I think prayers really can work. In my life, I've noticed a pattern that if I have reached my breaking point on something, such as I did yesterday, I want my mom. There is something about her that when I'm at my most fragile, she keeps all those pieces from crumbling apart. So I called her, bawled my eyes out, and she prayed for me. And ya know, I woke up this morning feeling hopeful.
Today, I met two young women, younger than me, actually, who are considering religious life. One, Emily, lives in Oregon and is about 95% sure she's joining a community in a few months. I met her first. Then our conference had a presentation on religious life today, and the speakers were very good. Afterwards, our small groups were supposed to discuss some questions regarding the talk and our thoughts on religious life. I suppose that would have been a good time for me to share my struggles, but I just couldn't get the words out. My eyes were full of tears as I focused on the table top and my fingers resting there. My throat ached from the choked feeling inside it. I could listen, but I couldn't speak.
Post-presentation and discussion, I approached the sisters and priest who presented and thanked them. I asked one of them for suggestions in finding places to talk to young women who were like me. I told her that I felt like a big weirdo, and she looked at me and firmly said, "But you aren't." I kind of believed her.
As I left, another girl, who wears her hair in dreds and a t-shirt that speaks of fair trade coffee, came up to me and said, "We should have lunch together today." Um, ok.
So it turns out that Emily, Katie, and I spent a rushed lunch talking about some of our thoughts and struggles. Katie feels called to a pretty radical lifestyle. She said she had visited some Maryknoll sisters, who apparently are very missionary and liberal. I think she felt that we would be good friends because of the red streaks that are presently in my hair. At once I felt both flattered and alarmed--I wanted to tell her that the red streaks are a short-term kind of thing, but I didn't.
Later today, we all had a meeting with our small groups--ah back to the group that doesn't do much for me--and we reflected on the different "mission" sites we had visited. The people in my group, including me, weren't too impressed with ours, but there was a group that went to see these Passionists who work with boys they are trying to save from gang life. Hearing my group members speak about that brought to mind my Detroit and Cleveland students and reminded me fervently of my love and passion for working with them. Well, maybe more my Detroit kids. Anyway, I shared some stories of that and ended up talking with one of my group members post-meeting about how much I would love to work with kids like those gang members and be, well, like a mother for them. And then it hit me--maybe that's why I feel a call to be a sister. I mean, if I were married, I would have to be committed to my family--my kids and husband. But I were a sister, I could be free to love people who have no one to love them. And I'm pretty sure I could do that and be really happy. Actually, I think I could give up what I thought meant a lot to me: clothes, shoes, traditional family life, "normalcy"--and be joyful and not feel like I was losing something but instead gaining my dream. And then during this prayer we had tonight in front of the Eucharist, I thought about all my favorite dreams as I've grown up. My ideal job would be to have a home for unwanted pets and kids. I would love to read to kids at night and listen to them as they figure out their lives and hug them and tell them how much I love them because I would. I've never loved anyone the way I loved my Detroit kids, and maybe this vision I have would be something like working with them again.
Amazingly, I feel a sense of purpose and hope that I definitely couldn't find last night. Maybe my enormous, impossible dreams have some relevance after all.
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