My Summer With KIDS So Far

Where did the summer go?

As I write this, I'm sitting in the third floor lobby of the Tommy Thompson Youth Center at the Wisconsin State Fair Park on the eve of a much needed two day mini-vacation, reflecting on a busy month of June. I'm back for a second summer as the tour and stage band director for KIDS from Wisconsin - an experience about which I last wrote in July of 2014 here. Much has changed in my life over the course of twelve months since I last wrote about KIDS, and in many ways it feels odd to acknowledge - in spite of the hectic pace, crazy schedule, fourteen (or more) hour work days, and being constantly surrounded by thirty-three high energy children and young adults - that this experience is a remarkable anchor in my life.

It's different being back for a second summer with KIDS. Last year was great and I really enjoyed working with the troupe, but this year I feel much more comfortable and available to give myself over to the experience. My work with KIDS last summer prompted me to reflect on my own experience as a troupe member in 1998, in the midst of a complete reevaluation of my life away from the organization after a divorce, change in my career, and uncertainty about my own future ambitions and goals. This summer, after making many changes to my life and deciding to relocate to Eau Claire in the Fall to continue my work as an educator, I am more present and grounded, which allows me the opportunity to find moments of remarkable beauty and grace within the somewhat chaotic existence of a summer on the road.

Remarkably, while it is certainly important, it is not the musical or performance element that I have found deeply rewarding this summer. Rather it is the sense of connection that I feel with the group as a whole and my sense of how well they are connecting with each other. It's an amazing thing to step back and watch these young people interact with one another - friendships, relationships, laughter, tears, joy, struggle - every human emotion lived intensely and within close proximity. The deep bond that will form between the kids due to their shared experience, even if they don't realize it now, is something that they will remember throughout their lives whether they stay connected as individuals beyond this summer or not.

From my standpoint, I am grateful to be here to provide the experience for these kids. It is humbling yet deeply satisfying to spend a summer putting the needs of these beautiful people before my own. It can be lonely and frustrating at times - perhaps this is what it feels like to be a parent - but I know that my actions are part of something greater than me. It is exhausting staying up all night to be available in halls after room check, schlepping food and water around at each venue, reminding them to take care of themselves, tying their ties before a show, or even taking care of their medical needs, all while being entrusted to maintain the artistic and musical integrity of a two hour show for two months on the road. There are moments when I laugh with them, celebrate a great performance, or joke around before a show, but there are also moments when I have to be the chaperone, the nagging voice reminding them to eat breakfast or stay hydrated, the disciplinarian, or the person who checks in with the crying kid who is not feeling well and scared about whether or not they have the physical strength to go on stage.

Through it all I feel a deep sense of care for these young people because I want this to be the best experience that it can be. I want to give them everything I can because I am a steward of everything that happens both on and off stage, and it is my responsibility to be my best each day. It is physically, mentally, and emotionally challenging for me, but as a teacher I feel a deep sense of purpose in this work. If I pour myself into the summer and live it as genuinely as possible, I will hopefully provide an experience for these kids that will be rewarding, fun, memorable, and give them a chance to receive something even greater from the summer than what we do on stage together. It is lofty but it is a goal towards which it is worth putting the effort.  

Moments

It's almost the end of June and I wonder where the summer is going. Yesterday the KIDS from Wisconsin gave a very successful premiere performance at West Allis Central High School after a grueling, intensive seventeen-day training camp. I am once again working the summer as tour and stage band director with this talented bunch, an experience that has not been without its fair share of doubts - mostly regarding my ability to stay positive and provide a memorable experience for the 33 young performers in my care.

This summer comes on the heels of a very stressful month of May, so in order to provide context, let me give you a brief snapshot of my current state of affairs. I moved out of my apartment in Springfield at the end of May and into my summer residence in the Tommy Thompson Youth Dorm at the Wisconsin State Fair Park (this is my permanent mailing address since I don't currently have another home). In the two weeks prior to the start of my summer contract with KIDS, I spent time sleeping on friends' couches in the Twin Cities. I will spend the remainder of the summer making my way around the state with the KIDS performing in a variety of cities and towns and thus I have very little in the way of established routine. For an introvert who deals with anxiety issues and occasional bouts of depression this is, at times, a very unnerving experience. In addition there is much to do to prepare for my new life in Eau Claire. When I begin to think of all the pieces that need to fall into place by the end of August, I start to panic a little bit. I also, once again, question my sanity as I enter the latter half of my thirties, hanging out all summer with a group of high energy teenagers, doing everything from pulling late night hall supervision shifts to directing over sixty performances in three months.

Am I insane?

Whether it's concerns in my daily life, anxiety over the uncertainty of the future, or even more global worries like the racism-fueled murders at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston or Wisconsin's fucked up state government that seems hell-bent on destroying public education (why am I moving back here again?), I tend to get worked up about anything and everything, and it affects my outlook on life. I feel hopeless, helpless, and paralyzed by the state of the world sometimes - too often actually. I can't even find solace at church anymore because I don't appreciate how unwelcoming and marginalizing it feels at times. So many of the institutions in our culture would do well to be more accepting of the unbelievable diversity of the awesome creation of a God that is too amazing and mysterious to even begin to comprehend. When did we become so certain of everything that we lost our sense of wonder? Why are we so afraid of people who are not like us? How is it okay to value one life over another, or as the great songwriter Greg Brown says, "why does the color of your skin or who you choose to love still lead to so much anger and shame?"

See, it's happening as I write this. I'm getting worked up.

Last week, in search of some guidance, I was looking at a daily bible reading in my dorm room between rehearsals and one sentence jumped off the page, providing me exactly what I needed to hear in the face of all my worries. In beautiful, simple passage Jesus reminds us, "Do not worry about tomorrow; tomorrow will take care of itself" (Mt 6:34). This line gave me pause. It is difficult to not worry, since that is what I am (and probably many of us are) hard-wired to do. However, ultimately I can only control my actions and reactions to the surrounding environment in this moment. When I think about it, my entire life, my existence, was made for the moment that I am currently experiencing, and when it's gone, it's gone. I don't actually have anything outside of this moment, right now, and I can no sooner control what is going to happen when I leave this computer than I can stop racism in America or make the Catholic Church more accepting to gay people, but I can control what I do right now.

So my goal for the summer is this: to live in the moment and keep an eye on the road, but not stare too far off into the distance that I miss all of the beautiful glimpses of  heaven that are present directly in front of me. There are plenty of reasons to have hope in life if I bother to look for them. It can be difficult to feel as though I make a difference or have any real impact, especially in the face of seemingly intractable problems and institutions, but I like to think that I can and do offer something of value to this world. Leonard Bernstein once said, in the wake of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, "this will be our reply to violence: to make music more intensely, more beautifully, more devotedly than ever before." When I think of this quote, it helps me understand that I do have the ability to make a small difference in the lives of those around me if I can live my life more genuinely, more intensely, and be more present. If I can keep this in mind at all times, it will significantly increase my happiness and my ability to be of service to others.

Let's face it, I will never change the world or hold a position of great power and influence and there are limitations to what I am able to do in this life. Parker Palmer puts this very plainly when he says, "Despite the American myth, I cannot be or do whatever I desire...Our created natures make us like organisms in an ecosystem: there are some roles and relationships in which we thrive and others in which we wither and die." By recognizing my limitations I am free to embrace my true self and become who I was meant to be, rather than struggling to attain something that will not ultimately sustain me. If I have the courage to pull back the curtain of my ego, listen to my deepest self, and take some risks along the way, I will discover an entire universe in each miraculous moment of my life.

i thank you God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today
and this is the sun's birthday, this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings; and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears are awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

E.E. Cummings

It's a Living: My Thoughts About Careers

Comedian Louis C.K. remarks in his latest stand up special, Live at the Comedy Store, that people make too big a deal about what they want to "be" or what they want to "do" with their lives. He says, "people over think this life shit," and jokes that his entire goal is to "make enough money" to " just lock the door and eat the food." C.K.'s simple answer to humankind's quest for meaning in life? "Just get food and put it in here," as he gestures toward his mouth.

For most of us, life is a bit more complicated than Louis C.K. asserts, but I think he makes a very valid point. How many times in my life have I been worried about what I was doing or who I was supposed to be at the expense of true self-discovery? How many times have I defined my own self-worth through the narrow lens of my career? Most of us, from time to time, get swept up in the business of living, attempting to shape our life stories without considering the larger picture, and sometimes this can lead us down paths that we don't find fulfilling.

However, at some point, we all must figure out something so we can, if not "lock the door," at least "eat the food."

Before I go any further, let me add a little disclaimer. I've been very fortunate my entire adult life to be gainfully employed doing what I love. Even when I lost my job five years ago, I had an immediate backup plan in graduate school. When I was a grad student, I had plenty of work and could support myself easily. I am really lucky and am well aware of it. There are millions of people who either can't work, can't find work, or don't make a living wage. For millions, work is not a dignified endeavor, so I am grateful to be able to consider this question of work with some distance and from a position of relative comfort.

In the past two years I have undergone a seismic shift in my thinking about work. I used to be concerned about where I was going in my career. Each job was a gateway to the next. I figured teaching middle and high school band was a step along a road that would eventually lead to graduate school. From there I would either teach at the collegiate level or go into the professional world, starting as an assistant conductor, and eventually become the music director of a regional orchestra. It was part of a logical and consistent progression which began almost twenty years ago in high school.

However, soon after entering grad school, I realized that in order to achieve a really high level of music making as a conductor - both in academia and in the professional world - not only do you need to be a good musician, you also need to be very entrepreneurial. This includes a good deal of self-promotion with websites, social media, videos, a great resume, and management. It also means attending conferences and workshops, networking and making connections. You have to have a thick skin, absorb a good deal of abuse, and endure much failure. You have to be patient, flexible, motivated, and willing to do whatever it takes to be successful. It also helps to win a few competitions along the way and know the right people. And all of this doesn't guarantee success.

Conducting is a tough business and I eventually came to an impasse when I realized that, in spite of my love of music, teaching, and working with other musicians, I hate everything else about the business. A lot. And I'm bad at it. It turns out I've never really been interested in the business side of the music business, which makes it difficult to get foot on the ladder. I've always shied away from self-promotion. I make the worst videos (ever) and still haven't gotten around to making a website. I know, if I worked hard and really wanted to swim in the waters, I could be successful as a professional conductor, but after wading in for a couple of years, I realized that much of the profession doesn't really resonate with me.

In light of this discovery, I began to consider what I should "do" or what I should "be" and to "over think this life shit" for about two years.

Earlier this month I was sitting in a pew at Saints Peter and Paul in Naperville, Illinois on the feast of St. Joseph the Worker, which symbolically falls on "May Day" or "International Workers' Day." As I sat at listening to the homily during the 6:45 AM Mass with the sun brilliantly streaming through the East facing windows behind the altar, the priest spoke about the relationship with work as our physical "cooperation with God" in our daily lives. We are all given gifts, talents, and certain dispositions by God that guide us in finding meaningful, dignified work. Or as the Catechism of the Catholic Church states, "in work, the person exercises and fulfills in part the potential inscribed in his nature." Through self-knowledge and true discernment, each of us has the ability to find work that not only brings us joy, but can also be of help those around us. Some of us are blessed with this knowledge or stumble into our calling right away, but for others it is a journey that lasts a lifetime.

What I finally realized this year, after much soul-searching, is that I stumbled into my calling thirteen years ago when I first set foot in a high school band room as a student teacher, but I must not have been ready to accept it at the time. I've accumulated boxes of evidence to support my impact on the lives of hundreds of students over the years, but it wasn't until this Spring that I stopped to really listen to my heart. I discovered, while it is very gratifying to stand on the podium conducting Shostakovich or Beethoven, for me true joy is connecting with students through music and having a lasting, positive impact on their lives.

Teachers give a lot to their students, but students also have a considerable influence on their teachers. I am grateful to my current students and the many students who have kept in touch with me over the years (including one who recently wrote me and said, "I can tell you [teaching] is what you are supposed to do"), and I am happy to say that I'm finally getting the message. When I listen to my heart, truly have the courage to be myself, and not worry about how others might perceive my career, I can honestly say that I am ready to give myself over to teaching in a much different way now. It is a natural outgrowth of who I am as a human being and speaks deeply to my soul.

In order to become myself I must cease to be what I always thought I wanted to be, and in order to find myself I must go out of myself, and in order to live I have to die. The reason for this is that I am born in selfishness and therefore any natural efforts to make myself more real and more myself, make me me less real and less myself because they revolve around a lie. - Thomas Merton

Springfield

In a few short weeks my apartment will be packed and I will leave Springfield and the state of Illinois behind. It will mark the end of a five year chapter of my life that has seen tremendous change, personal growth, and realization. I am definitely not the person I was when I left Wisconsin in 2010, and as I look back it is staggering to think of what I've gained and lost and what I've learned about myself along the way. This post is a reflection on three fundamental aspects I've learned about myself during my short time in Springfield.

My Loneliness Became Solitude

I never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude. -Henry David Thoreau

The most important thing I learned in Springfield was the ability to turn loneliness and isolation into solitude. Loneliness can be a debilitating condition whereas solitude can feed a the soul and open up new levels consciousness. This seismic shift in my perception came about only after months of struggle to find new friends and feel at home in a town that is an hour and a half from a major metropolitan area and eight hours from my family and closest friends.

I spent my first months in Springfield desperately lonely. I had a few connections through my job, but otherwise didn't know anybody in town. It fueled my depression. I drank a lot. I tried online dating and joined meetup groups to try to meet new people. I would go out, just to get out of the house, and feel depressed because I was surrounded by groups of people that were having fun. I felt like an outsider.

Eventually through much work, therapy, a support group, a month of severe depression - laying on the couch and not leaving the house except for work - I began to see my isolation as a gift. This was the ultimate spiritual retreat in which I could finally fully encounter myself on a deeper level. There I confronted both the bad and the good, struggled with my past, my insecurities, my addictions, my broken relationships, while at the same time coming to the realization that all of this has made me who I am today.

I am definitely no spiritual master and I freely acknowledge the long road ahead of me, but life feels different these days. I have much more gratitude, compassion, empathy, and love in my life than ever before. The quiet moments of patient attention to the deepest part of my being, the place where I feel a true encounter with God, brought about by solitude, have changed my life. "If our life is poured out in useless words, we will never hear anything, never become anything, and in the end, because we have said everything before we had anything to say, we shall be left speechless at the moment of our greatest decision," says Thomas Merton. Thanks to my experience in Springfield, I finally found stillness and comfort in being alone and willingly embrace my true self with all of my imperfections.

I Need Stability

For most of my life I've been on the go, never staying in one place for very long. Prior to grad school, I lived in Eau Claire, Wisconsin for thirteen years but in spite of the relative stability of place, I lived at four different addresses and worked five different jobs during that span of time, always knowing that I would move on to "bigger and better things." In retrospect my life has been a constant search for the perfect destination - perfect job, perfect home, perfect city. When I moved to Springfield, I viewed this as another stop along the way to eventual attainment of true happiness. I planned to stay for three to five years as I finished my doctorate in music and then move on to a career as a college professor.

However, when I looked into the future, I saw my pattern of life playing itself out in a similar manner on a different career track. The transitory nature of my life as a high school teacher, sailing from job to job, would simply be transposed to the collegiate level upon completion of my doctorate. I would be chasing another moving target on an entirely different level of my career. My degree was not a gateway to happiness, as I had imagined, but simply another avenue down which to continue my relentless pursuit of fulfillment. When I realized this I asked myself, what do I really want? What makes me happy? When I honestly answered these questions, I saw my life was moving in the opposite direction from my actual desire.

There is a reason why I've visited so many monasteries in the past two years. It is a beautiful way to make a retreat from daily life, and there is a profound mystical and spiritual component which is very important to me. However, when I look deep inside of myself and the experience, the element that draws me to the monastery most of all is the stability of the monastic life. There is a groundedness and balance in monasticism that appeals to my deepest yearnings, and while my ego is content with the vainglorious search for fleeting happiness, my true self desires stability of place and lasting relationships.

I Want a Real Social Network

In the age of social networking we are more connected than at any point in history, yet paradoxically we are more isolated than ever. Studies have shown the limits of the ability of social networking to create meaningful connection between people and there is still no way to replace one-on-one, face-to-face communication with another human being. In a piece written for the New Yorker in October of last year, Maria Konnikova  asserts, "with social media we can easily keep up with the lives and interests of far more than a hundred and fifty people. But without investing the face-to-face time, we lack deeper connections to them, and the time we invest in superficial relationships comes at the expense of more profound ones." This is certainly true in my own life.

Over the years I have formed a vast network of connections and acquaintances, some superficial and others with greater depth, while at the same time running in the opposite direction of true love and friendship. My marriage was an enormous casualty of this lifestyle and my relationships with family and close friends have suffered as well. My eagerness to move on with life and find the "right" friends prevents me from staying in one place too long, thus limiting my ability to create close bonds and form lasting, meaningful connections. I guard and isolate myself from others because I don't want to emotionally invest myself in something momentary and fleeting.

I've come to the conclusion that instead of running away from my family and closest friends, I want to run towards them. Therefore leaving Springfield after only a short time feels vastly different than past moves. Instead of moving on to "fame and glory" or the next step along an ever more illustrious career path, I'm moving towards uncertainty. I don't know where I'm going to live in September or what I will be doing with my life next Fall, however far from being anxious about the uncertain future of my vocation, I eagerly embrace it. My life has been a journey of ups and downs, and as I begin the next chapter, I feel deeply peaceful knowing that I will be returning home and I look forward to strengthening my relationships with the people I know and love.

We all need to do what makes us happy, but first we need to know what makes us happy. I really think happiness is woven into our DNA by our Creator and it's up to us to discern what that means for each of us individually. I now recognize happiness, for me, is a lot different than what I initially thought. This has involved a lot of listening to, understanding of, and patience with myself as I've come to realize who I am and who I am not.

So, thank you Springfield for being a safe and accepting place for me as I sorted all of this out. You came into my life at just the right time.

Silence

Sometimes in silence
when I listen with the ears of my heart
and see with the eyes of my soul
the curtain of my ego concedes.

The stillness of my breath
unspeakable beauty
a thin place between heaven and earth
united with luminous everlasting.

An endless hymn
in the temple of my heart
the tabernacle of my soul
resonates with the consonance of eternity.

Romance and Roadkill: How I Went On a Date and Ended Up Taking Out a Deer

My first car was a 1986 Mercury Grand Marquis, an automobile modeled after the Sherman Tank. Nothing says "seventy year old man" better than the Grand Marquis, notable for its rear-wheel drive which caused terrible handling in inclement weather, 18 foot bumper-to-bumper dimensions, boxy steel frame and body which rendered it bulletproof as well as highly fuel inefficient, sleek cloth interior, and cutting edge "ride engineering" technology. It was such an unwieldy beast, that I chose to take the road test for my drivers license in my parents' Ford Aerostar minivan because it was actually smaller and easier to parallel park.

The pimp-ass 1986 Mercury Grand Marquis

As a sixteen year old boy, however, I didn't care about the practicality or the looks of the car. It was a pimp-ass machine as far as I was concerned and represented a certain level of independence from my family that meant I was becoming a real "adult" with real responsibility. Within a couple of months of getting my license I scored my first job - selling appliances for Best Buy - yes I was that cool - and I began to feel confident enough to begin my first foray into the world of dating.

I strategically waited to start dating until I could drive. The thought of having my parents drive me to a date was enough of a buzz kill to keep me from even thinking about it until I had received my drivers license. This, coupled with the fact that I was completely invisible to all of the girls in my class (which to this day I prefer to see as a happy coincidence and not my own crippling insecurity and undesirablitiy prior to age sixteen), made dating off limits until I could provide my own transportation. Once I was an "earner" - thank you Best Buy - with some expendable income and a totally bitching ride, I was finally ready to enter the high school dating scene.

It was within this context that I found myself on my very first date, in the Spring of my junior year of high school, with a girl on whom I had had a crush for a very long time. My exterior composure (or what I remember as composure) for most of the evening belied a bizarre cocktail of emotions immediately beneath the surface. I was most certainly attracted to her but I also felt amazed, grateful, terrified, giddy, bewildered, and sweaty for the duration of the date. I'm pretty sure I had a good time, but there was definitely some relief when I finally dropped her off at home. I'm also pretty sure everything that came out of my mouth the entire evening was basically the verbal equivalent of dogshit. Nonetheless, the date was a success, and I drove home in the euphoric fog of young love.

As I made my way home I wasn't paying much attention to the road. My mind wandered through the events of the evening, replaying some of the more memorable moments. I felt all of the feelings and was excited that I had actually taken my first step toward romance with another person. I'm pretty sure it was this general state of euphoria that distracted me from the large mammal that was standing in my lane as I barreled down the narrow strip of highway in the Spring darkness. Before I knew what was happening my lights flashed on the brown fur and terrified eyes of a rather large deer. I touched the breaks, but by the time I reacted my car made impact.

A side note about the Grand Marquis. As I mentioned earlier, this car was built like a tank. A year after this story occurred, I was driving the same car through the parking lot at school when a kid, driving 30 miles per hour the in the wrong direction on snow and ice, sandwiched his parents' sedan
between my car and a parked school bus. The sedan was totaled: broken axle, shattered passenger side windows, detached front fender, and one entire side caved in from impact with the bus. Damage to the Grand Marquis: broken front blinker light. So my car, yeah, one bad motherfucker.

As my car hit the deer I braced myself and steadied the vehicle. What I was not prepared for was how the deer immediately exploded all over my windshield and down the entire driver's side of the car. The only equivalent I can think of is driving out from underneath a shelter into a sudden downpour of really heavy rain. Except this wasn't rain. I felt the deer bounce off the hood, get dragged for a bit underneath the car, and then finally come free at the rear of the vehicle. I couldn't see a thing out of any of my windows, so I turned on the wipers smearing deer all over the windshield.

I had to pull over. My mind, which had been blissfully recalling romantic memories only moments earlier, was now contemplating the deer murder I had just committed. I was terrified and had absolutely no idea what to do. I crawled across the roomy bench seat of the Grand Marquis, opened the passenger door (the only side of the car not entirely caked in deer guts and entrails), and got out to survey the damage. Upon exiting the vehicle I was immediately overpowered by the smell of shit.

You see, the Grand Marquis had not merely hit the deer. With the accuracy of a surgeon's scalpel, the front edge of the car made a two foot long incision in the abdomen of the animal, allowing the entire contents of its stomach and intestines to erupt in an unspeakable discharge of foulness that now covered the entire front and driver's side of the vehicle. I looked back at the lifeless deer, laying peacefully on the highway and shuddered. After surveying the damage, I sheepishly returned to the car, crawled back across the bench seat, cleared the windshield to the best of my ability, and slowly - so very slowly - continued on my way. After arriving home and hosing off the exterior of the vehicle, I was amazed to discover only a small dent in the front quarter panel, but otherwise no other damage.

Like I said. Badass.

In the end, I drove the Grand Marquis for another year until the transmission finally gave out. It was a good first car and I think about it occasionally, especially when the weather gets warm and my thoughts nostalgically turn to the past. It's funny to think about how important that car was to me and what it represented at the time. I was in such a hurry to grow up. The date, the job, the car - these were all teenage rites of passage for a suburban kid like me and they were all formative experiences that helped shape me as a young adult.

As I see it now, that Spring evening from my junior year of high school was a seam in the fabric of my life. I was a confident young man on his first ever date but I was also a terrified child who had just killed an animal. I was simultaneously invincible and vulnerable that evening. I think we all encounter these seams from time to time and as I grow older I find the veneer of my invincibility wearing away. I am now beginning to see my own mortality and weakness, understand the importance of people in my life, and to discover (to borrow from Brene Brown) the power of vulnerability and how it can connect and bring me closer to loved ones. In the end, it is our strengths that attract us to one another but our vulnerability is what actually binds us together.

*I'm happy to report that my date to roadkill ratio has since dramatically improved.

Easter Retreat

For many years I was a Catholic tourist. I became Catholic simply because it was "close enough" to my Episcopal upbringing and it would make it "easier" for me and my ex-wife to attend church together. I could simply be a part of her faith without compromising much of anything, so it was a good deal. I remember attending Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults, checking off the ways that Catholicism was similar to my Protestant background, and was able to intellectualize the tenets of the faith in ways that I could rationalize or understand so as to make my transition from "observer" to "practicing Catholic" as smooth as possible. Once I became Catholic I went to church regularly (mostly), sang in the choir, and joined a small group for young couples in our parish. My faith was solid enough, and that was that. It wasn't until my separation and divorce that I experienced a true awakening, an aching desire to be close to God, or as the Psalmist poetically states, "My soul is thirsting for God, the God of my life; when can I enter and see the face of God?" (Ps 42:3).

Holy week of 2013, ushered in by a crippling blizzard in central Illinois on Palm Sunday, was a life changing event for me. During that week I began to understand the true mercy of God, to finally allow myself to be receptive to the power of the Christian message, and to truly begin to grapple with my own faith on a personal level. Why am I Catholic? What do I believe? Is there something for me on a more than purely intellectual level? Was Jesus just some good guy that was killed horribly two thousand years ago or is he truly the Son of God? During that week and subsequent year I challenged all of my previous assumptions about Catholicism and my own faith, and began a journey which continues to this day. I am certainly not, nor will I ever be in this lifetime, at the end of the journey. My Christian calling is a path and not a destination.  

This year, rather than having an amazing experience like 2013, or a beautiful retreat at a monastery like I did last year, I simply stayed home. It's been a quiet and somewhat lonely week in Springfield. I sang in the choir at the Cathedral right across the street from my apartment, but was otherwise alone most of the time. I was feeling sorry for myself until I realized that this isolation and opportunity to completely devote myself to singing at Triduum was a new type of retreat for me: completely self-guided, completely alone, and all within the context of my own little "monastery" in Springfield. Once I realized this, my outlook shifted and I suddenly was filled with gratitude and wonder - and slightly embarrassed for being so thick headed and self-pitying.

"God exists: that is the real message of Easter," says Pope Benedict XVI. Sometimes in my own self-absorbed daily life I forget this. I am grateful for the Easter liturgy each year, because it brings me back to my center - if I allow it. Pope Francis calls this a "return to Galilee." The Holy Father says, "to return to Galilee means above all to return to that blazing light with which God's grace touched me at the start of the journey." As Christians we get to get experience this every Easter as a "returning to our first love in order to receive the fire which Jesus kindled in the world and to bring that fire to all people." We get to experience the fellowship and covenant of the Last Supper on Holy Thursday, the tragedy of the Passion on Good Friday, and the triumph of the Resurrection at the Easter Vigil. Easter is the center of our world as Christians, or as our Bishop said in his homily this morning, "we are an Easter people."

However, the reality of Easter is that it comes with a cost. We cannot have the triumph of the Resurrection without the suffering of the cross. Jay Cormier captures this sentiment beautifully by stating simply, "Easter begins in the dark of night. If you have ever kept vigil at the bedside of a dying loved one or if you have ever been unable to sleep because of what was to come, Easter has dawned in your life." My own reception of the Christian message and willingness to fully embrace my Catholicism came only after my life had collapsed on itself - when I was finally ready to let go and allow God's mercy and forgiveness to wash over me. In my emptiness and brokenness I truly thirsted for God. I gradually came to realize that when I finally hit rock bottom, Jesus was indeed there to share in my suffering and transform it through the power of his Resurrection. He offers me a hand, picks me up, and walks alongside of me in the darkest night. In other words, God's answer to human suffering and misery is "a new story that contains the first glimmer of encouragement, the only hint of an explanation, that heaven has ever deigned to offer earth," as Thomas Cahill asserts in his book, Desire of the Everlasting Hills, "I will suffer with you."

In meditating on the duality of the Easter story this year, I am greatly encouraged by the message of hope in the Gospel, which contains both suffering and redemption. In Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life, Richard Rohr speaks about this duality. "The genius of the Gospel was that it included the problem inside of the solution. The falling became the standing. The stumbling became the finding. The dying became the rising." Jesus had to suffer and die so that he could conquer suffering and death from within. We acknowledge this in the Apostles Creed when we say, "He descended into Hell; the third day He rose again from the dead; He ascended into heaven..." In a similar way, God transforms each us from the inside rather than imposing His will upon us, if we are receptive to Him. St. Paul reminds us of the transforming power of Christ when he writes to the Corinthians, "I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and constraints for the sake of Christ; for when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Cor 12:10).

Suffering is a doorway through which we enter joy. Through the love of God we are able to transform our weakness to strength. The duality of our lives, the darkness and light, is what makes us complete human beings, therefore we should embrace our falling down. Rather than struggle against our faults, as Christians we own up to them and embrace them. Thomas Merton captures this beautifully in a reflection from Easter Sunday, March 28, 1948 which can be found in The Intimate Merton: His Life From His Journals. It captures the spirit of the day as well as the duality of the Easter mystery so well. "On these big feasts you come out on top of a plateau in the spiritual life to get a new view of everything. Especially Easter. Easter is like what it will be entering eternity when you suddenly, peacefully, clearly recognize all your mistakes as well as all that you did well: everything falls into place."