I had two instances of seeing the boy around town. And though I thought I would be okay and be able to act all grown up and over it; instead, I freaked out and panicked. God gave me what I asked for to show me that I really don't know what's best for me.

And all the while, the things I've prayed for have been terribly selfish while other people in the parish and via facebook have been asking me to pray for them. I should have been using my mass intentions for them and not my own selfish reasons. Then again, I do want to continue to pray for his return to Catholicism because I believe that is best for him. So I will probably persist in asking this for completely different reasons.

And it seems that after realizing that God is enough, and just being appreciative of Him,  I realize my prayers are going to get nowhere if I don't humble myself and give Him homage.

The Canaanite woman was called a dog by Our Lord.
Let me be then, a dog.
Loyal to my Master, and grateful for the One who provides for me, cares for me, and loves me.
And if I ask for anything else, and He gives it to me...

Hey, thats just a bonus then.  :)

More Than A Sparrow

I think I got scolded by God today. 

Scolded is probably a bad word. 

I don't know what to call it. 

Lately, I've had two verses from Matthew stuck in my head. 

Matthew 6:25 and Matthew 10:26 - both which deal with birds and sparrows and God providing for us so long as we are His children. 

I've been contemplating what to do with myself lately since once again, I was turned down for a teaching job. Moreover, I've been reconsidering my stance on my vocation, whether I'm really called to marriage or not. (More on this in a different entry).

I've had a particularly trying week with friends and awkward acquaintances and people who have beef with me for no good reason. Let's just say there's been serious drama every night. 

So I went to adoration today to be quiet, to clear my head, to get some direction, and to just tell Jesus I needed help. And all I've been praying for lately is for a particular boy to come back and for us to be friends again. I've been praying for a full time job, so I can afford insurance and a reliable car.  I prayed for direction on how to handle the crazy amount of drama in my life lately.

But as I was sitting there praying for all these things, I felt that still, small voice.  Often times, when I hear God, it's never a burning bush or loud booming thunder. It's always still and quiet, and if I'm not actively listening, I miss it. 

It said, "Am I not enough? Look at the sparrows. I care for each and every one of them. They do not worry for food or shelter. How much more do I love you than a sparrow."

And to each of my petitions, it seemed that was the answer. 

I'm lonely.

But I am God. Is that not enough? Is my love and company not enough?

I'm worried about paying for my apartment. 

But I am God. Is that not enough? If I care for a sparrow, I will surely care for you.

I'm worried about how I'm going to afford to eat because I'm not being paid for two months.

But I am God. Is that not enough? The sparrows don't reap or sow, but I feed them.

And on the walk back home, I felt my heart sink a little bit.  How ungrateful of a child I must have seemed. I've been given everything I could possibly ask for and more, and yet, here I am still tugging at my Father's pants leg asking for even more. 

He takes care of the sparrows. 

He takes care of me. 

He is God.

And that is enough. 

A Confession of Sorts

How odd.

I almost got my wish today.

I went to Wal-Mart. In the lane next to me, who do I see but Ireland. He darts off an access road. I continue down the main road.

Our cars meet back up in the Wal-Mart parking lot. He pulls a u-turn and leaves.

I stay.

And walk dazed around the store for about thirty minutes.

And I couldn't help but wonder, if this is  somewhat like how Jesus feels about us.

I know Ireland lied; I know he's cowardly. But still, I liked him so much, and weirdly enough, I still care about him quite a bit.

And more than anything, I want him of his own free will to come to me, to say I'm sorry. And then I would say, "that's all I ever wanted. Forgiven, forgotten." And I'd be there with wide open arms.

And while aimlessly wandering around the aisles of Wal-Mart, I thought, I wonder if this is how Jesus feels about us when we sin and don't go to confession.

When we almost get there, but then turn around because of our cowardice, because we're afraid of punishment, because we know what we've done is wrong and we're ashamed.

But on the other side, Jesus is just sitting, just hoping, praying, waiting, wishing to talk to us. He's not angry; he's upset and misses us. He just wants to forgive and forget and move on.

I would think that is somewhat what it is like.

Let Me Be Melancholic for a Second

I've got to say this somewhere, before I send a stupid, slightly intoxicated text...

I went to the bar...

Our bar...

And I know it's really stupid; I know it's not logical. But I miss you, and I keep missing you, but I don't want to miss, and I feel like I hurt you, and I need to say I'm sorry and ask your forgiveness. I want to call you, but my pride just won't let me.

But you got a lot of apologizing to do yourself, mister. And I still can't get over the fact that she wins simply because she was first in line. But she's not even yours anymore. She doesn't want you. But the girl who does, you don't want her.

And then I saw your sister. At our bar.

And she said you almost came out tonight but didn't.

I keep holding my breath that one day, we'll meet up again, talk it over, and laugh about how much miscommunication there was.

We'll say I'm sorry.

And forgive.

And forget.

But I know that it's stupid and illogical. And pretty much impossible.

But still, I hope. And I pray.

If it's God's will, then He'll make it so.

The Job Thing

Thank you to all who prayed for me to get this full time position where I currently work.

Unfortunately, I was turned down.

I really think this is my sign that teaching is not my vocation. What is my vocation? Heck if I know.

A Good Writer Is Hard To Find

First off, you might notice that some posts are gone. I can't say why, but if you see me in person, feel free to ask. There's some legaleness involved to it.

Second, Flannery O'Connor died of lupus forty-seven years ago today.  I am amazed at how many Catholics are ignorant of her writing, yet most of my protestant students have ready anywhere between two to four of her short stories because they are so widely anthologized in state literature textbooks.

Flannery O'Connor was the type of Catholic woman I want to be. She was dedicated to Our Lord.  She contracted Lupus, and yet, in spite of the crippling disease, she still became a prolific writer. She attended Mass everyday.  She wrote everyday, even on Sundays.  She had a wicked sense of humor and was witty, witty, witty. She led a life of service, consecrated singleness, and used her talent to glorify God.

A short history: Mary Flannery O'Connor was born in Milledgville, Georgia.  As a child, she was featured in the newspaper for teaching a chicken to walk backwards.  She then grew up, moved off to college, and enrolled in a creative writing program. After obtaining her Bachelor's, she went on to earn her M.A. in Creative Writing from the Iowa Writer's Workshop, the premier creative writing school in the country at that time. After graduating from Iowa, she returned home to Milledgeville only to be struck with Lupus, the same disease that killed her father.  She corresponded back and forth with a lesbian atheist friend, wrote daily, attended mass daily, and raised peacocks until she died of lupus on this day forty-seven years ago.

And yet, her legacy lives on. But it is only because she dedicated herself to a higher cause. Flannery said that  "All human nature vigorously resists [the] Grace [of God] because Grace changes us, and the change is painful." And if you ever read her essays on writing, called Mystery and Manners, then you know that the above quote is more true in the context of her short stories.


Too often, my protestant students tell me that they and their teachers loved the story but don't quite get it. In truth, I had the same reaction early on.  In my academic career, I encountered her work at least 3-5 times, and though I always admired it, the meanings of the stories didn't click for me until I converted to Catholicism. 


She writes about protestants.  She writes about the South.  She writes about African-Americans. She writes about Caucasians. She writes about good people. She writes about bad people. She writes about the young. The old. She writes about you. And me. 


Flannery writes about a world where the supernatural is ever present. The consequences of sin are real and immediate. Characters fall from Grace. God intervenes and offers redemption.  Often times, her characters look a gift horse in the mouth and refused that Grace. And so they die.  And so do others in the story to answer for sin.


I do my best these days to present two to three interpretations of her work when I teach it. A non-religious interpretation, a Christian (i.e. protestant) interpretation, and a Catholic interpretation. I let my students pick which interpretation to write their papers on, and it always makes me smile that they always use the Catholic interpretation because "the story has the most meaning" through that lens.  It always makes me smile that students sometimes come and tell me that "the story makes sense now, Miss V. Our high school teacher never told us about the Catholic thing."


I hope one day, that the stories I write will please God.  However, if I my writing never makes it to that place where Miss O'Connor resides within canon, I will follow the old adage: those who cannot do, teach.


I can only hope and pray that some of my students are intrigued by the Catholic worldview by talking about Miss O'Connor's works and seek to find out more themselves. 


Miss O'Connor, I know that you are neither blessed nor a saint, but I believe you made it to purgatory or Heaven.  If you are in purgatory, I pray for your expedience to Heaven. If you are in Heaven, please ask Our Lord to bless my writing as He did yours. 


Lord, thank you for blessing Flannery O'Connor with the gift of writing.






V.