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.

A Public Apology

If you're a Sister I ever lived or worked with or got close to, a former co-worker in a state far away, maybe a Sister or priest from another community who knew me through mutual friends or by sitting in the same pew at church, this blog entry is for you.
If you're not any of those people, well, feel free to read anyway and please learn from me.

Someone recently asked me "If you could go back in time to right before you left and tell yourself one thing, what would it be?"

I had never thought about that question before, really. But, to my surprise, the answer easily slipped off my tongue - "I would tell myself to share with more people that I was struggling, to share with more people that I was leaving."

I had been with the community for five years, both in initial formation and as a Sister. I had thought about leaving various times during those years but shared that struggle with less than a handful of people. The truth was, although I had seen some Sisters come and go in the community, I felt ashamed for even thinking about leaving. So, I kept it a secret.

When I finally decided to leave, I was at peace with my decision, but telling all those Sisters I had grown close to - I had lived in five different houses, lived or worked with over 30 different Sisters, and had grown to love even more - was daunting.

...so, I didn't.
Besides my local community and the Council, I called maybe two or three and talked face-to-face with about that same number.

And then I just stopped...even though so many more people were on the list.
Maybe you never received that call. Maybe you never got that face-to-face conversation. But your name was probably on my list.
The list I abandoned because I let fear win.

It wasn't that the Sisters I told reacted with anger or distress. In fact, almost all of them reacted with love and compassion, despite the sadness they felt. It was that, even though I knew I was making the right decision and I felt peace in that, I was ashamed that I was letting you and all those Sisters - my family - down.

So, instead of trusting in God, instead of trusting in you, Sister that I loved and loved me, I gave into shame.

You, Sister I loved, found out I was leaving not through me, but through a letter sent out the day I left. Because I now live in my small corner of San Antonio, because I no longer work with and next door to the Sisters, because my visits home are often quick, I probably haven't seen you since.

I had to grieve when I left the Daughters. But the biggest difference is that I knew the grief was coming. I knew this decision was made; I knew I was moving out on October 1st, 2016 and had started to make preparations beforehand.
Unless you were one of the lucky ones that got that phone call before I gave up on my list, it hit you like an unexpected death on October 1st, 2016.

Maybe you gasped when you saw the letter but were able to shrug it off in a few days, thinking "Well, that's how it goes. That's discernment for you."
Maybe you looked in shock, a million scenarios running through your head, wondering what happened.
Maybe you aren't a Daughter of Charity at all and found out through my Facebook update.

Maybe you wrote or called right after I left and I didn't answer. That time, it was grief I let win. In the beginning, if I received emails or letters from Daughters or others, I left them unopened because I just couldn't bear to see what was inside, much less your name. I thought I didn't have the strength.
Maybe you didn't write, you didn't call because you didn't know what to say.
Maybe now, a year and a half later, you still don't know what you would say.

And maybe I left you with a broken heart.

I'm not so egotistical that I believe you must be crying over me still, thinking about me every minute. Maybe you don't even think about me anymore. Life has moved on. So much has happened since that October day - maybe you've moved, maybe you've changed ministries, maybe you've had some big life events that I've missed.

Nevertheless, I do know I hurt people. I hurt people I love, probably including you.

And for that, I'm sorry. Words cannot express how sorry I am for the pain I've caused. It's heartbreaking for me to know that I've hurt you, but I know it was even more hurtful for you to read that letter or that Facebook status and to feel tossed aside and unimportant when you thought you were such an important part of my life (and no, you didn't imagine that, you were an important part).

I don't regret leaving the Sisters, but I do regret hurting you. More than anything in the world, I regret hurting you.

Despite not seeing or hearing from you for so long, you still are such an important part of my life. The memories we've created together, the conversations we've had, have shaped who I am, even as a laywoman. They have shaped my faith; they have shaped my work with the poor, and they will shape my future.

I wish I could find every single one of you, people that I loved - Sisters or otherwise - and apologize to you face-to-face but you're spread out all over the country. So, until I get the chance, this will have to do. It's only a beginning, but I hope it means something.

Love,
Amanda

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."

Can I Royally Screw Up God's Plan?

I was playing a magazine scavenger hunt with my after-schoolers when my cell phone began to ring. I was using it as a timer for the competition, so the cell phone was right there in my hand.
And it was  LOUD.

I muted the phone quickly and looked down – it was the organization that just a few days earlier had offered me a job (and I eagerly accepted). Why were they calling? Did something go wrong? There was no way I could answer – not with four loud elementary schoolers alone in a classroom – so I cringed as I watched the organization leave a voicemail.

My voice of anxiety went in a million different directions:

- did I eat or drink something that made my drug test come up as a false positive?

- was there some mistake in my background check?

- were they rescinding the offer because they found someone better?

Once the kids left and in the small window of time I had before my adult education class came in, I called the organization's office. The woman who called was already gone and her voicemail stated that she wouldn't be free until the afternoon tomorrow. My heart sank as I thought of all the waiting.

The next morning, as I drove to work, I kept thinking about the phone call the day before (because, of course, I am who I am. Anxiety is probably one of my most annoying attributes). I was excited about this job. The job was with a very reputable non-profit that does great work and the position would be interesting and challenging. And to think that all that excitement might be gone in the blink of an eye...

As I agonized over it, I started thinking about God's plan. If God's plan for me was to work for this organization, He would make it happen, right? But yet, I seem to subconsciously believe I have the power to royally screw it up somehow.

God is writing a story in me. I like to imagine He's at a typewriter in a study surrounded by leather books, maybe with a comfortable red chair. I imagine some kind of wonderful mix of Belle's library in Beauty and the Beast, the Hogwarts library, and Sherlock's office.

Maybe those leather books are other people's stories that He pulls out so our stories can intertwine. Maybe the books are there just because He knows I love the smell of books and the sound of a typewriter.

Why is it I think that I can rush into the study like a little child who doesn’t know any better and scribble with crayon over all those future chapters God has already written, causing Him to be frazzled and re-write those chapters, never as good as the first time? (Interestingly enough, that’s exactly what I had to do with this blog post because Blogger lost it the first time. God has a sense of humor.)

But faith tells me that the truth is, even if I do scribble over those pages, God has some magical crayon eraser. And the chapters are fine with no need for a re-write or even editing. (Because, as you know, God has perfect spelling and grammar.)

And it may turn out that the chapters don't go the way I predict anyway, for the best or worst. After all, that's what makes a good story, right? Who would have predicted that Harry Potter was being protected and cared for all that time by...oh wait, maybe some people haven't read the books/seen the movies? All right, I won't give it away, but you get the point.

It may turn out that there was a "yes" to one of those anxious questions I asked myself when I received that call. But that doesn't mean I went over God's head and screwed up some marvelous future for myself. It means I dust off my feet, find out and fix what went wrong for next time (if necessary), and move on. Because God has something else in store. 

So, I waited to make that phone call. And repeated to myself that the God has already typed out those pages, whatever they are, and there was nothing I could do personally to screw it up.Instead of scribbling or even worrying about my scribbles, maybe I should just lean back in the red chair, listen to the keystrokes, and enjoy the book smell.

Yup, that sounds good to me.

(Update: As I tried to relax in that red chair some two weeks ago, my phone rang again...before 12pm even. Everything was fine. They were officially offering me the job. I start on Monday. 
Hearing about the job - and even getting it - is another example of God writing my story. If you were part of that story, regardless of your role, I hope you know how grateful I am.)

Dear Ita....

(If you don't know who Ita Ford is, I suggest reading this first - "Not Left Forgotten: Guided by the Spirit of Ita Ford")

Dear Ita,
As I sit here reading your letters, I feel compelled to write you. I write to you as a friend because, although we've never met, I've known you for years. I've read and re-read your letters and writings since I was in college. Your words have been with me in my studies, in the mission field, and in religious formation.

After leaving religious life a year ago, I wondered if your words would still resonate with me. They had meant so much to me all those years. So, tentatively, I started re-reading, wondering if it would result in the loss of a spiritual guide and heroine (I know, you'd be nauseated by those titles)

But years ago, you wrote to your niece, praying that she would find what gives life a deep meaning for her - "something worth living for, maybe even worth dying for...something that energizes you, enthuses you, enables you to keep moving ahead" (read the whole letter here) And I breathed a sigh of relief. You got it, you understood journeys, no matter what they were.

That's where I am right now - on the path for that which gives me my life deep meaning.
I thought I had found it with religious life, but no, it wasn't what God intended.
I'm not sure what my vocation is, what these next years will hold, but I'm okay with going with God's flow...for now, anyway...I think.

Despite the question marks, since I left the Sisters, to echo your own words:

"What seems to be slowly happening is an acceptance of the truth of who I am: coming to know it, see it in relation to the whole - and accepting the knowledge of who I am and where I am...coming to be comfortable with who I am, how I have been gifted for others." (retreat notes, Aug 1978-1979, p124)

Even though I'm unsure where my life is leading me and I've lost that title of "Sister", I do believe we still have a lot in common. It's incredibly obvious that you loved writing, as I do. You were witty and, truthfully, a bit nerdy. You were faithful, yet full of questions. You struggled with comprehending God's love for you in your imperfections, just as I do.

Neither of us had a journey we expected. You joined the Maryknoll Sisters and left right before vows, joined again seven years later, lost your best friend in a car accident that almost killed you too, and then died just a few months after moving to El Salvador. I, well, I have been all over the place, in and out of community.

Is all this what's meant in Jeremiah 18:5-6, one of your favorites:

"Then the word of the Lord came to me: Can I not do with you, O house of Israel, just as this potter has done? says the Lord. Just like the clay in the potter’s hand, so are you in my hand, O house of Israel"? 

In a 1977 article, you mention living in the mission field of Chile as "on the front lines of Christianity" (quoting a letter you had received using that phrase). Things are a bit different here. I called living my faith in Bolivia 'barefoot Christianity' because it was Christianity at its core, stripped to simplicity.
So, how is it that I live out my faith here in San Antonio, beyond church, beyond prayer? I work for persons who are poor and, like you, like all of us, I have no answers for them. I can only walk with them and let myself be evangelized. But the noise of God's work in others and myself isn't quite as loud as it was back then or maybe there's a lot of static my ears are foolishly focusing on instead. But I know He's here and very much alive in these people.

All this is to ask for your prayers, Ita (and readers).
Your friend is a jar of clay but she's not broken yet. God still has me in His hand.

Peace,
Amanda

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 😏)

Why Emilio Estevez was Right about Journeys

Do you have a book or movie that you can go back to again and again and always find something new? For me, it's the movie The Way with Martin Sheen (directed by his son Emilio Estevez).

I recently watched it again and, for the first time, I saw myself in Sarah.
Sarah, the sarcastic angry Canadian.
(And it came from more than the fact I call a friend of a certain generation "Boomer" like she does with Tom.)

Sarah carries a heavy past, a sad story, with her as she walks the Camino. I won't share it because it's up to you to see the movie. I will share that Sarah tells no one and instead masks her journey as a quest to "quit smoking". Tom, our main character, and a very hostile Sarah meet for the first time at a hostel on the Camino and Tom says:
"You sound really angry."
"Yeah. Sure. I'm angry. I gotta quit these and I'm really, really angry about that."

So, how did I see myself in Sarah? Am I really that angry? Am I really that secretive?

The answer is yes, yes, I am.

It's been six months and I'm still very angry about things that didn't happen but should have and things that did happen but shouldn't have.
It's been six months and I find myself questioning basic things about others - trustworthiness, goodness, etc.
It's been six months and most who have met me for the first time since October have no idea I used to be a Sister nor do I really want to tell them.

The truth is I'm not okay. Not completely anyway.
I'm in the process of healing and of grieving. And according to others that I've shared this journey with, it takes awhile. I personally wish it would hurry the hell up.

When does the healing journey end? I know there's an end. There has to be.
Strangely enough, out of everything, I'm not angry with God. I plead with Him and even complain to Him but I'm not angry with God.

Muxia, Spain - the final stop in the Camino for the characters in "The Way"

At one point in the movie, when Tom was walking way ahead of the group, Sarah stopped and said "why does it piss me off so much that I haven't seen him stop to take a break? Why does something that should be inspirational make me so angry? Totally irrational.
The same could be said for this entire journey."

Sarah's right. Emilio Estevez is right. The journey is irrational. But I have to remind myself that "irrational" doesn't have to mean "bad".
God doesn't seem to speak in logic anyway. All is mystery.