Shine Like The Son

I needed this today:

Because I make mistakes. Tons of rookie mistakes. This Catholic thing? It’s hard work. And sometimes I’m not sure I’m doing it right at all.

There are so many rules. I asked for rules, by the way. That was one of the many things that drew me to Catholicism. I wanted to know, for sure, what I was supposed to do.

You see, I’m a former teacher. A former reporter. So I like things explained clearly. And I fact check. Force of habit. Which is why I loved the idea of having a textbook to reach for–two, counting both the Catechism and the ancient, sacred source of the rules it contains.

Initially, though, having so much to learn made me feel as if I didn’t know enough to be truly useful yet. But I jumped in with both feet anyway. Went right to the parish office, a few weeks after baptism, and signed up to do everything.

Some of my RCIA teachers were worried about burn out. Rightly so. But I got trained as a Eucharistic Minister, a greeter, signed on to be a lector and got my Level 1 certification, too, in case they might need an extra teacher any time soon.

One weekend, I was a greeter for three masses—two of them back to back. And speaking of feet, mine swelled up so bad I felt like Jesus was trying to tell me what my advisors had: “Slow down, sister! We got along for a few thousand years without you. We’ll manage.”

I jumped into the deep end outside of church, too. I even volunteer now, once a week, at the Food Bank nearest my house. Sorting donations and stacking them up on shelves.

I make the “bonus” bags, too. The fun ones filled with the kind of candies and cereals and things that kids see on TV but that the kids who come to the Food Bank probably don’t believe they’ll ever have. Only we make sure they get a big old bag full.

I love that. My gouty old feet swell and ache when I’m lifting and emptying those big boxes the truck brings in. But I bought myself some new sneakers. And I’ll keep doing it ‘til I can’t do it anymore.

In fact, it’s the physical work I prefer. The sweaty stuff. I almost signed on as a custodian at the parish. I would love to dust those statues, mop floors, replace the candles. Keep the bathrooms squeaky clean. No really, I would. I feel most useful doing things like that. And closest to Jesus, too, for some reason.

I would never have done all this, had I not become Catholic. Though I know now that God was nudging me toward sacred work throughout my entire life.

As a reporter, I often felt a “higher power” telling me what to write. Still do. And while teaching on my ex-husband’s Hopi reservation, I sometimes absolutely knew Jesus was talking through me, standing behind me, smiling at those beautiful children who taught me more than I taught them. That’s why He sent me to them.

Of course, I didn’t understand that then. Not really. And after I retired, I just wanted to rest my weary bones and let life unfold. But Jesus started chasing after me again. Openly. Nothing vague about this call.

And I found myself in this religion that asks you to do something with all those blessings received. To use the scripture you read. Not only in your “vocation,” but also through little things that turn out to be big things. Like smiling at and opening doors for people as they enter the church. Or slipping a giant Kit Kat bar into that bonus bag.

Catholics never stop believing you can do better. Be better. Shine like The Son, and make somebody’s life better. They know Jesus will find things for you to do, even if you’re not sure you’re doing them right.

The Pope even says it’s okay if I don’t do them right. He’s looking for people like me. Who “dare to dream” and like to “get their hands dirty.”

So thanks, Papa Francisco. And let me go put those sneakers back on…