Simon Peter has always been my favorite disciple. Why? Because the man is absolutely clueless.
He tries to walk on water when Jesus calls him. Simon Peter doubts and sinks.
He hears that Jesus is to suffer, die and resurrect. Simon Peter says "no way, Jesus!" and Jesus calls him Satan (ouch).
He wants to build a tent for Jesus, Moses, and Elijah . Jesus doesn't want a tent.
He gets angry when Jesus gets arrested. Jesus tells him to put his sword away.
He tells Jesus he would never deny him. Simon Peter denies him three times.

I love Simon Peter because Simon Peter is every one of us. We're all clueless. All too often though, when we read the Gospels, we laugh at Simon Peter and we're disgusted by his foolishness instead of recognizing that Simon Peter embodies who we are.

After Jesus appeared to his disciples and Simon Peter's world changed (again), Simon Peter went fishing (John 21). I truly think it was his way of processing things. His life changed when he followed Jesus. His life changed again when Jesus died.

As for me, when I left the Daughters, writing was my way of processing that my world changed completely. I've rarely cried. But that Friday morning when I put on Nichole Nordeman's new album Every Mile Mattered, you bet I cried.

Nichole Nordeman has all been one of my favorite CCM artists, although hearing her on radio stations like KLOVE is rare. I've always felt that Nichole sings of the true story of faith - struggle, doubt, vulnerability, and love. Although we know it to be false, we'd much rather imagine Christianity as a magical recipe for happiness and eventual perfection here on earth.

"Hush, Hush", a song from the perspective of God, was the first song I played on random. I think it was at the lyric "But I'll put you back together / Hush, hush / You don't have to have the answers" when I absolutely lost it.

The songs about shipwrecks, listening to your life, burning safety nets, meeting God in the seeking but not always finding, only kept the tears flowing. My life was being sung, but so was God's assurance that He was still there.

Simon Peter would get it. 

He knew all about letting go of safety and wanting to feel his heart on fire, like in the song "No Longer", when he dropped those fishing nets and followed Jesus.

He easily could have written a "Dear Me", a song about how Nichole's thoughts on faith, worthiness, and even poverty changed throughout the years. After Jesus' resurrection, Simon Peter had a dream about eating unclean meat, a clear message about welcoming Gentiles into the Christian community. (I wrote a "Dear Me" too, although mine was about grief)

Was he haunted by those screwups I mentioned in the beginning of this entry, those shoulda beens, coulda beens that we hear in the song "Every Mile Mattered" or  "Lean" (Why are my memories of / You as the judge, me as the mess / ....Why is it hard to believe / You just want me just as I am)?

Nichole inadvertently sings out the story of Simon Peter, which is our story: that we're all trying not to sink when Jesus calls us across the water, that we struggle with understanding God's plan, that we long to do what's right but sometimes come up wrong, and that God loves and is with us, even when we mess up.

Instead of escaping our resemblance to foolish Simon Peter, instead of denying it, how about we embrace it, soak in the message of Every Mile Mattered, and remember that this clueless guy was the one Jesus chose to be the Rock of His church?



(All lyrics are property and copyright of Nichole Nordeman)

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 Wicked Witch of the West And Me

This blog has been named after Maria from The Sound of Music, but lately I've declared an affinity and sympathy for Elphaba in Wicked - that is, the Wicked Witch of the West.
In case you've never seen or even heard of the musical, it's about "the true story of the witches of Oz" based on the book "Wicked" by Gregory Maguire.

Photo from The Western Sky

To most, my departure from the Daughters was sudden and surprising. For me though, it was a discernment that dragged on for months, maybe even years. 

It would have been easier for me to stay with the Daughters. Not easier emotionally or even spiritually, but easier in terms of my life. (If you thumb through my journal during that time, you'd find that was a big factor I considered.) I would be staying with the "status quo". You entered the Sisters; therefore, you stay. People know you as "Sister Amanda" and slowly it becomes who you are.

The same was true with Elphaba. She was a normal citizen of Oz (you know, except for the green skin) until....

Well, I won't give away too much. But in the song, "Defying Gravity", Elphaba finally voices that pivotal moment. It's the moment where she realizes she can no longer blindly follow the Wizard, the moment where she knows that she's meant for something different, the moment where she lets go and gives it all up - the hope for a successful future but also the hope of acceptance into a community that she had started to think that maybe she would belong.
There's fierce empowerment in that song but there's also a renouncement of any normalcy she may have had.

There are numerous lines in the song that resonate with me and my journey. One of which is "something has changed within me, something is not the same...it's time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap!" There was a moment when I personally reached a point when I knew I had to leave and, at that point, there was no turning back. It was absolutely terrifying, but, like Elphaba, I changed, everything changed.
And I leapt.

The leaping now is a blur. So much happened in such a short amount of time. Phone calls, revealing my decision to the local community, visits to apartment buildings, meetings with my work supervisors, and then a massive email to all the Sisters. And then, before I knew it, I was out. Everything truly changed.

As for Wicked, the story we all know comes to pass. Elphaba becomes jaded by betrayals of her friends and community. It's up to you to figure out whether it's rightfully so or not. And well...

The leaping, that "flying into the Western sky", wasn't easy for me, either. There were betrayals, misunderstandings, and even ostracizing. Part of me wants to believe it's all because my departure was such a shock or because I left most without a proper goodbye (not because I didn't want to, but because I was so far away).

Elphaba, I get you, girl.

But there were also numinous moments - co-workers giving me a laundry basket full of apartment essentials, friendships here in San Antonio deepening, the joys of re-connecting with others months after not being in touch, and countless others.

I listen to the Wicked soundtrack, sympathize with Elphaba, and grieve that she wasn't able to experience those moments I did. In bad times, those moments that could easily turn me "wicked" (and sometimes do momentarily), I try to remember those times and I know it's all going to be okay...because neither life nor people are truly wicked.

      

I Saw What I Saw: Why I Serve the Poor

Sara Groves is able to say what my soul cannot. I recently re-discovered her throughout this year, the year that led to becoming a prepostulant with the Daughters. So many of her songs epitomize my spiritual and discernment journey. The song "I Saw What I Saw" is no exception. It expresses my feelings about seeing poverty firsthand, from experience in Appalachia to the Hispanic community in Baltimore City, but especially in Bolivia. She sings:

I saw what I saw and can't forget it
I heard what I heard and can't go back
I know what I know and can't deny it
Something on the road cut me to the soul

Many people can come back from a mission trip and think "wow, that was wonderful" and continue their everyday life without a second thought. Which is fine in a way, but I knew as early as high school that I couldn't do that. From that first mission trip to a coal mine town in western Virginia, there was something about serving the poor that cut me to the core. Something told me that this wasn't a temporary thing, that it couldn't be, my soul wouldn't allow it any other way. All I know is that I was compelled...not out of some obligation to "help" as if I were the better one, but out of love. That compulsion took me from the hills of Appalachia to the Hispanic community in Baltimore to dusty rural Bolivia and now to the heart of Georgia.

It was God compelling me - not a "something" - and way back when, as a 16 year old, I wasn't able to explain it. The motto of the Daughters of Charity is, and has been since the 1600s, "The Charity of Jesus Crucified Urges Us!" And perhaps that's just it. I know now that it is a compulsion of vocation, that it is a compulsion to imitate Him in His love for the poor, that it is less of a obligation against my will and more of a drive towards my own true happiness.  

I couldn't imagine the path that would take me on. Throughout the years, despite the rough days, I grew to love them and see the face of Christ more and more in them...in families in coal mine towns, in kids stuck between two nationalities, in girls who had been abused and neglected in every way imaginable, and lately I've seen it in my students, whose parents pay the bare minimum of tuition because it's all they can afford, in their problems, in their curiosity, in their enthusiasm and in the Hispanic community here, in their love for one another and their hope.

One of the last verses of "I Saw What I Saw" is:

I say what I say with no hesitation
I have what I have but I'm giving it up
I do what I do with deep conviction

Nine years ago, I had no idea that serving the poor for life meant giving up so much...but it also led me to the utter joy of saying what I say with no hesitation and doing what I do with deep conviction and giving it all up with pleasure, not thinking of the costs.

Serving the poor does not mean "helping". For me, it simply means loving my brothers and sisters and my Christ, and doing what I can to show them my love. "Helping" seems to have the air that I am their superior, when if anything, they are mine.

After all, how could we claim to be "helping" Christ, the son of our God? We are His servants. And likewise, we are servants to His face in the world.

La Niña de Tus Ojos, The Apple of Your Eye

Prepostulancy has officially begun!  Nerves have subsided for the most part. For those discerning religious life, the nerves I talked about in this previous post do go away! Thank God...because they give you so much stress! That being said, in all honesty, I'm still nervous...but about teaching, not being a prepostulant. I'm sure when the kids come in next week (yes, they start school next week), things will get back to normal.

Anyway, I've only been here a few days and every now and then it hits me, usually when I'm turning my key to open the Sisters' house: "oh my gosh, I actually live here". It just feels unreal. I know that I've said this a million times now, but I still can't believe I'm here. A year ago, I would barely have imagined living as a prepostulant in Georgia with the Daughters of Charity. The Sisters here are wonderful, the community is wonderful, their ministries and spirituality are wonderful - it's exactly what I was looking for and more. God is so good.


When I think of His goodness, I am reminded of a memory that every morning at the hogar (orphanage) where I worked in Bolivia, we would blast music through the speakers to wake up the girls. Sometimes it would be the soundtrack of High School Musical, sometimes Hannah Montana (luckily, I left before it became Justin Beiber), and sometimes a mixed CD of Jesus Adrian Romero, a Mexican Christian singer, and Daniel Calveti, a Venezuelan Christian singer.

When I got nostalgic, I would listen to their music again - to pretend I was back in the hogar or in our rural church at Mass. But now that years have past, I listen to them to connect with my own current spiritual life...combining my present spirituality with my missionary one. One of my favorite songs is "La Niña de Tus Ojos" by Daniel Calveti and illustrates perfectly the merging of my Bolivian past with the current spiritual status I find myself in now.

"Niña de tus ojos", literally translated as "the girl of your eyes", is actually an expression in Spanish. The English equivalent is "the apple of your eye" (which may make even less sense linguistically than 'the girl of your eyes'!) Anyway, the song speaks of God's love for each one of us, how each one of us are the apple of His eye.

The chorus says (see how much more beautiful it is in Spanish?):

Y me diste nombre (and you gave me a name)
yo soy tu niña (I am the apple)
la niña de tus ojos (the apple of your eye)
porque me amaste a mi (because you loved me)

and then, my favorite part of the song....

te amo más que a mi vida (I love you more than my life)
te amo más que a mi vida (I love you more than my life)
te amo más que a mi vida (I love you more than my life)

Don't forget you are the niña of God's ojos....or the apple of His eye. He loves you even more than you could ever imagine.And what He has planned out for you is even more wonderful than you could ever imagine. I know because I am constantly amazed by Him and His love...

I Just Might Be Dealing with the Face of Christ...

If there ever was a song that summed up St. Vincent de Paul's spirituality and the charism of the Daughters of Charity, it would be this one ("The Face of Christ" by Chris Rice):

Sr. Denise used this song after a reflection at our young adult meeting, in which we visited a house of the Daughters of Charity. The whole reflection, led by another Sister, was on Matthew 25: 31-36, which was essentially the basis for St. Vincent de Paul and consequently St. Louise de Marillac, the founders of the Daughters of Charity, the first successful religious community to live outside the cloister. This is the whole Vincentian charism - to see and serve Christ in the poor.

The Constitutions, almost 400 years later, continue to echo this sentiment - the poor are our masters because their face is the face of Christ's - not just as an afterthought, but rather as the theme and foundation of the whole community and the reason for their unique fourth vow: complete service to the poor.

"The King will reply: 'Truly, I tell you, whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.'" - Matthew 25:40