Image from BreneBrown.com,
quote from "Rising Strong" by Brene Brown

William Bridges, who I read numerous times as a Sister, calls it the "neutral zone". Brene Brown calls it "the middle", "the rumble", "act two".
Either way, it's messy.
And it's been a messy two (almost three) years.

I traveled to St Louis and was able to re-connect and heal in a way I wouldn't have otherwise (see previous entry). I entered and subsequently exited my first romantic relationship last summer. I am one year closer towards completing my Master's of Social Work (many more semesters to go) and made new friends because of it.

It's been messy because I've doubted myself in so many different ways, because I've been afraid to tell my story...and because, as I found out most recently, I'm still discovering who I am.

This past semester was a hard one. I was crazy stressed because I was promoted into a much more demanding job. One of my classes had piles of readings, podcasts, or videos every week. And well, just in general, there's a reason that my program is ranked nationally and is #5 in Texas. I've never worked so hard academically in my life.

So, because the semester was so stressful, I needed to give myself a reward to look forward to. So, I booked a surprise vacation through Pack Up + Go. I'd go the weekend after the semester ended and two weeks before the summer semester started.

I booked it and then forgot about it. I was too wrapped up in work and all the papers I had to do. When everything was said and done and my vacation approached, I began to share with my friends. Their reaction was surprising:

"By yourself? I never imagined you'd be the type of person to do that, but good for you!"

"I never thought you'd do that but I guess I should have figured it out based on you living in Bolivia and all"

It surprised me because adventures (by myself) is a huge part of who I am.
Or at least, I thought it was.
But then I realized so much of my solo adventuring was in the past - choosing to attend schools where I knew no one, traveling to foreign countries by myself, making daring choices. All before I joined the Sisters.

That's the thing with the messy middle. You're still figuring it out. What's changed, what's stayed the same. What your vocation may be. Taking steps towards vulnerability, that those little steps of courage lead to even bigger leaps.

I struggled with shame for not working hard enough or good enough in my new promotion and pushed myself to work through the stress.
I struggled with shame over feeling pressured to be in a romantic relationship.
I even struggled with shame over my own story and felt compelled to hide it at all costs.

But something happened.

I started to let go.

I stepped down from my promotion. I now work in a lower position, both in terms of the totem pole and in stress. But I'm more peaceful.
I stopped listening to other people and realized I am much more than a potential girlfriend or wife.
I started sharing my story. In fact, most of my classmates know that I was a Sister and it's led to beautiful conversations and connections.

And I started solo-adventuring again. My first solo adventure since I joined the Sisters back in 2011 and/or left in 2016. (Pack Up + Go sent me to Denver, by the way.) Solo-adventuring was just as amazing as I remembered it being.
And I re-discovered that part of me that loves new adventures; I returned energized and refreshed as if I had woken up from a long sleep.

The middle is messy, but it pays to let go.
It pays to be courageous.

As Margaret (Molly) Brown, a great woman I learned about on my trip to Denver, said "I am a daughter of adventure. This means I never experience a dull moment and must be prepared for any eventuality . . . That's my arc. It's a good one, too, for a person who had rather make a snap-out than a fade-out of life."

Be brave. Don't be afraid of the middle.

More Than The Watchman: Remembering Night Prayer

I find a thrill in public speaking, even if I'm not the best at it. Don't get me wrong, I still get nervous. I still wonder if I'm going to trip over words - as I often do in real life - and embarrass myself. My heart beats a little faster with worry. But, if I'm prepared with material, even if I usually go off-script, it's exhilarating. I know that, more often than not, I'll get swept away with passion by what I'm presenting and lose my worry in words.

This past week, a co-worker and I were asked to present in front of a Pastoral Council at a Catholic church. Per my job, I was presenting about the programs at the non-profit where I work as well as our group and individual volunteer opportunities. My co-worker is the manager of one of our lesser-known programs so she would present on that.

I was prepared.

That is until the pastor passed around the opening prayer to the meeting and I saw the word "Night

For anyone not familiar, Night Prayer is part of Liturgy of the
Hours. It consists of a number of Scripture readings,
mainly from the Psalms and a Gospel canticle (Night Prayer's
Gospel canticle is the Canticle of Simeon, Luke 2:29-32)

Prayer". I froze. Oh crap.

As we started Night Prayer, I was back.

Back in that chapel in that old convent in St. Louis.
I saw one of the Sisters, a Sister who passed away shortly after I was missioned to San Antonio, light a candle before we began and I heard the candle crackle.
I had that small green book in my hands.
I remembered exactly where I sat in that chapel.

In you, O Lord, I take refuge...

I remember admiring how intently one of the Sisters prayed, staring ahead.
I remembered the quiet of our convent, no sounds to heard on our city streets.
In hard times, I remember craving the Grand Silence required afterward.

Recently, I heard a divorced friend ask another, "so, what did you do with your wedding ring?"
I remembered my secret return to St. Louis, this time to the Provincial House to sign the official departure papers. Secret because only my house and the Provincial Council knew the purpose of my trip.
I remembered signing the official departure paper and even saying out loud, with pen in hand, "this is just surreal". It was surreal, yes, but I won't deny that there was also peace.

So many things had to be returned. I left some in St. Louis. I left my cross and my Constitutions sitting on the nightstand of the guest room there. The rest - my habit, my coiffe, my Vincentian history books, my prayer books - I left in my house in San Antonio. It grew all too real when I stared at photos on websites or social media, quizzically remembering myself there and then realizing painfully I had been Photo-shopped out of the picture. Apart from the memory of the Sisters and my own photos, all trace of me being a Daughter of Charity was gone.

My identity was gone, but God wasn't. And throughout my entire discernment, He was never gone. No longer being able to take refuge in my identity as "Sister Amanda", I counted on Him. With that signature, He set me free and I knew He'd have to be my strength.

Out of the depths, I cry to you, Lord...

Back at this Pastoral Council meeting, my co-worker struggled as we alternated sides and flipped pages.
Meanwhile, I surprised myself by saying almost all the words without even looking down. I haven't prayed Night Prayer for over three years, yet still, I remembered.

Yesterday, January 20th, was the fifth anniversary of my Incorporation - that is, the day a Daughter of Charity becomes a Daughter of Charity. They receive the cross, the Constitutions, the title "Sister" in front of their name. I couldn't help but reminiscence. I remembered everything that eventually became second-nature through the years: struggling to get on the coiffe correctly, forgetting to smooth my skirt when I sat down so it wouldn't get wrinkled, and acclimating to a title in front of my name. I remembered the pre-Mass jitters. I remembered feeling so loved that day as I was barraged with hugs and cards.

But now, it seems like a dream. The woman I am now seems so different than the woman that walked down that Provincial House chapel in a freshly-ironed and custom-made habit dress. Many of those Sisters that gave me huge hugs and cards with long loving notes haven't seen or spoken to me since I left, some just because of distance and life, some purposefully. The woman I was then could have never imagined everything that was to happen, good and bad. In a way, it's hard to believe that it even was me.

Into your hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit...

That line of the Responsory was always my favorite part.
The New Testament Scripture (Luke 23:46), of course, came from a moment of intense pain for Jesus, shortly before He died on the cross.
Yet, it's also a Psalm (Psalm 31) - the Psalm we pray earlier in Night Prayer. God, a rock of refuge, a stronghold, please hold and guide me. In you, O Lord, I take refuge...
It was comforting to me. It was the one part of Night Prayer that I still had memorized from my time in Bolivia - "En tus manos, Señor, encomiendo mi espíritu..."

As I've written before, I have no idea where God is leading me now. I gave my life to Him as a Sister, but that didn't stop because I left. I still put my life in His hands.

Lord, now you let your servant go in peace...

Despite the grief, despite the anger, it was the right decision to leave. I'm more at peace with myself, more at peace with life, and that tells me it was God's decision, not just a whim of mine.

In the 477 days since I left the Daughters, there was only one day when I doubted. One day in which I wondered "maybe I was just being a coward because I didn't stay to work it all out. Maybe I was just being weak." Luckily, my self-confidence has grown enough that the next day, I talked myself out of that.
No, God called me out and I'm a stronger person because of it. I have stories to prove it.

May the all-powerful Lord grant us a restful night and a peaceful death. Amen.

Amen.
Yes, please don't have my mind so in a tizzy because of this that I can't sleep.
You're a funny God.

"And now we have a special guest with us...Amanda, do you want to share more about the nonprofit you work for?"

The pastor's question snapped me back into San Antonio, back into a Pastoral Council meeting, back into work.

"Oh! Yes, umm, yeah, so we have lots of different programs. So, umm..."

So much for being prepared.

The Haunting of an Awkward Question

The conversation shouldn't have been an awkward one. That is, if I were normal, if I were like any 32 year old.
But I'm not, so instead, it turned awkward and I wanted to crawl under a rock.

How I felt during this conversation

I'm new to my work and we were all sharing details of our lives in the office, so an intern innocently asked: "So, Amanda, do you have any kids?"
"Nope."
"You married?"
"Nope."
"But you're 32...do you just not want to get married?"

Oh, God.
I will admit that I brushed this off as the intern being a young college student and not having learned the prudence I learned was taught in religious life.

"It's not that." Pause. All right, I need to give more details here or they're just going to fill in the blanks. "Okay, so I was a nun and left just a year ago."

After the initial "WHAT?!?!" and "WHOA!", she paused and said "But it's been a year already. You're not married or anything. What have you been doing with your life?"

I know she asked this innocently (once again, young college student), but I was taken back. I mumbled something about things don't happen that fast and I changed the subject. But I couldn't get the question out of mind:

"But it's been a year already. What have you been doing with your life?"

What have I been doing with my life? Have I been doing anything with my life?
I feared the answer was "nothing".

I am no closer to finding out my vocation in life, no closer to marrying anyone (or even going out with anyone), certainly no closer to having kids.
I am closer to starting graduate school for my MSW...and by closer, I mean I've filled out most of the application. So really, not that close.
I am no closer to any kind of promotion or salary increase. I switched jobs twice this year and I'm now in a job I like, but one that won't be my permanent career.
Everything has remained the same since the day I left - same apartment, same car, even the same friends.

Maybe it's true, maybe I haven't done anything in a year.

I won't deny it; I sulked around with those truths for a few weeks, even through Christmas. I had a year and I did nothing. I felt as if I had failed myself, failed God who had this great plan for me, and, in a way, even failed those who supported me leaving the community. I wallowed in shame.

Life with the Daughters was so packed with ministry, prayer, meetings, conferences, etc. Every moment was filled with purpose. Now that I was by myself...was I just wasting my life because I didn't have a "purpose" of being a wife or mother?

But, as I let myself reflect on it, I realized that while I may not have done the logical "next steps" or what the world would expect of me, there were some accomplishments this past year:

I am no closer to finding out my vocation in life, but I started writing again and am deeply in love with its pains and joys.
I am no closer to finding out my vocation in life, but I've gained some self-confidence, which can only aid in the search.
I am no closer to my MSW as of right now, but I have learned many lessons in ethics, motivational interviewing, etc by experience.
I am no closer to any kind of promotion or salary increase, but I'm happy in my job and isn't that what counts?
Everything has remained the same since the day I left, but I have gained some great friends from church that I didn't have a year ago that I wouldn't trade for anything.
Everything has remained the same since the day I left, but I've grieved my past and kept walking ahead.

I pray that, if that question comes up again, I can say with confidence: "Actually, I did a lot."

When the Nomad Stops Roaming

About this time last year, I sketched a tree in my journal and wrote something to the effect of “I’m tired of moving. My soul longs to plant roots.” This was revolutionary for the one who prided herself on being a “nomad for the mission” (or "a Vincentian nomad") but everything was changing. I was changing.

Since college ten years ago, I had not lived in any same city more than two years. I was constantly moving. First, country to country, then state to state. In fact, before I became a Daughter, I almost took a job in Panama until a friend there told me “No, Amanda, you’re a butterfly. I know you; you won’t stay here for long.” She was right. I joined a missionary itinerant community and I soon become an expert at moving. By the time I was a postulant, I had my personal possessions down to two suitcases and a carry-on. (Although, I’ll admit it- I sent my books through the mail)

I personally, in or out of community, had no pattern either: the indigenous culture of the valley of the Andes, the urban jungle of the nation's capital, the contradiction of continued racial segregation and joyful friendliness of the Bible Belt, the scrambled Mexican/American culture that is the Rio Grande Valley, the proud and quiet Midwest, the snowy Northeast, and then the festivity of Central Texas.

But, now it’s all different. Now, my wish from last year is coming true. I had lived in San Antonio two years when I decided to leave the Daughters - that magical number. (Not to say that they would have moved me, but I would have moved eventually)
And what was truly radical is that I decided to stay in San Antonio instead of moving back to Maryland. I broke my own cycle.

I'll celebrate my three-year anniversary in San Antonio in October…which also means that some of the friendships I’ve built here have also lasted this long, which is amazing longevity for me. More or less, I know the different “sides” of the city and I understand the city’s inside jokes. While I’ll never be a local, I’m beginning to feel more and more like this city is a second home.

However, something happens when you've been a nomad or missionary or wanderer...when you finally stop, it feels strange. Awkward. Clumsy.

Or at least, for me, that's the truth.

I realized I really don't know how to say goodbye when I'm not the one leaving.
I stumble through digging my heels in deeper, like allowing myself to be vulnerable, because I'm trying to build lasting friendships, not fleeting or long-distance ones.
While the Daughters took road trips, it seems peculiar to satisfy my wanderlust by exploring the areas around San Antonio in my car, rather than getting on a plane every few months for meetings or retreats.
I feel a goofy pride over small victories like figuring out routes without my GPS.
And as I see other 30-somethings that were more stable in their life, I get jealous because growing roots is incredibly hard.

But I have to tell myself that every mile mattered (this blog entry was inspired partly by this song by Nichole Nordeman). Every state mattered. Every area mattered. Every person I met, from such backgrounds and cultures, mattered.

I may blunder as my roots grow, but I wouldn't be the same person if I hadn't been a nomad all those years.

I wouldn't be as dedicated to service of the poor if I hadn't lived with abused and neglected girls in Bolivia, took a suicidal girl under my wing in Washington DC, heard a mother tell her son that she gave up on him in Georgia, listened as an immigrant described her unjust work conditions in the Rio Grande Valley, joked with middle schoolers who said they wanted school all day so they would feel safe in East St. Louis, and smiled with a refugee couple from Afghanistan as the wife rejoiced that there are no bombs there in upstate New York.

I wouldn't be as flexible or open-minded if I hadn't lived and worked in so many cultures, some of which I spoke the language and others I didn't. They affected me both the same.

I wouldn't have heard so many stories from people from so many different walks of life: consecrated, married, single, citizen, immigrant, young, and old - stories that show me the power of vulnerability, survival, and resilience, stories that teach me we are all wounded.

I wouldn't have gotten to see and know God in so many different ways because of my wandering - in words and silence, in others with religion and in those without, in my language and in not.

And, of course, it would take pages to write about how each of the Sisters I lived with changed me.

Being a nomad was worth it, but I've reached the point to set down my walking stick.
And God will continue to form me in different ways just as He has in the past.
His story for me continues to unravel.

The New Me...Or Not

Maybe it was rebellion, maybe it was a chance to do something simply because now I could, maybe because it was a small way to reinvent myself...but I dyed my hair.

Or at least attempted to.

I dyed it the color auburn because it was a change but not too absurdly far away from my natural color, medium brown. So, last Saturday, with the support of my co-worker and friend, I did it by myself.

Definitely NOT how I did it.
Oh my goodness, I can't even imagine.....

It was barely noticeable. In fact, almost no one at work even said a word.

So, I did it again today - this time with my friend there, doing it for me, using the whole bottle.
And, you know, it's still not that noticeable.

As I waited for it to air-dry, all I could think of was "this is so freakin' indicative of my journey so far"

Just as I checked the mirror every five minutes or so (okay, maybe even shorter than that) as my hair was drying to see if the color was brighter, I too am impatient for a "new me" since leaving the Daughters.
I didn't just leave behind a cross or a habit when I left the Daughters; I left behind an identity. I left behind a life. I left behind people that shaped who I am. I left behind a future.

I grow impatient with myself as I try to build a new life. Why do some things still hurt? Why haven't I figured it all out yet? Why hasn't my support system grown yet? Why do I feel stuck?

What friends have to tell me over and over again is that it takes time.

As I stared at my hair that still more or less looked like my natural hair color, I realized that it's true. My identity as a Daughter of Charity and Sister is so embedded in me that it's hard to so quickly cover up "with a new color", so to speak. Granted, this revelation probably happened because I found that my natural hair color is much darker than I thought. Anyway, having a post-Sister identity doesn't mean that it won't happen, just that it's not that simple. Color kits you buy in the stores only last a few months anyway.

I don't want this post-Daughter "new me" to be one that only lasts a few months. I want it to be one that lasts, one that's thought out, one that I'm happy with.

That means time. That also means graciously accepting that part of me will always be a Daughter of Charity, no matter what...just as I have to graciously accept that, no matter how many times I try to dye my hair auburn, those dark brown strands will still be there.

(And don't worry, I'm done dying my hair for now 😏)

I Can't. You Must. I'm Yours.

To me, the most powerful scene in "Romero" is not his martyrdom. It's not the assassination of his friend, Fr. Rutilio Grande. It's not even when Romero travels through the slums, those families living in the trash heaps or when he's in jail.

It's long after Fr. Rutilio Grande's death. It's when Romero feels abandoned by those who had previously supported him. It's at the height of Romero's personal change, but also the height of his fear and confusion.

Romero goes to visit the graves of Fr. Grande and the two others murdered with him. After walking away from the graves, he falls to the ground, kneeling and says:
"I can't...You Must...I'm Yours...Show Me the Way."

I've prayed this a few times in my life and most notably and recently, the day I waited for news of my sending on mission from the Seminary to San Antonio.

I thought about it again today as I listened to a group sing "Oceans" and "Holy Spirit" and tears filled my eyes.

Now that I've been a lay woman for five months (wow), there are a few things that are hitting me.

I've noticed that my support system has shrunk exponentially. While I do understand that to a point because I've left the family (so to speak), it is still painful.
I feel stuck in the present, living one day at a time. I used to know what my future held, always wearing the Vincentian cross, always surrounded by the same women, praying the same prayers and following the same traditions. Now, the future is a question mark, a scary question mark.
I know that I have to discover who I really am because my identity is no longer determined by my outfit, by the living of the vows, and by the initials after my name.

The truth is this prayer of Romero's is for me right now. This short, profound prayer.

Because I can't. I can't do this by myself. My life is not up to me anyway.

Because, You, God, must. No one else. Not only are You all-powerful and all-knowing but You love me more than I could ever imagine. (You know, considering Romero's mission and ultimate death, I used to think the "You Must" was God speaking back - "no, Romero, you HAVE to do this. You CAN do this." but, as the years past and experiences shaped me, I saw it differently. It's Romero telling God: "You, God, must. It must be You leading, not myself. It must be You I rely on.")

Because I'm Yours. I'm still Yours. I didn't abandon You when I took off the habit. I didn't abandon You when I took off that beautiful cross. I still choose to follow You wherever You lead me.

Please show me the way. I trust in You.


(As a short sidenote, I can thank my friend Nicole - who is one of the writers of Messy Jesus Business - for first introducing me to the depth of this scene. She spoke about it at our VIDES orientation ten years ago and it never left me!)

Rachel Scott: What She's Teaching Me 15 Years Later

I have a number of heroes in my life.
I have heroes that have passed on long ago, never having known me physically, but somehow reach me and walk with me through life in some way.
And I have heroes who have literally been by my side at the right moment and with their personalities, life stories, and work teach and inspire me more than they know.

Lately, in this time of transition for me, I've been thinking and praying of all my heroes.
And silently thanking them.

I've written a lot about the first type, some of those who lived in seventeenth century France, one who died just a few years before I was born.
But before St. Vincent de Paul, before Ita Ford, there was Rachel Scott.

When I was in high school, I received a copy of The Journals of Rachel Scott: A Journey of Faith at Columbine High (which, by the way, aren't really her journals but writing based on her journals). Rachel and I had lots of differences but I connected with the similarities.

We were Millennial high-school juniors, she being born in '81 and I in '85.
We were aspiring writers.
We avidly journaled our thoughts, fears, and prayers.
We struggled with the faith journey - the joy of finding Him, the grief of His silence, the confusion of not knowing His path.
We believed, against all odds, that we could somehow change the world.

With her, I felt like I had a companion on the journey. Her story pushed me to continue on as I grew deeper into figuring out life and faith and the future. It didn't matter to me whether her life ended with the "do you believe in God?" question or not. I still felt that I had a hero that taught me that people like me could change the world.

 As my life went on, Rachel and her story phased out of my mind. New heroes came in, accompanying me in new ways that I needed at the time. She didn't appear again until I saw on Facebook that a movie, I'm Not Ashamed, was being made about her life.

At first, I was just excited that a movie was being made about one of my heroes almost twenty years after her death. But now, watching I'm Not Ashamed, I realize the movie's timing, Rachel Scott's story re-entering my life, was Providential for me.

It's easy to narrow Rachel's story down to her not being ashamed of Jesus. After all, that's the thought process behind the title and I could certainly understand why. It's something to admire about her - something I admire - but I think it's just a piece of the bigger message for me (and probably a message that everyone can relate to):

Be true to who you are.
Don't pretend to be someone else just for the convenience of it.

Because it's you, the true you, that will change the world.

Or, in her own words,

"Don't let your character change color with your environment. 

Find out who you are and let it stay its true color." - Rachel Scott

It's a very appropriate message for a high school student. Peer pressure, trying to figure out who you are, discovering the depths of faith and all that.

But it's also a message for me now. Almost 20 years later after her death, 15 years after reading the book.
The truth is, when you leave a religious community, you lose an identity. You're no longer "Sister". You're just you, a face in the crowd. But if being "Sister" was an identity that you discovered never fit you anyway, there's some soul searching to do.

Who is my true self?
How do I show my faith now?
How will I change the world?

And then this question appears - is "changing the world" youthful naivety?
In a way, yes. I no longer believe that the entire world can change because of someone I did or said or wrote. I'm 31 now, not 16...
...yet I think of those heroes in my life that I mentioned earlier - the ones who have physically been at my side. They've changed my world for the better, giving me the inspiration to do the same for others. That's changing the world.

I'm still trying to figure it all out but I'm following the example of Rachel -
I'm letting myself be me, even the parts of me that may not be too popular;
I'll wrestle with the words and deeds of the faith journey;
and continue to believe that one day, I will change the world.