Is it akin to Nostalgia?

What is it, when you find yourself in a place unfamiliar yet it feels like home? It is as though one was to go to the other side of the world and discover a path that feels oddly familiar, like you had been there before somehow, perhaps in a dream. It is like hearing a song of which you know the tune before you ever heard it.

The first time I remember this sort of experience was when I attended mass for the first time. From the first moment of walking in I noticed an utter difference to what was familiar in “going to church”. It was quiet. There was an awe-inspiring austerity and beauty. 

Instead of painted walls and industrial lights in a building that used to be a wellness center there were cinder-block walls, stained glass windows, and great wooden beams to a pointed wooden ceiling for a building built for the worship of God. Instead of a band around a stage with the drums center back was a place for the altar and a crucifix in the center back. Where the drums had been flanked by guitarists and bassist and fiddle off to the left, the crucifix was flanked by statues of the Virgin Mary and Joseph the Carpenter. Off to the left was a tall, small wooden table on which was a round metal case with a cross up top; the cross being the only visible part usually, as it was covered with a cloth. Instead of a long time of singing, a little scripture, and a long sermon, that might also be a long prayer service with lots of singing, was a structured service of prayer and scripture with a short sermon and the focal point obviously being Holy Communion.

Almost none of the songs were familiar, and yet, when the psalm was being chanted (as it was that first mass), it just fit. That first time, I don’t know that there was any choir or organ, but when I did become aware of it, I noticed that the choir loft was out of sight up and behind the congregation. This instantly made sense to me, to have the choir out of sight. The notes of the organ hovered above us inviting us to join in the song, but the eyes were left free to contemplate our crucified Lord.

I mentioned the quiet. People would talk about church being a house of prayer, I remember being prayed over to receive the Holy Spirit in a prayer meeting. The person praying was obviously trying to effect something, but it felt hollow. A friend of mine spoke in tongues at one such event. It was a common occurrence to hear the babble of tongues whether during “praise & worship” or during a prayer event. In contrast, when I walked into St. Catherine’s for the first time and it was quiet, it was obviously an actual house of prayer.

There was also this sense of questions being answered without words. The praise team up front had been a familiar feature of churches that I attended while growing up, but when I was asked at the previous place about playing my instrument with them, it suddenly seemed very questionable. Why were they up front? Why did they often seem to overshadow the preacher in a way? They might leave when he was preaching, but the instruments would remain in place; the drum kit in the center particularly stood out. The comparison between a concert and “Sunday morning worship” was too apt. So, when we went to St. Catherine’s and the organist and choir were all hidden away, it just seemed so obviously right. Here, the choir was serving as an aid to something higher and more important than themselves. Whether the individuals were personally modest or not is irrelevant, the placement of the choir was modest.

One would have to verbally ask and get a response to know what was the focus of the congregation in the former wellness center. As soon as I walked into St. Catherine’s, the crucifix proclaimed this central mystery of the gospel in one striking image—the incarnation and suffering of God. I would learn the messages of the windows later.

Going to mass was like nothing I had ever experienced, and yet I knew that it was good to be here, that it, in a manner of speaking, felt like home.

I am more accustomed to feeling like a “stranger in a strange land” wherever I am. Even so, when I go to mass, now more than ever, I know that in point of fact I am home; I am am where heaven and earth meet in the sacrifice of Christ. I am in the midst of the communion of saints adoring our Eucharistic Lord.

On the virtue of modesty

Modesty is too often a topic fraught with unnecessary anger and defensiveness. I was listening to a fascinating series on modesty by Fr. Rippeger, posted by Sensus Fidelium (who posts to both youtube and bitchute). It was fascinating because it did not stay on mere dress, but addressed the roots of modesty as well as its expressions outside of clothing in behaviour and speech. In behaviour, modesty was naturally portrayed in terms of moderation and courtesy. Attention seeking behaviour is obviously immodest, but what does that look like?
Dance can be modest—he pointed out how certain types of ballroom and folk dancing can actually help teach men and women how to comport themselves well with each other and as composed and graceful humans, whereas modern dance was decried for its immodest self-expression and provocativeness.
Vulgar speech was also presented as transgressing modesty, while a distinction was observed from the profane and the vulgar. It seemed that while both were to be avoided, particularly in mixed company, the profane was absolutely to be avoided. Again, it seems a straightforward matter—if you are a believer in God, you should want to honour Him; swearing or otherwise using His names apart from talking to or about Him is disrespectful and breaks the command. Moderation came up in the topic of speech, one can talk to much.
When Fr. Ripperger did talk about clothing he addressed it from a rather nuanced view, I thought. He took into account current custom, the inherent distinctions between men and women, the different purposes of dressing between men and women as a result of that, as well as the simple question of what does the clothing reveal. One distinction to be made in that last was “does it reveal more of the body or more of the person?” which distinction I have heard before. Fr. Ripperger did talk about how the clothes also affect mannerisms, posture, and behaviour, which I have heard less noted. Most controversially, while noting that the wearing of pants by women is not inherently sinful now, he did note that dresses and skirts are inherently more feminine, therefor modest skirts and dresses ought to be preferred to pants for women. Similarly, since care to attractive appearance is naturally more feminine, he described most jewelry, makeup, and focus on clothing and style for personal statement in men to be immodest. Fr. Ripperger sees men’s dress as being more about function: it is for your job, it shows what you do, it demonstrates externally your virtue (I was not entirely clear on his use of that term, but he did note things like the appropriateness of a wedding ring or a pectoral cross, jewelry that signifies a man’s position, as opposed to mere decorations). Even with the observations about things like makeup being inappropriate for men ordinarily, he did observe the appropriate use in acting or even to cover or make less distracting some physical deformity. The key seemed to be on the use of makeup for women, it should enhance what is already present and should not be done in order to draw attention to yourself, and for men and women it might be used to cover something that otherwise would be excessively attention getting. Moderation, moderation, moderation, and a respect for people around you.
Something that was striking down in the comments: While there were those who simply commented on this point or that with maybe further observations or questions and those who just left thank you notes, there were also some other responses. Fr. Ripperger noted various times that women were more naturally tender or sensitive than men. A woman objected to that adding the word, “weak”.
 There were also comments that said how “out-of-touch” people think the father is, sometimes accusing him of calling things sin (like women wearing pants) even while he made it clear that he does not in general consider it sinful, just not as excellent as wearing modest dresses. Some also simply went off topic to ask why he didn’t address other issues first. On the other hand, during one talk, there was a lady who was asking things like, “Isn’t wearing makeup sinful?” seeming in general to want to put the “Sin” sticker on things that don’t necessarily deserve it.
All told, they were an interesting set of lectures and homilies.

Cowards and Courage, a few little thoughts

Cowards no entran en la reina de Dios (It says so in Revelations 21, for example)

How can I live for God if fears control me? So I need then, to live inspired by the love of God. There is no room for hypocrisy, no room for timidity.
 “Seek first the kingdom of God.” Our heavenly Father knows that we need food and clothing, but calls us to seek first the kingdom. Not even a sparrow can fall to the ground without him knowing it. How much more aware is he of our needs, concerns, desires? But, seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you.
God never promised luxury or ease, but he does promise to be with us, “even to the end of the age.” He bids us take up our cross and follow him. He promises, in essence, struggle and affliction, but he also tells us that his yoke is easy and his burden light. How can this be? Because as we rely on his grace, he is the one holding us up. Love makes even the greatest burdens light.
Love inspires us to surmount the insurmountable, to face down the dragons, to scale cliffs, to confront our enemies, to love our annoying siblings or classmates. Love gives us courage. Jeremiah could not face the Israelites, if it were not for a love for God. Catherine of Alexandria could not have faced down the scholars and the governor, had it not been for her passion for Jesus her saviour. I could not have become Catholic, facing my mother's disapproval were it not for the love of Jesus.

When God's love fills us, that is when we have courage. Couer—heart our heart is made strong by God's love.

Holding hands

Father asked us why we joined across the aisles holding hands.
Some gave response, “T’ show we are one community of believers.”
“To show unity in prayer.”
He observed that this tradition of ours was started in the seventies; it is nowhere in the mass. Fine as it may be, it actually disrupts the first part of the prayer. As we set things down and spread out seeking hands to hold, maybe forcing in some recalcitrants, we lose a beautiful part of this pivotal prayer in the mass. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
By the time we say “Give us” we are back into the prayer.

I wonder, is this part of our problem in Christianity today? We are so focused on the doings and the hand-holding. Do we forget to stand still in the presence of Our Father to seek his will? Do we forget that God Our Father has a transcendent will that is not encompassed by our missions, our desires and comforts? Do we forget Our Father because we are so caught up with our brothers and sisters?

Doubt

I sometimes listen to the Graveyard Shift podcast, a few pastors in Ireland rambling on in conversation that might be sort of started or centered on an event or article that caught one or more of their attentions. It can be interesting, sometimes funny, sometimes thought provoking. In the one with a title playing on “nuns” and “nones” it was said that doubt is not the opposite of faith, certainty is. There was a statement made that, while we believe certain things, we have to admit that it is not certain. This reminded me of the annoying saying that “to question is the answer”, as though it would be any good to go through life asking questions without seeking answers. To sincerely question, one must be seeking an answer; if there is an answer, it could be that somethings are, in fact, certain. Anyway, one of them in particular helped to clarify a position that made more sense--that while we question and seek, doubt should not be idealized.
A few days later I ran into a Youtube series by a friar talking about Harry Potter and the Catholic Faith. He, when talking about faith as a virtue, described two different types of doubt--a doubt that is felt and a doubt that is chosen. I might feel as though I am alone, but know that God is with me and accordingly act in faith. If I feel that God is absent and act according to that feeling--that is another story. I might feel like a wretch of a sinner--in for a penny, in for a pound--but knowing God’s grace and by his grace, I can stop and pray with the angels and saints to our merciful Lord and Savior. If I act according to that feeling--how wretched I am!

If the doubt they are speaking of on the Graveyard Shift is the first class of doubt, I can at least agree with doubt not being the opposite of faith. The problem is that the concept is proposed with saying things like “I believe this, but it might not be true.” Ok. On some things, fair enough. I believe Joan of Arc really had visions; I do not empirically know that, and, sure, I could be wrong. I doubt it, though. However, That is not a matter of salvation. Believing that Jesus is the Son of God who was born, died, buried, rose on the third day--if we are not certain about that, are we even Christians? Again, I may not have empirical proof, I may not be able to touch his wounds or thrust my hands into his side, but I do have the witness of his apostles who did personally see his resurrected body. I do have the testimony of the Church that he founded that endured popular persecution and a time of regional popularity followed by popular scorn again. The point is, the gates of hell have never prevailed; she still exists just as Jesus said she would.
I have historical proof, at least, of Jesus existence, but what about the belief in the Trinity or the belief that scripture was inspired by God? I do not doubt that the Trinity is a good description of God. I do not doubt that the whole Bible, including the choosing of what books are in it, was inspired by God. I suppose, for argument’s sake, I could say that I might be wrong about these things. To say that, though, should not be mistaken for humility. That would be to say that the Church, which God founded, might be wrong about these things, which would be to say that maybe the gates of hell did prevail or maybe it was all only types and myths anyway. Why even believe in the actual historical Jesus? Surely a spiritual resurrection is a enough! But if that bodily Resurrection is not true, then, as Paul said, we are most pitiable.

 Where does that leave us? Maybe underground with a queen dressed in silks green as poison who says, “There is no sun.”
The point, then, is not what we doubt, but what we choose to believe.

One Long Day

His face was already bruised.  We idly looked at these men as they came in so very early.  It was probably because their holiday was about to start. They were dragging this man, shoving him, really, into our governor’s courtyard.  They would not enter the building, of course. It might defile them.

The accusation was that he had set himself up as some sort of king--pitiful king!  Even were it not for his bruises, there would be no greatness in his appearance. He was certainly no lord.

He was handed over to us to be beaten, but he did not ask for mercy.  We added to the bruising delivered by his own people. The lash was laid on his back hard.  His back was lacerated, but he did not cry out. We taunted him. The centurion yelled in his face, “Beg for my mercy!  Why don’t you beg for mercy?” and kicked him severely. The man looked at him with compassion.

A couple of us had twisted together some thorns that grew close by.  This false king would have a crown. He was dragged to his feet and held in place as we draped him with one of our cloaks.  We then pressed the crown into this Jew’s head.

“Hail!  King of the Jews!”  They took turns greeting him, striking him with reeds instead of saluting him.  Some spat on his face. Even then, he did not ask for mercy. Even then, he was resolute and, most disturbingly, compassionate.

It was time.  He was called for to be presented to the people, who were close to being a mob.  They would ask for one of their own to be released, and this our governor would do as a generous gesture of goodwill.  

“Behold, the man!”  He motioned to the Jew whom we had just brutalized.  The Jew was still wearing the soldier’s cloak and the crown.

The crowd was roaring a chant, “Crucify! Crucify!”

Our governor yelled over them, “You take him and crucify him!  I find nothing in the accusations against him.”

Some of the men who had brought him in so early that morning motioned for the crowds to quiet as they spoke, “We have a law, and according to that law he must die, because--he claimed to be the son of God.”

Our governor motioned for the Jew to be brought back inside.  Once away from the crowd, who were beginning to chant again, he asked the man, “Where do you come from?”  Blood was drying on the man’s face. He was bruised and his eye was swollen. The man’s expression was serene.

Our governor asked vehemently, “Do you refuse to answer? Hm?”  He took one turn, and then said into the man’s face, “Don’t you understand that I have the power of life and death over you?”

“You have no power over me but what is given you from above.  Nonetheless, they who handed me over to you have the greater sin.” This is what he stated.  In spite of his bruises and bloodied body, in spite of the beatings and the mockery, he was calm. Our governor was pacing and looking out to where the crowds were calling for the crucifixion of this impostor and trouble-maker, as they were calling him.  We awaited orders.

Our governor had a servant bring water, while he went to face the crowd.  Like a tragedian, he motioned the basin of water to himself. “I wash my hands of this innocent man’s blood,” he said as he rinsed his hands and carefully dried them.  The mob roared, “His blood be on us and on our children!” And the man was sentenced to death.

We jostled him down and took off the cloak.  We left the crown in place and put his own robe on him, but, when we were going to put the cross on his back, he reached for it.  His eyes said he knew what he was doing. Once again, they seemed to see straight through me.

We took to the road.  We had a couple of criminals to execute that day along with this man, so we made quite the procession.  The mob was shouting more than its usual imprecations.

The man fell.  It was a wonder he had not fallen earlier.  We picked him up and he took back his cross and plodded on, leaving blood and sweat on the road where he had fallen.  A woman dashed out of the crowd; we did not stop her. She wiped his face, weeping for him. He smiled tenderly at the woman and we urged him forward.  

He was stumbling some more.  I caught the eye of a Cyrenian and called him out.  “You! Take up his cross!” He came forward, and took it grudgingly, but his face changed after the man looked at him and said something I did not understand.  After the Cyrenian served his mile, we released him.

On we went.  If he fell, we picked him up and kept going.  At the gates the women mourners greeted the criminals, but when they got to the man, He told them, “Do not mourn for me, weep for yourselves and your children.  For the day is coming when you will say, ‘Blessed are the barren women, the womb that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!’ Then they will say to the mountains, ‘Fall on us!’ and to the hills, ‘Cover us!’  For if people do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

We finally reached the hill outside the city.  The crosses were laid down and the criminals had to be held to them.  Not The Man. He laid himself down. When the nails were driven into his hands he did not cry out like the others.  He sighed once they were in, along with his feet. He looked sorrowful, but it was not for himself. We tacked up the accusation: “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.”

We raised him up between the other two, and one of the men who had brought him in this morning began jeering with his companions, “He saved others, why cannot he save himself?”  and “Let this Messiah, ‘king of Israel,’ come down from the cross that we may see and believe.” This and more they said, while a smaller group of Jewish women and one man stood by weeping.

The man on the cross spoke to the heavens, “Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.”

He also spoke to the small group; one of the women was his own mother.

It was as though the shadow of a snake writhed in agony across the ground, and the sun went black.  There was less talk. We watched.

It had been three hours.  The man cried out in a language I did not understand, but it meant something to the other Jews.  “He’s calling for Elijah!” They got him some wine, but it was too late.  As the sun came back, he cried out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”  The earth trembled. The people scattered; only the criminals were left to cry out weekly or to gape in horror, while we stood fast.  I knew then that the man was dead.

Surely, this man was the Son of God.

On the way....

Here goes.

When I was young, back up when we went to Kingston Christian Church, possibly when we lived in Kingston, for all I know, I was not allowed to receive communion. I was not aware of this until another little girl was sitting with our family and took the wafer and cup as the plates passed by. I wanted to know why I could not. My mother explained to me the seriousness of what these elements were; they represented Jesus, God who died to take away our sins. I do not remember a time when I had not a perfectionist streak in me. I saw that I needed Jesus to be perfect. I saw that his death was very serious and that the wafer and the cup were connected to this. Whatever I grasped I grasped that Jesus loves me and this was part of how he showed his love. I wanted it.

I accepted Christ at a young age and was baptized some years later in Tennessee. I realized as time went on that I was not yet perfect. At times I rebelled against what I knew, in my own quiet way. I realized that with knowledge comes responsibility and wished I did not know as much about the Bible; maybe then I would not have to be good. Though, I did want to do what was right, even when it meant I felt cheated when others ate out of the candy jar without permission. Still, I did want to please God, because God loves me.

I struggled at times with feeling like a failure; it can be so difficult to forgive people, it could be so hard to keep my mind and heart pure, especially when I have such a vivid and curious imagination.

I realized at one point, when I was still in high-school, that my “mind drifts” were not a good idea. Here is the premise behind that term: I would let my mind drift into whatever stories it happened upon, whatever characters showed up. Mostly the stories were adventure stories like, Grey Wolf being a sort of Robin Hood-like female character, without the band of merry men—just a loose association of honorable, well, brigands; or Charles the scorned son, rejected by his mother and family, who nonetheless went on be the honorable one who saves lives and stuff; or the Island Princess, on a cold island in the north Atlantic, who must learn much in England before returning to her homeland to wrest it from the English; and on and on I could go. If that was all, not necessarily bad, but what about the blind servant who was raped? Later I changed it to have her rescued, but still it was not good. The verse about taking every thought captive convicted me. I knew that I needed to not allow my mind to live into each story that came along; some must be rejected.

Along the way, especially after getting into college, I learned that I really needed to avoid movies and books with sexual content. The problem was not that I would replay those exact images, it was that it fueled the side of the imagination that led me accidentally into a bad mental sexuality that included masturbation. It did not happen all at once, took a few years, really, and even then there were the words that I knew to be wrong, but I heard them so often that they became excuses--”natural”, “healthy”, “normal”. I heard them in movies and tv shows, sometimes not explicitly but out of the way in which the subject was treated. When I first heard the word “masturbate”, it shocked. I did not know what it meant, could guess, but did not want to know.

Why would I tell all that? Because, it plays a role in a particular story of spiritual growth. See, it got to this point where I would pretty much monthly either struggle against or surrender to sexual imaginings of characters who were only in my mind, but the imaginings affected my body—call it mental porn. It was frustrating, because I knew it felt good temporarily, was wrong, and kept coming back. I would pray, on better days. Sometimes I would sing or read the Bible or just try to focus on something else. I would think I had victory, and the next month the mental porn was back. (I did not notice the monthly cycle of it immediately). 

In the mean time, some years back I had the thought that I could write history with more sympathy for the Catholics then what I grew up on. As someone who was not Catholic, maybe people would pay more attention, give it more credit. At another point I described myself to our Cumberland Presbyterian Chaplain at college as a “Catholic-leaning Cumberland Presbyterian.” I often during those years would describe myself as Christian “officially Cumberland Presbyterian”. A few years before that, my family had joined the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. I still remember them telling me what they were doing and inviting me to go up with them to join. I asked what they believed and was given the Confession of Faith. I did not see anything stand out as particularly wrong, and I did see the importance of the church as a body, being dependent on one another, helping one another, holding each other accountable. My family was going, so would I.

I appreciated the more liturgical balance of the service, though I thought it more businesslike than what I remembered of the mass. I enjoyed teaching in Sunday school or going to Sunday school before the main service. The Cumberland Presbyterian Church has a missionary focus that is energetic and admirable. When a new pastor came, and there was greater emphasis on the CP identity, he led a class on the Confession of Faith. It was very helpful and interesting; the main thing I remember explicitly is the conversation on infant baptism.

Somewhere during that time frame, I got to teach world history, much to my delight. I ordered a few books off a list I made for my students to read some of the philosophical works of the past. Among these was Apologia pro Vita Sua by John Henry Newman. I began reading it. It is a very interesting book, but I set it aside because he might have persuaded me to become Catholic. That was an uncomfortable thought, not because I did not like Catholics or Catholicism nor because I did like them, but rather because I was teaching at a school where the history books are anti-Catholic and I knew my mother would not like it and I was afraid of how people might react.

I knew where I was headed.

We receive this lovely, thoughtful magazine called First Things. Its premise is that religion matters a lot in the public square. In it, schools and conferences are advertised, but I do not tend to pay much note to those. I am more interested in reading the book reviews, the correspondence pages of continued conversations about past articles, or the articles about such things as truly looking at people, the Syro-Phoenician woman, or the “Back Page” with all its curiosity. There was this add, though, “Challenging the Secular Culture” and I thought that it might be good to go, as a teacher. Maybe I could learn something that I could pass on to equip my students to face the world with boldness. I asked advice, mostly of my father, and went up to Steubenville, Ohio’s Franciscan University.

It was lovely. It was invigorating; I enjoyed listening and taking notes, breathing in the cool air and occasionally talking to people.

I went to mass on Saturday, because I would be traveling on Sunday and wanted to go to church. It was a large, not particularly attractive building from the outside. They had a band to the left of altar down along the wall. That was odd to me, as last time I had been to mass with a choir or band of some sort they played in the back in a choir loft. But when we celebrated the liturgy of the Eucharist, I wept. It did not matter that I stayed back in my pew kneeling and praying and trying to not be in people’s way. I knew it was more important to be here where the body and blood of Jesus were. 

I had been studying John’s gospel. It took me a while, but I had the Ignatius Study Bible of John, with its questions in the back and a Dallas Theological Seminary online course. It was really amazing. One of the things that was very clear to me, is that when Jesus said that he would give us his own flesh and blood, he meant it. Many disciples left. I did not want to leave.

I also did not want to leave. I did not want to leave off following Jesus, but I did not want to leave the comfort of where I was. I had felt the need to stop some of my roles at Liberty, because I did not believe what the Cumberland Church teaches on Communion and on what were the books of the Bible. While studying John, running into troublesome passages, I began restudying the Confession alongside What we Believe by which was written to explain Cumberland Presbyterian beliefs. I could see their scriptural reasoning behind revising the Westminster Confession, but I was not readily able, through internet digging, to find out why the subsequent revisions which continued to subtract from and soften the Confession of Faith. It was bothersome. I do not know how I found Church Militant and Catholic Answers on YouTube, but I did listen to them. I also picked up Responding from the Scriptures with Catholics by Ron Rhodes from a Goodwill. I figured I wanted to hear both sides.

Here is what it came down to: I cannot hope to understand every passage of scripture in every possible theologically correct way. I cannot rely on my reason alone, but I do see Jesus plainly starting his Church with Peter as recorded in Matthew--”You are Peter (Rock) and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.” I do see that Jesus body and blood are present in the Eucharist just as he says it is as recorded in John. If the gates of hell did not prevail against the Church, it is still present and it is the one called Catholic. I wanted to receive the body and the blood of Christ that he tells us, gives us eternal life, and to eat and drink in memory of him. I had to become a Catholic.

When I returned home, I started to go to Saturday vigil masses from time to time. I asked my father about joining the Catholic Church. He said he would rejoice. I asked my mother; she said I needed to follow God wherever that led me. I continued to attend Liberty with my family, but also became more regular in my attendance to mass.

Just before October, it was announced that October was the month of the Rosary. Now, I knew a little about the Rosary already. There is this girl in a story who is Catholic. Her mother died and she goes to live with her father she has not known and his family. It is very much a struggle, but she prays the Rosary pretty regularly, so I had to look up the prayers. It was a Monday in the story, which means one is to reflect on the Joyful Mysteries—how wonderful!--remembering the announcement to Mary, her visit with Elizabeth, the birth of Jesus, his presentation in the temple, and his being found in the temple. Joy! That was what my girl needed. So I saved a pile of prayers and continued typing. Well, now, here I am however long after that all happened hearing that October is the month of the Rosary. I might take another look at those prayers and stuff, but then a lady at St. Catherine’s gave me a Rosary. During October, most days, I prayed the Rosary in the evenings. After October, I was not as diligent. It was also in or around October, that I began to go to RCIA—Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults—a class for adults who are interested in the Catholic faith. It was not the most brilliant class, but some of the videos were interesting and educational. I was given a slim volume on Catholic teaching, which I sometimes read alongside the Confession of Faith. It was deeper and more particular about doctrine.

A couple months passed, and it occurred to me that I had not struggled with mental porn since before October. I think I was reminded by a fleeting temptation that was so easily brushed aside with prayer. I was so happy; God had used meditating on the gospel through the Rosary, he answered our prayers, and protected me. I am grateful for Mary’s, and Joan’s and Jeremiah’s, intercession; and mostly I am grateful for the great work of Jesus.

Easter of 2017, I was confirmed in the Catholic Church. It is more important to me than my graduations past.

I do not know everything; I know I am still not perfect; but I do know that God is still working with me. I will still face temptations, but I know that God is cleansing me of all unrighteousness and that I do not fight alone. I do not like the division between me and people that I still love that has happened as I have continued to follow Jesus, but I still hope for that time when the whole Church will be united under Christ and the world will know that we are Christians by our love.