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."

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

Being 'the Other': Owning a Different Kind of Story

I often feel like ‘the other’ – part of a group of people that no one knows how to deal with or react to.
There’s married people, parents (who may or may not be married), widowed, divorced, singles, religious…and then there’s me.

Yes, I am single, but I don’t identify at all with the single life, or at least those that are single and around my age (32).
Why? Because singles that are in their 30s have usually spent the past decade or so dating, perhaps having at least one long-term partner along the line, exploring different careers maybe.
Me, on the other hand? Not so much. I voluntarily lived a life of celibacy. I explored different careers, yes, but not really through my own choice (not that I minded). I moved around the whole country, but again not through my own choice (again, not that I minded). My long-term partner was God.

Except for my work, the rest of my life feels stagnant. Since leaving the Sisters, I haven’t gained many other friends, though I kept those I already had. I did join an all-female Bible study group at church, which helped a little, though I tend to only see them on Sunday nights. Almost all the women (just by happenstance) are divorced, a stage of life that I can relate to the most, and, as you can guess, they are almost all older. [Truthfully, I think this tendency to form friendships with older generations stem from the average age of those I lived with when I was a Sister.]
Because I mostly only see that group on Sunday nights and because the rest of my friends have families, I lack friends to do spontaneous things with…like go to festivals or try out a new restaurant or just hang out.

So, I do many things alone. Having an introvert side, I don’t mind this too much. But doing so, I realized how much society assumes we do everything in groups.
I even had someone try to skip ahead of me in an ice cream shop once because he assumed I was waiting for a friend.  I wasn’t – just getting some pistachio gelato on a nice night. And there was one time in church that they squeezed so many in the pew that I wondered if I was going to be asked to move to a different part of the church because it was obvious I was the only one in the pew by myself.
And pretty much everywhere, I’ve rarely had anyone talk to me when I’m alone.

Oftentimes, if I share my story, many (regardless of age, religion, or vocation in life) don’t know how to react to my story of being a Sister, leaving, and then the grief of transition – that is, if I even feel vulnerable enough to share that last part. Usually I get a shocked face, a “wow, that’s interesting!”, and the conversation ends. When I was deeply sharing with someone once, I was told “I can’t relate to your story at all”, which I’ll admit made me feel sad. That comment truly did make me feel like ‘the other’ – like saying ‘you’re different than the rest of us and I just can’t understand that’.

Brené Brown once wrote

“Owning our story can be hard but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it. Embracing our vulnerabilities is risky but not nearly as dangerous as giving up on love and belonging and joy—the experiences that make us the most vulnerable. Only when we are brave enough to explore the darkness will we discover the infinite power of our light.”

The truth is all that – my vocational discernment, being a Sister for five years, leaving, and the transition to lay life – is all part of my story. I can’t erase nor would I want to, really. The key is to embrace who I am, who I was, and what happened. I can’t pretend I’m anyone else. It may seem like it makes me more acceptable but, really, it just makes me more fragmented.

Being ‘the other’ – at least for now – is part of that story. On some days, when being alone is difficult or when I hear comments that emphasize my “different-ness”, it’s easy to give up. It’s easy to believe this is the way it’ll always be. But maybe it’s realizing I’m different, maybe it’s reflecting on the murk of my story, that allows me to pick up the shards left of my brokenness.

And hopefully, one day, I’ll find people, like most of the friends I have right now, who understand my story or at least feel comfortable with its uniqueness.

If I think about it, if there’s one thing I’ve been this past year, it’s brave. I’ve stepped into the unknown by becoming a lay woman. I’ve wrestled with grief, having lost my lifestyle, my community, and even some friends. I’ve chosen to remain in a city with no family and only a handful of friends. I changed jobs in September, leaving the ministry I knew for three years. Does that mean I haven’t been fearful? Or depressed? Or lonely? Oh God, no. Ask any of my friends. They can share those times they’ve had to calm me down. Yet, I feel that bravery doesn’t exclude those emotions but it means choosing to wade through it all anyway.

Sometimes bravery is in the small things, in trudging through life when it feels like it’s not going forward, in going out of your comfort zone, in sharing your story anyway, in believing God has a bigger plan.

I may be ‘the other’ for a long time. But screw that. I don’t have to be anyone else. My story is mine. And everyone’s story is worthy of being told and listened to.

Dear Me: Grief is Survivable

Dear Me,
This is a letter to the girl I used to be.
The girl who drove away that first of October and started a new life, the girl who had no idea what she was going to do next, the girl terrified that she was leaving religious life, which had been her dream for years.

Here's the bad news: you still don't have it figured out.

At first, that ambiguity was absolutely overwhelming.

Even wearing "dress-down clothes", "play clothes", "civvies", whatever you wanted to call them, was overwhelming. What matched, what didn't? The world wasn't blue and white anymore. You remember that the first time you went out in public that very night, you changed at least ten times...and you still felt awkward. You're better at it now...I think.

It was overwhelming to have a day alone. One day, you'll go to the library, get a book, and read for hours. You kept stopping yourself because you were overwhelmed with guilt. After all, you should have been doing house duties, grocery shopping, some kind of weekend ministry, something.
(Truthfully, you haven't done that again.)

And most of the time you recognize what you're going through: it's grief.

You'll smell popcorn and it'll remind you of a Sister you created a deep friendship with, a Sister who you felt truly know you.
You'll hear something said and it'll frustrate you, reminding you of those last few years in community, the struggles, and everything you wish you would have said.
You'll talk about your time in community and the struggle of your transition and you'll see on people's faces that they just don't understand.

But here's the good news: you do more than survive.

You take one day at a time.
Soon, you find yourself taking one week at a time.
Then, one month at a time.
Then one day, you find yourself saying "did all that really happen NINE months ago?"

You'll smell popcorn, get sad, and then a few weeks later, that Sister will text you for the first time since you left.
You're still loved.

You'll hear something, get angry, and then open your email to see a friend that has written you, with superhero clipart and one sentence: "you should buy a cape".
They understand your strength, even when you don't.

You'll talk about your time in community, feel like you're the only one, and then receive a message from another ex-Sister who reads your blog and finds it therapeutic.
You're not alone.

The grief hasn't ended but you start to see the healing. It stops hurting when you hear "Sister". You stop flinching when you pass your old house. You gradually feel your identity as Sister falling away and the authentic parts of you starting to show through.

You'll find out just how much friends care. Friends that pray over you, friends that tell you (repeatedly) that you don't realize how much you've accomplished in all these months, and friends that gently tell you that it's about time to get up, brush it off, and start kicking butt again.

Wherever you are, dear Me, it may be rough right now, but keep moving. 
With each breath of healing, with each step forward, you're moving...somewhere.
But, most of all, you feel God moving. And that's the best part of all.

What Airports Can Teach You About Bearing Witness

"The White Nuns" Copyright (c) 2015 by Andrea Missianto

As I waited in the Southwest Airlines line to check my bag, I caught a glimpse of a white veil behind me. I turned around. I just had to. Of course, I said “hi” and even correctly guessed her community, a community I know pretty well here in San Antonio. I told her my name, which I hope she remembered, but I also thought “I used to be one of you”.

Sister, I used to be one of you. Like you, I used to have random strangers approach me and strike up conversations, just like I did with her this morning. People would tell me wonderful stories about Sisters they knew in their childhood that changed their lives or they'd talk to me about their struggling faith or we'd try to see if we knew the same people. Now, I've become one of those strangers.

In my last blog entry, I mentioned the Daughters being a missionary itinerant  community. They were also a community that traveled. A lot. Even if we weren't being missioned, we were traveling for retreats, for meetings, for conferences, for everything. I traveled to states I've never lived in and never visited since.

A few minutes later, as I passed through security, I thought of the Sister again. I didn't see her in the security line but her experiences are probably the same that I had for years.

Sister, I used to be one of you. I would rip off my coiffe (veil) and put it in the bin. One airport asked me to, so I always did since. Some TSA officers seemed shocked - “no, Sister, you don't have to take it off! It's religious garb!” “No, it's okay”, I told them. But, almost without fail, no matter the city, I was pulled aside after X-ray and patted down. Once because of the cross but usually because of that long skirt.

Sister, I used to be one of you. Like you, I used to be a silent witness. I know some Sisters were bothered by the extra time we spent in security but the truth is I never minded. Let TSA do what they need to do. But, more than anything, I wanted to wear my habit to the airport. I wanted people to know that young Sisters, “young nuns”, still existed. Even if they never approached me, just a glance of me would hopefully remind them of good things – of faith, of goodness in the world, of service, of love. Hopefully remind them of more than just nuns with rulers...which I unfortunately did hear about time to time.
And it was more than the veil, by the way, lest anyone think I'm starting a debate. Even Sisters without habits have a “nun” look. I can point them out from a mile away and would have done the same this morning with an un-habited Sister too.

Sister, I used to be one of you. But I'm not anymore.

Now I am a random stranger in the airport, traveling to who-knows-and-who-cares-where.

Now, I blend in.

Now, I'm now free to sit and read my book or sleep leaning against the window, two things I missed about traveling when I was a Sister.

Nonetheless, I may be able to finish my book but take off the veil, take off the title of “Sister”, take off the religious community's initials, and being a witness of faith, goodness in the world, service and love becomes a whole lot harder. Not just in the airport but in life. It's no longer obvious, no longer implied by my very lifestyle – but it's not something I'm willing to abandon. It's still something I want to remind the world.

So, Sister, in that way, I'm still just like you.

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.

Through the Tunnel

"The future belongs to God, not to us. Man does not have the imagination of God, so when we think of the future, we think of it being like the past... 

The future is like a tunnel. You can’t see anything inside, and only a fool would expect it to look the same upon exiting as upon entering it." 

- Brother Christian de Cherge

(from "The Monks of Tibhirine: Faith, Love, and Terror in Algeria")

When I left the Daughters eight and a half months ago, I had no idea what the future held. I had some resemblance of a practical plan - I had a residence, a job, and a bank account - but there was no predicting what would happen next. What I couldn't predict was the loss of some friendships, the growth of others, general awkwardness, and a spiritual and emotional transition.

It would be nice if I could have easily slid back into being the person I was five-plus years ago. After all, I was happy with a good job, good friends, and on my way to getting a Master's degree. And I had a plan for my life. I left it for the Daughters because I felt that religious life was the "missing piece" I was looking for - that culmination of my desires to serve God and serve the poor. I felt that God was calling me.

But the future is not like the past. I can't be that person from five years ago. I can't be the same exiting the tunnel as I did entering it. There was so much I had yet to learn and so much yet to experience, both good and bad.

I had yet to experience the best and worst of community life, yet to experience the deaths of a number of my friends (including a housemate) and sing "Salve Regina" at their burials, yet to meet several people that are the most Christ-like people I know, yet to know the joys and perils of intergenerational living.

I had yet to see modern-day segregation firsthand or listen to an immigrant working in inhumane conditions in a shrimp factory, yet to be kissed on the hand by an elderly Eastern European refugee, yet to deliver milk cartons to kids in housing projects, yet to hear the words "we didn't eat dinner last night; we're saving the food for the kids".

I believe there's a misconception (one that even I fall into sometimes) that because one leaves religious life, they must have misheard God's call. Perhaps it was the result of poor discernment. Perhaps because they didn't pray enough before entering. Perhaps they rushed into it. In a way, all of these misconceptions imply that their time with their community was somehow a mistake. As if they entered a tunnel that wasn't meant for them after all.
I would challenge that.

I believe God did call me to be a Daughter (and called me to leave too). I believe that those experiences and lessons from the past five years were within God's crazy imagination for my life, each piece somehow fitting in the big puzzle that is me.

And, if that's the truth, then I have to believe and trust that there's so much more wonderment to discover as I journey through this tunnel into the unknown.

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!)

"To Hearts Broken": On My Anniversary

In a chapel in St. Louis, a Sister belted out Psalm 34, the quintessential psalm for any Daughter of Charity: "The Lord hears the cry of the poor, blessed be the Lord..."

It wasn't just any day. Or any Sunday. 

It was January 20, 2013 - the day of my Incorporation, the day I officially became a Daughter of Charity. 

"I will bless the Lord at all times, with praise ever in my mouth. Let my soul glory in the Lord, who will hear the cry of the poor..."

It was the first time I wore the habit, when I signed the dotted line, when I received the Vincentian cross, when I first felt increasingly paranoid my coiffe (veil) was slipping off  my head (and it was), when I first met so many wonderful Sisters in St. Louis, when I first saw my name written as "Sister Amanda".

But now, everything's different.

Back in 2013, I thought I had everything figured out. It was the start of my new life...a new life that was laid out for me. And wow, was I so excited to start it. I had the community to fall back on when nothing else worked out. I had a community to be with, to pray with, to minister with.

I haven't regretted my decision since I left but man, anniversaries suck.

The anniversary hasn't even happened yet and it's already getting to me. I snapped at a friend today because of something it turned out they didn't even do. After three frantic apology emails, I realized what this was truly about - the anniversary.

I'm in a spot I've never been in before. 

Have I lived alone before? Yes. 

Have I had professional jobs before community? Absolutely. 

But I've never before been a 31 year old living on my own with no idea what happens next. Most 31-year-olds are already well on a career path; most are already married and/or parents; some have already graduated grad school...or more. I'm behind the curve - not just in an academic subject or a hobby, but in life.

The world is wide open to me. People tell me that that's exciting. To me, it's completely terrifying. And even sad.

"Let the lowly hear and be glad: the Lord listens to their pleas; and to hearts broken, God is near, who will hear the cry of the poor..."

I did have a plan for my life. But, to my surprise, it was the wrong one. And now it's gone.

It's time to start over. 

But God is near.

And He'll grieve with me.

And walk with me on the new path.

(sidenote: sorry to everyone that I may snap at this week)

"Ev’ry spirit crushed, God will save; will be ransom for their lives; will be safe shelter for their fears, and will hear the cry of the poor..."

My Vincentian Prayer

I still turn my head when I hear someone calling out "Sister!"

When I sit down, I still brush my hand against the back of my legs to smooth out the habit that isn't there.

One morning, when clocking in to work, I momentarily panicked, realizing I didn't put on my coiffe (veil) that morning.

I still use the first-person plural ("we", "us", "our") when referring to the Daughters.

Some of these will fade with time, I know. Some of them are laughable and some I wish would just go away already. But five years of building rituals, identity, and traditions is a long time.

It was five years ago yesterday that I officially became a postulant with the Daughters and received my postulant Miraculous Medal. Usually I'm meticulously (and annoyingly) good at remembering dates but postulancy slipped me by until Facebook reminded me. It was a stark reminder of what has changed, what is changing, and what will remain the same.

And there is one thing, however, that I pray never fades away.

I pray that I always be Vincentian.

I pray that I always see Christ in front of me, especially in the poor.

I pray that saints like Vincent, Louise, Elizabeth Ann, Catherine, Rosalie and the rest always inspire me.

        ...that, like all of them, I see God in       the events, even in the painful ones,        and it changes me all for the good.

I pray that I shake things up - both for the world and myself.
I pray that I understand the importance of friends, as Elizabeth Ann did, and the beauty of their differences.
I pray that I live a life worthy enough that God says at the end "well done, faithful daughter".

But when I'm in my office meeting with a client and wish they could see the God I see in them,
but when I feel compelled to educate about some coming legislation affecting our ministry,
but when I smile on my way home thinking yes, the pieces are coming together,
I realize that yes, I will always be Vincentian.

My letters to St. Vincent, St. Louise and the rest would be different today than they were five years ago, But that's okay. They grew...and I'm growing too.
And just as Vincent told Louise centuries ago, it's all going to be okay, I just need to trust.

Bloom Where You Are Planted

"You do not need to know precisely what is happening, or exactly where it is all going. What you need is to recognize the possibilities and challenges offered by the present moment, and to embrace them with courage, faith and hope." - Thomas Merton

When you lose traditions, you have to create new ones. 

One of my newest traditions is buying a cheap bouquet of colorful flowers when I go to the grocery store. I bring the flowers back to my apartment, cut the stems down, put them in a pink plastic cup and place them on my dining room table. 

Some days, the flowers are as simple as something to cheer me up when I get home.

Other days, the flowers remind me of life. Of blooming.

I've heard the saying "bloom where you are planted" plenty times, but I've never given it much thought. I've never really planted myself anywhere, moving from place to place even before I ever joined the Daughters, never staying anywhere more than two years. I prided myself on being a Vincentian nomad.

But now...now life is different. When I left the Daughters, I decided to stay in San Antonio, where I was already missioned. Part of it was because I love my ministry here. Yet, another reason I stayed was to actually plant myself somewhere. To my surprise, I was getting tired of the nomad life.

And now that I'm actually planted, it's time to bloom. Just my flowers in the water.

But blooming isn't instantaneous. Or easy.

Sometimes blooming feels like you're just running in place.

Sometimes blooming feels like a jump of joy.

Sometimes blooming feels like a Rubik's Cube of frustration, either with yourself or others.

Yet, either way, it's happening. I know it's happening.