Why I: Am Not Meant To Be A Catholic Blogger

I’ve had this post in mind since Benedict’s resignation. I don’t think I’m able to write it better now than a few months ago, but if I wait any longer I’m going to forget it altogether.

I found my first Catholic blog by accident. It wasn’t long before I thought I would be a good Catholic blogger too. At the time there weren’t many known Catholic bloggers, in fact many young adult Catholics were being told to stay away from internet Catholicism.

I thought I could be a voice for young adult Catholics like myself. It made perfect sense. The internet didn’t scare me & I had plenty of resources at my disposal (at least then).

However it didn’t take me very long to figure out that I wouldn’t be good at it. I did compare myself to other Catholic bloggers, but that was only part of it. I just wouldn’t be good at it. I’m not meant to be a Jennifer, Arleen, or Chelsea.

I don’t find God in church.

There was a time when I never went to mass at all. It wasn’t doing anything for me, except for filling me with rage & anger. Then there was a time when I went to mass daily. I have to do what works for me when it works for me. I can’t go to mass if I’m not feeling inspired to do so. Mass is a piece of the puzzle that makes up my faith life; it’s not the be all end all.

I struggle with modesty.

 It was a long standing debate between friends and me whether I was dressing modestly. In the end we decided that it was best to agree to disagree. I find wearing a dress to be incredibly uncomfortable, in fact I didn’t own anything that wasn’t pants for a long time. I don’t understand the obsession that modesty automatically means dress & immodest equals wearing a tank top. In wind a dress can blow & expose everything, pants don’t move. Tank tops are more complicated so let’s just leave it at I like to have all my bits and pieces covered.

The Church (or rather churches) isn’t accessible.

It’s true that it’s not accessible for people intellectually but that’s not the type of access I’m talking about here, although all types of access shouldn’t be ignored. Many people with disabilities can’t even get into a church to celebrate mass. It’s true that many churches have a handicapped row at the front of the church and it does provide a great deal of access for those who choose to use it. I however find a downside to it. I jokingly call it the “crippled and lame” section. Everyone wants to feel a part of the community. Putting people upfront, because it’s the only place there’s space, can make them feel like objects on display instead of being part of something. There’s also the issue of ramps & elevators…..

The pro-life movement.

I consider myself to be pro-life personally but on a global stage pro-choice. I think the pro-life movement overshadows many of the other issues the Church should also be taking a stand on. I also feel like there’s a piece of the pro-life puzzle that’s missing. We shouldn’t be ignoring other issues for the sake of one.

A feeling of lack of understanding.

I’m guilty of this as well, so I’m going to attempt to treat lightly. One of the biggest reasons I turned my back on the Church was the lack of understanding (and even the desire to try to understand). People were too focused on trying to heal me and tell me I needed to be a better person. People are different and share and express their faith in different forms, even among Catholics

I don’t know the Rosary.

At one point I’m sure I knew it, but not anymore. Even more shameful, at least to some of you, every time I try to learn I miscount my Hail Marys and/or fall asleep in the process.

I can’t be a good leader if I’m not a good follower.

I can’t tell people how to be a Catholic if I’m figuring it out for myself.

*A similar version of this post was written on May 10, 2013

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Why I: Joined A Discernment Group

Ten years ago I was looking to make a fresh start after a near crash and burn of my academic career & a list of personal issues. (Side note: The fact that I started college more than a decade ago makes me feel kind of old.)

Here’s what’s awesome about going to a university with an active campus ministry:

There’s always something going on.

It’s almost kind of ridiculous how much stuff you can be involved in (or not).

At the time I wasn’t a practicing Catholic, in fact I was still in the recovery from Atheism phase of things, because that kind of journey practically requires a recovery period. I called myself a Christian but I wasn’t ready to “drink the Catholic k00l aid” just yet.

I steered clear of any organized group outside of the theatre department my freshman year and I was reconsidering that plan for sophomore year. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, so I didn’t want to do the same thing.

There are always plenty of things to do in a theatre/drama department as well. There are always “other duties as assigned” (to put it one way) or a friend is working on some sort of project at all hours so if you want to see them it’s best to go to them (and then you end up helping on the same project, somehow). But I didn’t want to be a “drama kid,” at least not exclusively.

At some point during orientation, sometime after neighborhood orientation, I huddled into the campus ministry office with other new students to hear their “sales pitch”. This was some place I wanted to be involved. I knew that from visiting a friend earlier in the year. The how was the part that needed to be determined.

I’m not a try everything once type of girl but that’s pretty much what ended up happening. The first few weeks the only thing I had second thoughts on was solemn adoration; anything labeled solemn or somber means I’ll laugh uncontrollably. I needed to be better versed at adoration before the sound was turned off.

The first group I showed up for (I think) was women’s group. I loved that group. In fact many of the ladies I met thanks to that group I’m still friends with today (maybe I’ll tell you about that someday).

The next night discernment group would be meeting. I had no idea what “discernment” was but I figured it would be similar to women’s group so I showed up.

I probably should’ve looked up what discernment was before I decided to go to the group. But if I did I probably wouldn’t have gone.

Instead of sitting in the lounge area we met in the prayer room. And instead of one of the campus ministers facilitating there were two nuns, from The Little Sisters of the Poor (an order I knew nothing about, but have come to love dearly).

At some point during the hour I realized I was in a room full of ladies who were considering becoming nuns. I was in the wrong place, but I didn’t want to get up and leave (for fear of embarrassment only).

I may have countless sisters these days, but back then I had only known two, and the impression they left wasn’t one of full warm & fuzzy memories.

I left that night thinking I probably wouldn’t go back (because I wasn’t even in the same hemisphere of that life path) but when Thursday rolled around again I did. I’m still not sure why. The funny thing is I kept going. I think I only missed a few meetings during the year, when being a drama kid had to take a front seat.

I even went the night when we’d be saying the Rosary most of the time. When I grasped even less of it than I do now & I had to borrow a Rosary from the spares that someone always seemed to have on hand.

For me it wasn’t about discernment, at least not at first, it was about meeting people who just might be like minded. When that didn’t work out so well it was about having concrete examples of what I might aspire to. Not to mention meeting some religious sisters who were not only nice, but they went out of their way to invest in others.

I will never ever forget that Sister Mary David told me it was perfectly fine to fall asleep during adoration “because the Lord knows you need your rest.”

Never mind that I had agreed to sit up with the blessed sacrament only to fall asleep face down on a futon that was in our makeshift retreat chapel.

My original intent couldn’t have been any more off. However I think I got a lot more out of it than I realize (yes, even now). I made a mistake in judgment but it was one of the best mistakes I could’ve ever made (especially given my history with mistakes).

Even if I have come to have a love/hate relationship with the discernment process.

*A similar version of this post was written on September 4, 2013

Kilimanjaro

I love mountains.

I love looking at them. I love wondering how many people are climbing them at that very moment. I love thinking about how many people have climbed them. I love thinking about how many people will be repeat climbers (or hikers).

Even so I have healthy limits.

I know portions of Rainier are attainable as are Olympus.

Kilimanjaro is off limits.

Really cool, but off limits.

I hate treadmills.

From the first time I was ever put on a treadmill I’ve hated them. For some reason it became the first step to attempting to transition a patient from PT to a self driven exercise program, kind of hard when no one could come up with anything other than a walk on a treadmill.

When the treadmill first came up while at the gym, because we usually discuss to some extent before do, I divulged my hatred for the machine, it bores me to death. I need to be entertained to some extent while on a treadmill.

If I could pull an Oprah and play scrabble on my iPad while walking that could work.

But that would require an iPad.

And the ability to spell.

Maybe that wouldn’t work so well.

So the treadmill is used sparingly, because the word, “bored” is right up there with “can’t” or “no.”

Even so every few weeks or so I get on the treadmill (with the trainer or exercise physiologist standing by because I will get off) because it’s one of the few ways my glute muscles will actually get going (or “fire.” “Firing” muscles are always a good thing, so I’m told)

What is done on the treadmill is usually left for when I’m actually on the treadmill, and most of the time it’s for very good reason:

“I call this Kilimanjaro.”

(I clutched the treadmill to override the urge to jump off of it)

Apparently “Kilimanjaro” means for every minute on the treadmill you increase the incline by one. Then you do it again.

(I think, I deliberately wasn’t watching the settings change. I just walked.)

It takes about 20 minutes.

(The longest I’ve EVER been on a treadmill. EVER)

Do you want to know the most shocking part?

I didn’t die. I didn’t even want to die by the end of it.

I just wanted to be done for the day.

(Which didn’t happen)

I’ve done my Kilimanjaro. What’s yours? Have you done it yet?

*A similar version of this post was written on January 28, 2011

A “Fit” ting Realization

I’ve made a few changes in my fitness routine. I won’t go into the details because I don’t know how much of the new will “stick” and how much of the “old” return, or if at all. It’s also more complicated than just feeling the need to change things up; although that was part of it.

In the midst of all of the change and transition I’ve realized something about myself.

I would make the worst workout partner on earth, possibly the universe.

Exhibit A: I’m on an elliptical next to someone else on an elliptical. I’m barely able to keep the machine going under my own power. That someone else inches from me is going close to 100 rpms (or whatever) while texting full conversations and listening to an iPod, like it’s no big deal.

I realize we look like an exercise infomercial, and he has no clue what he’s doing (and how his actions may be effecting the self-image of others.

I resist the urge to push him off the elliptical, mostly due to my personal safety (balance) than any other repercussions.

Exhibit B: I’ve just finished up a few minutes on the recumbent bike. A feat that would have been laughable not that long ago but now I can keep a steady (albeit painfully slow). The seat also has to be “just right,” pretty much the ultimate short people setting but not quite. I hear a lady behind me say she hates the bike (can’t say I blame her) because she’s too short (she’s actually a little taller than me). I think, she’s going to be pretty surprised when she realizes she’s going to have better luck today.

I watch her out of the corner of my eye and she peddles twice (or maybe it was four times) and quits.

I resist the urge to give her a five minute lecture on how it took me years to do what she just did and she gives in, because she probably surrounds herself with people who allow her to throw in the towel far too soon.

Exhibit C: I get to the pool 5 minutes “late” (5 minutes after opening) so all the official lap lanes are taken. I “trudge” down the pool ramp wishing it was deep enough that I could roll my wheelchair to the edge of the pool and “jump” in.

The lady in the lane next to me is doing “the old lady dog paddle.” She shouts to my mother (who has to bring me to the pool because of a lack of automatic door openers) that she forgot to close the door (the door closed by the time she got back to it). She does 2 more laps before getting out of the pool. She uses the ladder (which happens to be in my lane), she almost kicks me in the head in the process.

I stop myself from wanting to shout at her about noticing an opening a barely open door yards away but she can’t manage to keep her heals within striking distance of my eye.

Exhibit D: I’m using the upper-arm bike trying to keep a pace in the 50s rpm range. I realize I’m actually keeping steady in the mid-60s without much difficulty. Someone is using the upper-arm bike next to me.

It doesn’t take me long to realize I’m trying to out due them, without knowing how far they’re going or who they are. But I did get to 70 rpms.

Exhibit E: Lest we forget why I spend the extra money (which I don’t really have), because I’m not the best person to be left to their own devices. For all intents and purposes I need a “babysitter,” because if you tell me to do 3 sets of 10 of anything and walk away I’ll just make it look like I’ve done 3 sets of 10 & then lie to you about it.

But at least I’m honest about my dishonesty, within reason.

Exhibit F: Even when I win (a board game, cards, anything) I don’t consider it a real win unless it’s by a fairly large margin.

My name is Sarah, and I think I have a problem.

*A similar version of this post was written on October 15, 2014