No Rush

Twenty minutes after Ash Wednesday service ends, and I’m still stuck in the church parking lot— plagued by the Toyota Noah’s beeping noise indicating my gear is in reverse— overcome by impatient anger that no car will let me back out so I can leave the one-way, gated parking exit.  Aya is with me and dodges my curt comments as I complain about crazy and inconsiderate drivers.  I say some un-Christian things.  I even beep my horn.  More than once.   Okay, a few times.

When I finally floor it out of the lot, the escapade seems suddenly embarrassing.  How is it that I’m always in a rush?  Yes, I need to get to the girls home to pick up the kids and get back in time to make dinner.  But surely I have no need to get in an angry rush and horn-beep my way out of the lot.  I apologize to Aya who is frightfully silent.  And I’m supposed to be a role model for this sweet girl?  This girl who is so empathetic that every time I’m in a mood, she suffers for it.  I shake my head at myself and apologize to the Lord whom I had briefly abandoned the moment I stepped out of church. 

“There’s no rush in Swaziland,” my good friend had always told me.  It was fine when my stay was temporary.  But the longer I’m here, the more frustrating it can be, even though you’d think I would be used to it by now. 

I’ve recently realized that I can trace almost all of my greatest moments of stress (and I need to confess there are way too many, I’m really needing to work on this, please pray for me!) back to one thing: I’m in a rush in a place where there is no rush.  Ooh, that could drive a person mad.  And sometimes it does. 

Like when my landlord says he’s going to come and fix the fence for weeks and never does. The fence behind my house is broken [every house here has fencing for security] and so it makes me feel very unsafe… yet, somehow, though I’ve pleaded, he doesn’t seem to think fixing it to keep us safe is a necessary rush. 

Or like the internet place… whose workers were supposed to come install internet in the house in the first week of January!   Despite going there multiple times and even having multiple people request them to come install, they gave different answers and excuses and still have not installed it almost two months later (but they’re eager to charge us for it on a bill). 

Or like major, major ministry changes and growth that I think need to get figured out now.  But the one person who has the authority that we need is on “leave” and we have to wait until he returns, whenever that will be.  So, all progress is on pause until then.

Or a prayer that so many people are diligently praying for me (though I never asked any of them to pray for this) and a prayer I committed to saying every night, but God’s not on my timing, though I desperately wish He were.   

Sigh. 

It comes down to two choices.  1) Let go of what I can’t control.  2) Hold on to something I can’t control.

Why is it so dang hard to just let things go?  Why can’t I smile at the words, “No rush”?  Why can’t I be thankful that God is the one who keeps me safe, not a fence? Or why can’t I be content that I can access internet from my phone?  Or why can’t I be excited that our ministry has great opportunities and things will happen when they’re supposed to happen?  Or why can’t I admit I’d make a terrible wife if Prince Charming came into my life right now? 

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest. …For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” –Matthew 11:28,30

I recently wrote in my journal: “Jesus, you said to take your yoke upon me because your yoke is easy and your burden is light.  How?? Your yoke is not easy and your burden is heavy.  Please explain this verse to me because I’m clearly missing something.” 

But now I think I get it.  In order to come to Jesus, that means I must first stop what I’m doing.  Stop rushing. Come to Jesus.  To take His yoke upon me means I must first lay down my own.  And see, that’s where I struggle.  Because the yokes I have taken, the burdens I carry are for these children I deeply love, and I feel for them—their pain, their hopes, “what they could be” and “what they should be.”  I think that I have to carry them.  I want to hold them.  I want to mend them.  I want to take away their pain and carry them to Jesus.  But then I get disappointed over and over again.  I fail over and over again because it’s impossible.  I can’t always carry them.  I can’t always mend them.  I can’t always hold them.  Yes, sometimes I am called to do all of these, but Sometimes, I have to let them go.  It’s hard to discern when to step in and when to step out; it’s hard to see the solution to the problem, knowing the girls don’t see it themselves. I’m in a rush to show it to them.  I’m in a rush for growth, for satisfaction.  I’m in rush for perfection.  But then that’s ironic, isn’t it?  How can anything that’s rushed ever actually be perfect?

Like Swaziland, Jesus, too, is in no rush.  He waits.  He waits for us to come.  To lay down our burdens, our stresses, our self-inflicted yokes.  And with nail-printed hands, He offers us a yoke of freedom and a burden of hope.         

I’m letting go of rush hour.  I choose freedom.  I choose hope.  I choose His yoke.  This is joy. 

How Can I Be Catholic?

“How can you be Catholic?” a college friend once asked me when she found out I attended mass.  I led a Campus Crusade Bible study in one of the dorms, yet I went to a Catholic church.  It was an oxymoron for some.  Most of my friends were Evangelical Christians, and I loved them dearly, as I did their church worship as well.  Amongst my evangelical group, I encountered many different reactions when people found out I was Catholic.  Few didn’t seem too phased by it, most were perplexed or even astounded.  Some thought Catholics weren’t Christians at all.  I had never encountered such anti-Catholic conversation among Christians until college.  It frustrated me.  It confused me.  It forced me to step back and question my entire Catholic upbringing. 

The questions my evangelical friends asked me were great questions—and soon I began questioning the Catholic church as well.  One day, I had had enough of the confusion and was on the verge of abandoning my Catholic faith.  I decided I would go to my campus pastor, Fr. Mark, and ask a few burning questions—ones that I was certain he wasn’t going to be able to answer me satisfactorily; then I would have to break the news to my mom that I would no longer be Catholic.  As I walked to church that afternoon to meet the priest, I sang a favorite hymn, “Lead me, Lord,” and whispered what Pilot himself had asked, “What is Truth? I just want Truth.” 

To my own astonishment, during my meeting with Fr. Mark, I filled my notebook with notes and quotes and Bible references and book recommendations and so, so much information!  No wonder why so many people have so many questions about the Catholic church!  Because there is SO much to know!  No wonder why there is so much ignorance of other Christians about the Church; it would take a lifetime to truly learn all that there is about the Catholic Church, so if one is not brought up Catholic, then it’d be very difficult to understand.

After I met with Fr. Mark, I went to mass one more time, still not sure of whether or not I wanted to be Catholic.  But something significant happened that day.  At the start of Eucharist, I began to cry.  Like, for no reason.  My body was filled with a deep warmth yet my arms had goosebumps…and I cried.  I cried because Jesus died for me.  I cried because of His immense, unexplainable love, a love we get to celebrate every day at mass.  A love that transforms a wafer and wine into a prayer of hunger and thirst for His body and blood.  And at the end of mass, I felt a peace wash over me, and tears of joy snuck down my cheeks again.  With final affirmation, I felt the Lord telling me, “Mary-Kate, if everyone leaves my Church, how will it ever change?”

I stayed in the Catholic Church, and I couldn’t be more pleased with that decision.  I choose to be Catholic for many, many reasons.  I still attend evangelical services once in awhile because I love them, I’ve served at a Lutheran Bible Camp for two summers, and I’ve attended Methodist services as well, and in Swaziland I’m also connected to the Church of Christ.  I have a heart for unity.  I don’t appreciate that we put boundaries on our churches and amongst our brethren.  We are not supposed to be against one another; we are supposed to be one!

I quite like it when people are astonished when they find out I’m Catholic.  I don’t wear it on my sleeve, attempting to convince others this is the only way.  I simply love Jesus.  Seriously.  I just love Him.  This is what it’s all about.  They way I love Jesus might look different than the way you love him or the way you worship, but that doesn’t mean one is better than the other.  Just because I believe that prayer changes things and therefore the prayer our priest says over communion changes it to the real presence, the body and blood of our Lord, doesn’t make me more of a Christian than someone who believes communion is only a symbol.  Or just because I prefer my pastor to wear his symbolic vestments or dress up doesn’t mean I’m not as hip as the person who prefers their pastor to preach in jeans and polo.  And just because I believe that the verse “faith without works is dead” (James 2:17) means that both faith and works are required for salvation doesn’t make me a better or worse Christian than someone who says salvation is through faith only.  After all, it doesn’t matter what we say anyway, does it?  It matters how we live.  Do we live in a way that shows we love the Lord?  That’s really all it comes down to. 

I’m not one to boast about my Catholic faith, but sometimes maybe I’m too timid.  It’s disheartening seeing the reactions of other Christians when they despise the Church I attend, so oftentimes I keep quiet.  I just wish we could all remember that we are not the Judge.  Instead of trying to save people from being Catholic (I’ve encountered that many times in college), why don’t we build Catholics up, Christians up, wherever they are, whichever church they attend, to serve God and reach the people in their churches—people we could never otherwise reach from the outside? 

Let’s remember, we are all God’s children.  Every single one of us.  I am a Christian first.  Catholicism is simply how I express it.  Christ is my love; Catholicism is how I show it.  And I choose to show it this way for many, many reasons.  Perhaps that’s a blog for another time.

P.S. Happy Lenten Season!

A return to the desert.  "In the desert, there are no distractions or diversions or secondary matters. Everything is basic, necessary, and simple. Either one survives or one doesn’t. One finds in the desert strengths and weaknesses he never knew he had. So are you ready to visit your desert? Are you prepared to deal with your particular temptations to pleasure, power, money, and honor? Even if, in the past, you have not succeeded in the ways you wanted, remember that our God is a God of second chances. It’s never too late to start again" (Bishop Robert Barron).

Transcendent Moments

I strum a chord to signify the start of Bible study at the girls home.  We sing “Your Great Name,” one of their favorites and then dig into Scripture.  I had noticed the girls were in a lot of stress.  School was about to begin and there were still a lot of unknowns; our eldest girls were in turmoil waiting for their Form 5 results to see if they passed, which determines the track for their future.  I was becoming stressed as well, as I had just started a new year teaching at ACC with added class days.  We read Philippians and put this verse into action: “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, present your requests to God and the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.” –Phil 4:6-7 

I started playing a song and instructed the girls to pray out their worries and anxieties and give it all to God.  I told them to pray until they can’t pray anymore.  In a matter of minutes, the noise in the room nearly drowned out my guitar and I could barely sing; they were praying aloud, some softly into their hands, others loudly as if they were calling out to Jesus.  Some sat and prayed, others knelt.  Some bent over face down, others walked and paced back and forth.  One cried.  All, all of us prayed.  Something powerful happened during these moments.  We could all feel it.  We talked about it the next day.  But one of the best moments of that prayer night, was watching Lucia.  Lucia locked her eyes on Sindi and copied her every move.  When Sindi sat down to pray, so did Lucia.  Then she would open one eye and peak at Sindi to see if she was done praying.  Since she wasn’t, Lucia would close her eyes and keep praying in SiSwati as well.  When Sindi stood up, so did Lucia.  Then Sindi knelt back down to pray, and so did Lucia.  It was incredible to watch modeling in action and to see all of us lay down our burdens together at the feet of Jesus.   

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I kneel to pray as I wait for the church service to begin.  My thoughts drift to the young lady kneeling next to me.  I peak at her and smile.  Six years ago, I had begged God for this day—a day when I could share mass with umtfwana wami.  Six years ago, I often sat alone in the pew, and often my prayers were of distress.  But today?  Today, my prayers are saturated with praises and thanksgivings.  I’m in awe.  Lucia sits quietly on the pew and looks around, points to the large cross and smiles, “Mama Kate, there’s Jesus!”  Benji, who mimics my moves, kneels next to me, his head barely reaching the pew top where my hands are folded in adoration of Christ.  Umtfwana wami delights in the service, soaking in every prayer and singing without embarrassment.  I am transformed by seeing her transformed. 

Recently, she had exposed the depths of her heart and pain in front of all the girls when she shared her testimony at the girls home, crying with shame and then crying without shame, and then offered them Scripture and wisdom for succeeding in life.  Currently, she is pursuing a girl who was once in our home before and is trying by all means to offer her help. 

She sees me gazing at her and giggles in embarrassment.  “What, Mom?” 

“Oh, nothing.  I’m just so proud of you,” I squeeze her hand and she blushes and turns her attention back to the service.  I am reminded of that life’s greatest treasures are these simple daily pleasures.