do this.

Fight FOCA.

I signed the petition about an hour ago and there are two thousand additional signatures since I signed it.

I know so little about FOCA, but what I do know scares me enough to want to sign this petition over and over and over again. The fact that it was our new president-elect's primary promise to Planned Parenthood makes my heart ache a little bit, too. How can a mother's right to terminate her child in the womb trump the right of the that very child who lives and exists in her womb?

While we're on the subject - it's never a bad idea to contact your elected officials about this. Yes, in certain areas (such as the liberal bastion of Wisconsin), it might seem futile, but the principle of the practice remains. Yes, the Obama administration will not be in office for over two months, but the ball needs to get rolling on this, the sooner, the better.

Rumor has it that the president-elect called Pope Benedict yesterday to thank him for his congratulations on the victory. To be a fly on the wall during that conversation!

just think about it.

If the right of rights - the fundamental human right to exist outside of our mother's womb - is denied to someone, why do any of the other rights even matter? If a person isn't guaranteed the right of rights - to live, to exist, to breathe in the world - none of the other issues are relevant, because none of them apply to that person! Just think about it. It's been on my mind for weeks now, before the election and after, and at least in my weak mind the statement makes a bit of sense. The Bishops are meeting in Baltimore right now and have apparently discussed Catholics and political life this afternoon. Apparently abortion and FOCA were overwhelmingly the focus of the afternoon session. With that said, it's time to head to the chapel and pray. :-) Our Lady of Guadalupe, patroness of the Americas, pray for us!

papal ponderings with a new president-elect

Very recently, as in, the past few days or so, I've thought a lot about our late Holy Father, the great Giovanni Paolo Secondo, as the Italians call him. So often I'm so caught up in the happenings of the world and of life itself, that I often forget about him, a man I consider a spiritual grandfather, who, as Christ's Shepherd of Souls on earth held the youth of the Church very close to him, reminding them constantly of God's great call for their lives and of his fond affection for them. 

I wonder how he would respond to today's world. Granted, it hasn't been that long since he was with us, but I feel as though he would probably have enough to say about today's events and happenings. That's the beautiful thing about the Holy Father, regardless of who he is. When he speaks, the world listens. And not just listens. It listens attentively, with great care and respect for him and for the office he holds. His successor came to the United States just over six months ago, and people came out in droves to see him. I heard from the second-in-command for the UN police that the General Assembly was packed. I wonder what he would think about yesterday, what he would have to say to our new President-Elect with that fiery Polish spirit he had. I wonder what his response would be to the political messianism that has run so rampant in this country for the past few months. I can't help but think that part of him would point a big Polish finger in our direction and point us towards our true hope, to remind us that our hope is not in mere mortals, but in He, the Word of the Father, who came to us so humbly on a cold night. To perhaps chastise us for becoming so wound up in the things of this world. To re-orient us in the direction of Truth Himself. This isn't to say that our wonderful German Shepherd hasn't done that already. He's already provided us with his thoughts on the world in more ways than one. His arguments against relativism and for freedom in Christ are truly things the world needs to hear in these trying days. He reminded us not long ago to place our hope not in men, but in God. Il nostro papa Benedetto just seems more meek when it comes to vocalizing these things. His tremendous authority as Vicar of Christ is displayed so beautifully in his writings - he truly has a heart for the written word, and that's a great gift to the world. Part of me just feels that if President-Elect Obama and the charistmatic John Paul II who the cardinals elected in 1978 were to meet someday, my pope would win him over in a heartbeat.

Maybe this is just me trying to synthesize the past day's events. Maybe it's just me trying to think through what the next four years might be like in those areas most crucial to human dignity - the elderly, the handicapped, the poor, most specifically, the unborn of our nation. Or maybe it's just me being me, remembering our Giovanni Paolo, and trying to think of what he might say to this country after having elected Senator Obama.

"for my eyes have seen your salvation"

More than once in these past three weeks, I've flipped open to Luke 2:29-32, the profession of Simeon upon seeing His Lord presented in the temple. It's so simple and plain, but for some reason it just resounds in me. I saw that verse depicted in a "Christmas" skit last Advent - Simeon saw his Savior and proclaimed it, and there was this pretty schmaltzy music behind the monologue, but it was poignant. A lot of it probably has to do with that and my memory of the skit. Yet at the same time, it's just beautiful, regardless of the skit. 

 Luke 2:29-32.....and I especially love verse 30 (in bold): "Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace, according to your word, for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you prepared in sight of all the peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel."  

I think of Simeon, waiting for ages for the Glory of Israel to be revealed, for the Messiah to enter into their midst, wrinkled and perhaps crippled from his old age. I wonder what the expression on his face was as he saw his Lord enter into the temple - just a babe, an innocent, precious infant cradled in the arms of his purest Mother. Was he shocked? Surprised? I can imagine him gaining momentum and rushing to Mary, perhaps startling her and Joseph with his sudden burst of energy as he rejoices joyfully at the sight of his Messiah. But I can also imagine him shuffling slowly to where Mary and Joseph stood, tears welling in his eyes, as the fulfillment of his life stares at him with the eyes of a baby. Can you imagine, cradling the Lord in your hands - Someone for whom you had waited for decades, and Someone for whom your nation had waited for centuries, perhaps millennia? It astounds me. Can you imagine what faith Simeon must have had, to proclaim so boldly in the temple, "Lord, for my eyes have seen your salvation"? The statement is so bold and so strong that it leaves very little room for any doubt in Simeon's words. 

Sometimes (actually, more often than not) it simply baffles me that our Lord took on human flesh and took our human appearance. He could have come so majestically, riding in on something splendid and gilded with gold, to rouse the awareness of all the nation. But it wasn't how He had planned it. Instead, He came meekly, as a baby, entering the world in the cold of a manger. And today, He comes to us just as humbly, as we adore His Presence in tabernacles throughout the world. Sometimes, it's just baffling. 

-EAP 

Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross September 14, 2008

coming up to breathe on a 90-degree day

What a crazy ten days! It's hard to imagine the last time I updated was two Fridays ago. So much has happened since then, I don't even know where to begin. Last Monday, the 25th, was my first official day at St. Paul's. I walked to the student center that day, which sits at the pulse of the campus at the intersection between Library Mall and the beginnings of State Street, a wee bit nervous for this next adventure of life. Since that walk to campus that Monday morning, there has been a sea of frenzy amongst the staff, preparing for the upcoming year, coordinating "Welcome Week" events, and in the midst of all the busyness, we still find time to come to the chapel and kneel before Our Lord, the Reason behind all of our anticipation and preparation for these students. While my job this academic year is to be an "urban missionary" among these thousands of college students, I do not (and probably haven't ever) considered myself missionary material. I stumble for words in the midst of introductory conversations and I grasp for questions that, unfortunately, each new student has probably heard in their week of experience on campus. Before last week, the sheer thought of engaging people, even just people walking by the center on Library Mall, sent me into a quasi-panic. Much of me would rather just be the "liturgy girl" who hides in the sacristy and serves her Lord as she assists the priest in preparing for the Masses. But my Lord knows this of me, and He knows my struggle to step out of my comfort zone and engage with people. That's why He put me front and center at a Library Mall table last week, manning the booth alone, without anyone else, on Thursday morning. The hour I was alone at the table was brutally painful, but entirely humbling. And in the midst of my awkwardness and uncertainty, as I grew more accustomed to engaging with people, it was almost as if He were behind my shoulder, whispering, "See, I knew you could do it. All you had to do was tell yourself that you could do it." Don't get me wrong, I'm still awkward and it still feels like nails on a chalkboard during conversations with some of those particularly soft-spoken freshmen, but then there are moments like Thursday morning and He tells me that I can do it, despite my inadequacy and despite my fear. On my computer at my desk at the student center, I posted a huge picture of John Paul II on my desktop. Each time I close out of a program or minimize my program to my taskbar, there he is, stately and stoic. It's almost like I can hear him, my generation's spiritual father, booming to me and to the masses, "Do not be afraid!" It's that message, the message he conveyed to the youth throughout his papacy, that Christ also conveys to me in these first few days as a missionary. My order is tall and my plate has often been full this past week. I'm coordinating two retreats and the liturgies at St. Paul's and it's entirely rewarding but can also be very demanding on my "office time" at the student center. Yet each time I find myself on the brink of becoming overwhelmed, I seek His face and remind myself why I'm here. And then I remind myself that He knows what will transpire in these coming weeks and all He asks me for is my trust. It's that relationship, the trusting relationship, that He is seeking from me. So much has already happened and so much is yet to come! I'll write more when I'm not so overheated - temperatures soared into the low 90's today, an oppressive welcome to the first day of school for our students. I'm definitely ready for a glass of water, a fan, and a couch! Until next time....!

whoa! here it comes!

There is so much to say and not enough time to write it all! I'm due to move some of my stuff into my new place within the hour (depending on when I receive a series of phone calls) so this is not exactly the best time to try to talk about the last two weeks of life. There is much learning going on and much to be learned! I'll update soon...

another week of miraculous...and the last one starts tomorrow

Well, it seems that it's all winding down. Tomorrow, I will head into the last week of the summer 2008 season at Lions Camp, and no doubt my final week ever at those 440 acres of heaven, save for a volunteer opportunity here and there in my "grown up life." It's hard to imagine that I've spent four entire summers at that place, approximately 48 weeks of my life, serving children of special needs and giving them the experience of a lifetime, each summer for little pay but endless rewards in the end. And it's even harder to fathom that my career there will no doubt end on Thursday. Most of me feels ready to say goodbye a final time, yet I fear that the final drive away from camp, whether it be Thursday night or Friday morning, will no doubt be sentimental and very nostalgic. The summers I spent at camp were so formative to these critical years in my life. It was at camp that I, in 2004 an awkward 18-year-old, was able to break out of my shell and attempt to provide a unique and memorable camping experience for each child I met. Camp has done so much for me; sometimes I tell myself that camp has given me so much more than I could have ever done in return. In part because of camp, I feel I've grown in confidence, maturity, problem solving, professionalism, the list goes on. Because of the 440-acre bubble, I feel I've in some part been prepared to face the "real world" and all its challenges head-on. Of course, there have also been practical lessons - I've finally learned how to properly use a plunger (long, disgusting story), drive a tractor, and speak to complete strangers on a telephone. Yet I feel the emotional and professional lessons strongly outweigh any of those practical tools I now have because of camp. It is 440 acres of frustrating, anxiety-producing, tearjerking wonder. But it is also 440 acres of unforgettable lessons and memories that will certainly be difficult to leave. In the camp office, a place I frequent multiple times each day, there is a poster on the back of one of the doors with a quote I've tried to take to heart for the past two summers. The gist of the quote is this, re-worded a bit for simplicity's sake: "I expect to pass through this world but once; any good thing therefore that I can do, or any kindness that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now; let me not defer or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again. " - Ettiene De Grellet

john paul wisdom

Two quotes I found from JP2 as I scoured through my belongings this week, that I wanted to save somewhere virtual.....  

Now I would like to tell you of something personal. With the passing of time, the most important and beautiful thing for me remains the fact that I have been a priest for more than fifty years, because everyday I can celebrate Holy Mass! The Eucharist is the secret of my day. It gives strength and meaning to all my activities of service to the Church and to the whole world. - General Audience, October 8, 1997  

Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament is ... an important daily practice and becomes an inexhaustible source of holiness ... It is please to spend time with (Christ), to lie close to his breast like the Beloved Disciple and to feel the infinite love present in his heart.
- The Church and the Eucharist

He's been gone for nearly three and a half years, and yet he's still teaching me. And I figure I still have plenty more to learn from him.

oliver

I just finished reading Marley & Me, a biographical account of the author, John Grogan's, thirteen-year relationship with his dog, for the second time. I read it the first time, fittingly, a month after we put our beloved family dog, Oliver, to sleep after fifteen wonderful years of life at our sides. As I read, laughing more and more with each page turn, I knew certainly that the wonderful tale would eventually end with Marley's demise. I was in Boston as I finished the book, visiting the city with a friend, and we stayed with her extended family for about five days. The night I finished, we had gone to Harvard Square for dinner and returned to relax the rest of the night away. I had to excuse myself from the group, explaining, "I have to find out what will happen to Marley." And so I read the final few chapters, tears welling in my eyes as I recalled my family's heartache a month earlier, eerily similar to Grogan's goodbye with Marley. My red-rimmed eyes gave away my emotional state, as I returned to my friend and her family, saying simply, "Marley died." Grogan's heartfelt account of the death of his family dog had moved me, somewhat surprisingly, to tears. I can completely level with John Grogan. Throughout the book he described Marley as a thundering lug of a canine, the "world's worst dog," with more transgressions than achievements in his thirteen years of life. 

I often thought this way of Oliver, the small little pooch who licked himself silly, his spitty little noises driving me bonkers enough to leave the room frequently. Oliver, who never wore a collar and instead, in his puppy years, used it as a chew toy. Oliver, who shuddered at the sound of our play tambourine and daily perched atop his "Oliver chair" to stare at the birds out the living room window. Oliver, who for most of his life I couldn't stand for more reasons than one. But once he was gone, for good, I missed him terribly. I still miss him, oddly enough. There are times I'll be in our house, and something still won't feel just right. The house won't feel right without an annoying eighteen-pound Lhasa Apso trying to find his way onto the couch. A part of me will still listen for his little nails clicking on the wooden kitchen floor. More than two years after we said goodbye, part of me still can't believe he's gone. 

John Grogan had his Marley; we had our Oliver. Funny how a four-legged beast can be the common denominator between so many strangers on this planet. And if only all things in the world were so simple as the friendship between man and dog.

this difficult little slice of heaven

Before my whirlwind year as a campus missionary begins in full in a little less than a month, I will complete my fourth (and no doubt final) summer on staff at the Wisconsin Lions Camp. In years' past I have described those 440 acres of property as a slice of heaven, a place where the outside world stands still and all that matters is that the dozens of children at camp that week have an awesome time. When I'm at camp, immersed in my work there, it doesn't matter who's running for president or what stock market is plummeting that week. What matters while I'm at camp is combatting this camper's homesickness, or spending time with that group of campers who are playing in the swimming area. None of the rest of the world matters, and to me, that oblivion is treasured. This year, it's been hard. I don't know what it is about this year, but it's been a difficult slice of heaven to savor at times. There have been a fair share of my own personal struggles this year while at summer camp - perhaps it's the anxiety for what awaits me in the fall, perhaps it's other, outside factors, perhaps it has a lot to do with the separation from my family in what has been several trying months. Whatever it is, this summer has been a challenge, and this summer I've learned that it's those little moments - peeking in on a cabin, only to be invited to hear a bedtime story, teaching a younger camper a favorite song at the dance, or helping a child without sight experience the camp world to the extent he can - that make this experience entirely worth it. Sure, it's been a struggle. Sure, there have been times I've failed miserably or had my confidence entirely shaken. There's been hurt, there have been tears. But if I can provide just a moment of happiness for one child, in one week - my mission has been accomplished this summer. If I can rise above my challenges with this difficult slice of heaven and bring a memorable experience to even just one camper, my job will have been entirely worth it. And it's those little confirmations of campers' happiness - the smiles, the "I-don't-want-to-leave-camp" Friday conversations, the "thanks-for-everything" goodbyes, that remind me why I've returned to this difficult little slice of heaven for four summers. In my own selfish sense, I feel my small contributions to these children contribute in part to God's work on earth. The time, the effort, the energy I expound on these kids, however grudgingly some days, is, in a sense, doing the work of God on earth. I've been His hands, His feet, His voice, His ears, His eyes, to hundreds of children for four amazing summers. And this belief, which I often have to remind myself to keep at my core when things get really tough - is another reason I return to this slice of heaven. It is my prayer this week, as I retreat from camp for seven days to focus on moving to Madison and beginning my missionary work this fall, that I will stay true to these innermost beliefs of the past four summers and close out my work at camp as best I can as His feet, His eyes, His ears, His voice. "Christ has no body but yours, No hands, no feet on earth but yours, Yours are the eyes with which he looks Compassion on this world, Yours are the feet with which he walks to do good, Yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world. Yours are the hands, yours are the feet, Yours are the eyes, you are his body. Christ has no body now but yours, No hands, no feet on earth but yours, Yours are the eyes with which he looks compassion on this world. Christ has no body now on earth but yours." - St. Teresa of Avila

Praise to thee, our alma mater....

Three years and nine months ago, I embarked on my collegiate journey, which started with awkward conversation, memorable late nights, and the promise of four academic years in which I could study what I wanted in preparation for eventual further studies. Today, that journey - complete with all the uncertainty, all the anxiety, and all the triumph - culminated in the one hundred and fifty fifth Commencement Exercises at the University of Wisconsin, in which I participated. Everything seemed so surreal leading up to today - taking the last exam of my undergraduate career, picking up my cap and gown, celebrating my imminent graduation with family and friends at a small gathering outside of town yesterday afternoon. The most surreal part of all of this was the walk to the Kohl Center today with my roommates - three of us clad in caps and gowns, ready to partake in the upcoming ceremonies. There were times walking the bike path to the arena where I took a deep breath and thought to myself, "This is all actually happening. I'm walking to my collegiate graduation - is it even possible?" And then, a mere two hours later............it happened. I took to the stage and shook the Chancellor's hand and just like that, it was over. As the graduates piled out of the Kohl Center to meet their families, Professor Mike Leckrone led the UW Band in playing "The Bud Song," better known as the catchy tune from the Fifth Quarter that ends with the famous line, "When you say Wisconsin, you've said it all!" As the band played and the graduates left and the arena cleared out slowly, I stood to the side of the exit, taking in that last hurrah as an undergraduate, listening to that famous anthem that I've heard time and time again in my nearly four years as a student here. And that's when the nostalgia kicked in and I realized how much I will truly miss the four years I spent here as a student. "When you say Wisconsin, you've said it all...."

Two UW-Madison alumni - Grandpa (Pharmacy Class of '56) and me (Letters and Science Class of '08)

What exactly is the "and then what?"

Hello all, and welcome to my feeble attempt at a blog. 

It is my hope to keep updating this blog somewhat regularly, so anyone who might read it (friends, family, random people from the blogosphere) can get the frank, candid update about what's going on in my life. So often I'm asked that fateful questions: "What are you doing? What do you plan to do? What's on your plate for the next year?" Well, it's with this blog that I hope, however indirectly, to answer some of those questions. 

I thought I'd start off the blog by actually explaining its title, "Beginning the 'and then what?'" The phrase "and then what?" comes from one of my high school teachers from my last semester of senior year, Mr. McCaffrey. He repeatedly shared with us a story of taking his wife to a restaurant in my hometown, where he proceeded to strike up a conversation with the waitress. Eventually, she informed him that she was a dance major at the local state university, to which he (rather dryly) replied, "Oh, that's nice - and then what?" - meaning, great, you're a dance major....but after college, what do you plan on doing with that? It probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense; you probably would need to have met Mr. McCaffrey to have the total effect of the story. But it was hilarious when I first heard it five long spring semesters ago, during my last hurrah in high school. 

I'm calling this blog "Beginning the 'and then what?'" because that's exactly what I'm doing. For eight wonderful semesters (and five weeks abroad one summer) I have studied two subjects very dear to me - political science and Italian. But then the question comes - what exactly am I going to do with that? That's what I'm out to discover - it's a little scary, but it's also really exciting at the same time. I wish I could write more, but in order to start the "and then what?" of my life, I have to finish off two papers for an Italian literature class that are due to be consegnati (handed in) tomorrow.  

A presto, tutti....a presto! (Until later, all!)

UPDATE: In February of 2011 I changed the title of this blog to, quite simply, "The 'and then what?'"  It had been almost three years since the inception of the blog, and I felt as though the "beginning" stage (interning, getting married, beginning my vocation) had concluded and now, I'm squarely in the 'and then what?' - that fateful ether of life where, quite frankly, I am attempting to figure out just how God might be calling me to serve Him in this world.  Sorry for the confusion (if any)!  

And for those souls of the blogosphere that are stopping in, whether for your first, second, tenth, or perhaps last, time - welcome.  It is good to have you here.