Waves

I spent many vacations on the Oregon Coast growing up. Cannon Beach and Lincoln City were the favored Miller destinations. While the Oregon water is chilly for swimming, the soothing waves, green cliffsides, and sandy coastlines make for a rejuvenating place to spend a long weekend or spring break.

The ocean has been on my mind this week as I sort through the seminal issues of our world and the Catholic Church's response. Recently a synod to discuss the family brought together the Catholic bishops, and a multitude of responses arose from media outlets and millions of interested individuals from inside and outside the Church. Some looked closely at the language of the bishops' statement regarding same-sex partners. Some looked at how the bishops described mixed families, second marriages, annulments, and divorce. Some looked at the statements issued and dismissed them as old-fashioned or unprogressive. Some looked at the subtle shift in tone and interpreted it as a seismic shift.

I looked at the statements, heard some conversation from friends, and recalled what I knew of Catholic teaching on the family. I thought of the ocean.

Follow me for a moment. The ocean is massive. When I go to the Oregon Coast, I see but a couple miles of a vast expanse, most of which is too deep for me to ever encounter. Yet if I dip my feet in the surf or venture into the cresting waves just off shore, I am experiencing the ocean in some small part. No matter how deep and far away it extends, there is no denying my experience of the ocean at my feet. For that matter, my experience of the ocean in Southern California this summer is just as valid, and quite different, than my experience along the chillier shores of Oregon. Getting tossed about on a body board feels exhilarating. Letting the cool salty surf spill over my toes is healing. Ultimately, though these experiences, while legitimate and relevant to me, are small splashes in an endless sea. The ocean contains so much more than the limited view I see and know.

The Roman Catholic Church is an ocean of history, theology, revelation, and tradition--2000 years, untold billions of unrepeatable human lives, missteps that have shaken but never crumbled a foundation of Tradition and Scripture. The Church is towering, magnificent cathedrals and humble, run-down soup kitchens. The Church is a pope illuminating the news with acts of humility and a movement toward dialogue, and it is a pope emeritus writing eloquent prose to clarify Christ to a wounded world. The Church is starving Ugandans, Chinese martyrs, charismatics in Brazil, and customs-driven indigenous Mexicans. The Church is vast in so many ways, and it is an ocean to our specialized concerns in the United States at this moment in history.

I don't intend to trivialize the conversation surrounding the family. The synod affirmed the importance of the family in all cultures and contexts even in the introduction to Instrumentum Laboris: "The family is an inexhaustible resource and font of life in the Church’s pastoral activity." I see often in the lives of teens that homosexuality is a pivotal issue. Wherever we stand on the issue, it is in our newspapers, schools, families, and society.

Yet the legal implications surrounding homosexual partnerships is largely an issue contained in the Western world of the United States and Europe. There are far different headlines in Africa, in South America, in Asia, and the places where the majority of worldwide Catholics reside. In Nigeria and many other African countries where Catholic populations are booming, the challenge regarding the family is not with homosexuality but with polygamy. As Westerners, it would be easy to scoff and dismiss this topic. Such a reaction would be offensive to many Africans. Furthermore, I would venture that Africans might scoff at the pettiness of homosexual unions being protected under law when so many in impoverished countries receive no protection of any kind from their governments.

Is either side right? Or is it possible both issues are just as legitimate to the people in the firestorms of polygamy and gay marriage as the waves were to me despite the immensity of the overall ocean?

We overestimate our existence sometimes. One thing I loved about being Catholic is taking part in something so infinitely greater than myself. I am a 29-year-old American white male with a limited worldview. Each person has similar constraints in understanding, no matter how experienced. Together we are strong. With a 2000-year history of people trying to understand and follow God, we are even stronger. With the guarantee of Jesus that the gates of hell will never prevail, we are iron-clad.

The Church moves slowly in making statements. Its teachings are not swayed by the modern movements but are shaped by the wisdom of millennia past. So many brilliant minds, from Augustine to Aquinas to John Paul II, have formed the Church's thinking, and Christ himself told Peter that, "Whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven; and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven." There is great wisdom and freedom in studying and living the teachings of the Church.

The synod on the family was significant. The bishops worked to find ways to reach the traditional and increasingly untraditional families of today throughout the world. They looked at the waves sweeping over the feet of their given countries and dioceses, but they also had to ponder the expansive depths of the whole world in their approach. As we digest their findings and statements, I hope we can see and respond in ways that stretch beyond the surf visible to us because there is so much more to our Church and our world.

Turtles

In days when my world was small and my best friend lived five doors down Maze Place, I used to watch and play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. On Friday nights I would get out my collection of action figures. I used furniture and a couple of plastic storage shelves on wheels as buildings to create cities where Michelangelo, Donatello, Raphael, and Leonardo could bravely rescue April O'Neil or other characters in need. My friend Ben gave each member of his collection a Ziplock bag with their name so that he never lost a nunchuck, skateboard, pizza, mask, or accessory. I owned a good 20-30 action figures, watched the 8:00 and 8:30am episodes without fail on Saturdays, and may have even pretended to like pizza more because the Turtles were enamored by it.

I loved Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as a kid.

I still love them. My brother bought me a TMNT T-shirt a couple years ago that draws complements whenever I wear it. I even spent an afternoon last year picking through the entire list of action figures from my era of Turtles. And yes, I owned quite a few of them.

Somehow the Turtles have seen a recent revival and been reincarnated with fresh cartoons and a couple of full-length feature films. When the newest version came to theaters, I figured it was time to revisit some childhood joy, and I offered to take my nephew Zeke to see it once it reached the dollar theater since he had become a Turtles fan himself. (My crafty mom made a turtle shell to complete Zeke's TMNT costume for Halloween last year.)

I picked Zeke up for the matinee on Saturday morning. We splurged for a food ticket and got a giant pack of Nerds candy (which he later spilled in the back seat of my car, so I'll be finding Nerds for years). The show was pretty true to the Turtles I knew from childhood. Leonardo was the leader. Raphael was the hot-headed rebel with a soft spot. Donatello was the brainy technology genius. Michelangelo had a weakness for pizza, parties, and girls. The Shredder had a mysterious, menacing presence. Splinter exuded wisdom. April O'Neil was fearless, intrepid, and loyal. I enjoyed the show, but I enjoyed watching Zeke's joy even more. I saw my five-year-old self in his big eyes and little body.

This year of being at home is worth savoring for moments like these. Zeke will soon be a teenager himself and far beyond these moments. I only have so long being the cool uncle that sugars him up and returns him to his parents. It's worth the Nerds rolling around my car, a few bucks, and a Saturday afternoon to make a new memory from an old one.

Scatterings

I didn't die. I haven't been in a remote African village. I haven't been held hostage for the last two months. And I don't offer any cooked up excuses for not posting since August 8. That's over two months ago! What have I been doing?

Getting busy again. Finding a rhythm. Building relationships. Planning teen gatherings. Creating blogs. Driving to Caldwell and back.

I fleetingly thought many times in August, September, and then October that I should set a goal of posting once a week. Ha. It's not implausible, just not practical with the way I have organized my life lately. Evenings are sacred, although zoning out to an episode of The West Wing (my recently-finished favorite) or The Blacklist (my new craze) isn't sanctified spending of time either.

My thoughts are scattered as I reflect on the past few weeks. Friends returned to seminary life. I did not. That struck me for many days as I watched their Facebook posts and ached slightly for the community I left behind, the fraternity I knew, the structure I found pleasantly challenging, and the life direction I chose. My decision to take a year off was a good one. Regret is not helpful or applicable here. Yet with every change come twinges of grief. The paths of my seminary brothers and classmates diverge at different points. Mine diverged from most this year. In the larger picture, I must remind myself that one year of parish involvement in my home diocese with solid spiritual direction is quite helpful. I am enjoying myself, feeling useful, growing in relationship with the Lord and the Church, and continuing to ask the life-altering question, "God, what do you want me to do?"

Spiritual direction can prove a helpful aid when sorting through the layers of experience, desire, and need that shape the vocational call. I asked my former parish priest (and the previous Vocations Director), Fr. Jairo Restrepo, to be my spiritual director, and he has ably asked me questions that are reflective and substantial. The primary question Fr. Jairo is helping me to answer is this: Can I be satisfied with a lifetime of priestly ministry in the Diocese of Boise? Is this how Jesus is specifically calling me in this life?

I continue to explore and reflect. As I do, hopefully I will be more motivated to share the experience with you on this blog. May we not shrink from our purpose!

More on this photo in an upcoming post. Oh the suspense!

Touch

She probably doesn't remember, but a few days ago after a long day at work and thinking about many things before me, I was feeling anxious when my mom walked by me and gently rubbed my shoulder, the place where she knows I carry my tension. It was a natural motion, a loving one, a soothing touch only a mother could offer. And it was ideal for me in that moment. My mom has a sense for those sort of tender touches or encouraging words. What she did for me in that moment probably would not have worked for many people and seemed inconsequential, yet I am still thinking about it a couple weeks later. Why?

It's something about motherhood, and while I can't quite give definition to what I felt, I know it was unique to the relationship I have with my mother. It was 28 years of shared life, communication without words, support without knowing, and meaning without trying. In my reading lately the subjects of masculinity and femininity have emerged consistently. Theologians try to uncover the mysterious and seemingly lost art of what makes us the genders unique and complementary. These are not gender roles--men and women can cook, clean, minister, work, teach, and do a variety of other actions while choosing manhood and womanhood.

I recently heard someone describe masculinity as the potential to be a father and femininity as the potential to be a mother. Not everyone would agree with these definitions, and I'm still pondering them. Something about these ideas communicates truth. Many individuals will not father or mother children or ever marry, yet each woman and every man possesses the ability to sacrificially love others and God. Jesus never fathered a child, never married a woman, never did many of the things we associate with fatherhood. Rather, he lived his potential by caring for others, by teaching them, by praying for them, by feeding them, by helping them find meaning, by asking the right questions, by abiding in friendship, by emptying himself at the appointed time for his beloved. He practiced absolute masculinity. The lives of each person, male or female, should be modeled after Jesus, but he also distinctly models for males the fullness of masculinity, different than femininity yet not greater. The life of Jesus offers us a lifetime of reflection and challenges toward growth as men. Where, then, should women look for a model of femininity?

Mary.

Whether one is Catholic, whether one has a devotion to the Mother of God, whether one knows Mary at all, one thing I hope can be declared without dispute: She is a beautiful model for women. The woman is receptive in some way from the female body to the feminine personality. The woman receives life through the sexual embrace; the woman nurtures that life physically and emotionally as a mother and wife; the woman longs to receive authentic love. Reception is vital to femininity, and Mary receives God and receives life. Her "yes" changed the course of history. God never impedes on our freedom of choice, so Mary's fiat was freely given. She embraced the life of the Lord within her, becoming the first tabernacle. Upon the birth of Jesus, she cared for him, changed his clothes, fed him, taught him, watched him grow, gave him her love as his mother. She coaxed the first miracle from him at Cana, was beside him during his ministry, and watched her Son's Passion as one of the few devoted witnesses.

In Luke 11, a woman from the crowd proclaimed, "Blessed the womb that bore you and the breasts that fed you!" Jesus replied, "More blessed still are those who hear the word of God and keep it!" At first this may seem a slight toward Mary, but this instead points to the deeper reason she is to be emulated--not because carrying the Son of God somehow rubbed off on her magically but because she was receptive to God's call to bear fruit. She lived femininity wonderfully.

Now back to my mom's touch. In the simplest of actions, she graced me with her femininity. Just a few seconds, but so full of grace. She sensed my tension, was receptive to my mood, and responded as only she could. It wasn't a fiat that changed the world, but it was a motion that altered the moment. Sometimes that's all we can offer: To be present, to respond. Whether it's a touch or a load of laundry or an encouraging card or a forgiving word, we are called to show mercy, to show obedience, to show grace, to show love.

I am exploring authentic masculinity and won't ever know what it means to be feminine, but I caught a glimpse of their complementarity through my mother. May I, may we never cease striving for self-improvement, for authentic expression of our deepest identity, for living as the beloved, and for embracing the Lord's plan for our lives.

Fruits

When I arrived at St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Church in 2008, the first public event I attended was the parish picnic in September. I had met very few people at that point, and two of the first teens I encountered were Paul and Greg Dellino. Paul served on the Leadership Team for two years prior and would continue to do so in his senior year. He took me to the soccer field on the search for more teens and more introductions, and we found Greg. At first, Greg only gave me a passing glance when Paul told him my name, but then Paul added, "Greg, this is the new youth minister. His name is Daniel."

"Ohhhhhhhh!" Greg said, embracing me with a big hug. It was the first of many we would share over the next six years, and our friendship led me back to Seattle this week for Greg's wedding to a young woman named Stephanie he met at a church retreat in 2009. My time as youth minister and beyond is enhanced by the opportunity I have had to walk with Greg and Stephanie as a mentor, friend, and this weekend, as a groomsman and witness as they celebrated the sacrament of matrimony.

Stephanie likes to credit me with introducing them, but I can't take credit. In reality, Stephanie and her cousin Tori (one of her bridesmaids last night) had to attend a retreat to receive the Sacrament of Confirmation, and they somewhat hesitantly agreed to go. Greg signed up as well. A friendship ensued, a relationship followed, and years later, a marriage began.

A few times at the reception, Greg and Stephanie's youth was mentioned (they are both 21). Young, yes, but surrounded by two incredibly supportive and wise families and steeped in a Catholic faith that introduced them originally and puts the Lord at the center of their relationship. Greg and Stephanie have many experiences to come. They will be living outside of their parents' homes for the first time. This year, Stephanie will work during the week and stay with her parents two hours from where Greg is going to school to finish his undergraduate degree. They will pay bills, negotiate time, discover how to share a bathroom, communicate in a new way, and enter into independence together. The prospects are thrilling and scary, but they go forth together.

I must admit that Greg and Stephanie's youth makes me nervous, but in reflecting on the times in my life that experiences made me nervous, I realize the decisions that required inner fortitude forced me to face the unknown, to grow, and to rely on the Lord. I hope, I pray, I believe that Greg and Stephanie's marriage will have the same effect.

Last summer Greg's father Steve died after a years-long struggle with a rare form of cancer. We celebrated his life last July, and this year, his two sons started families of their own in marriage. Steve left this world an incredible gift of life with his wife Jean, and the weddings of Paul to Erin in June and Greg to Stephanie in August signal how precious, fruitful, and lasting was a marriage lived well between Steve and Jean.

As a youth minister, seeing two former teens marry in the Church, give vows that express their love and commitment, and ask me to be part of their celebration is humbling and achingly beautiful. I will keep the Dellinos in prayer as their life's work begins of loving freely, totally, faithfully, and fruitfully each day they spend together.

OLV

Job hunting can be tricky. Since May I have been sending resumes and cover letters to many parishes in Washington and Idaho seeking the ideal place to spend a year of discernment and ministry. Where is there a need, a calling, and a situation that fits for me and for God's people? What work would be beneficial for an interim period? How is the best way to spend a year off from seminary yet continue in the path of personal growth, commitment to the Church, and reflection on my primary vocation? This morning I made a choice.

I am going to be the Youth Minister at Our Lady of the Valley in Caldwell, Idaho. Last week I interviewed with Fr. Francisco Flores and Dc. Kerry Harris. They shared about the parish, the teens, the expectations, the facilities, and the vision for OLV. I shared about my experience, discernment, dreams, and direction. Fr. Flores generously offered me the job, and after spending the past few days contemplating, I accepted. What does this mean?

I expect that life will be busier very soon. Since the academic year concluded in May, I have relaxed continuously--vacations, time with loved ones, finishing personal projects, job hunting, volunteering, cooking, eating, running, and wondering what to do with my life and my year. My sabbath time coincided gloriously with summer. Now it's time to work.

Our Lady of the Valley lacked a full-time youth minister for many months before now, but gracious volunteers kept the program afloat and gave teens a way to connect to the Lord and the community. Hopefully my time at OLV can offer stability and direction to the parish. I can only give a year, but I hope to meet people, establish relationships, share in communion, and lead others closer to Christ through the Church. My intention is to be a builder and bridger, someone that focuses on relationships but also sustainability so that another person might step into this position and have the tools to flourish. Empowerment, fidelity to the Church, inculturation, and sacramental grace will be foundational.

Fr. Flores gave me a tour of the church building and of the youth center which is attached to the old St. Mary's Church in Caldwell, and as we walked through the facilities, he expressed support for my ongoing prayer about ordained ministry and a possible return to seminary. We acknowledged the partnership may be brief but hopefully helpful to both parties.

Thank you for continuing the adventure with me and supporting me in your own way. Continued prayers are needed as ever. In my daydreams I can see open gym times in the youth center, a large delegation of teens to the Idaho Catholic Youth Convention, times of Adoration before the Blessed Sacrament, and the encounter with Christ that changes the lives of young people irrevocably. Working with youth is a gift. I hope to do it worthily and with authenticity this year.

SoCal

Packed a suitcase. Departed with Mom. Southwest to LAX. Camry up the Grapevine. Arrived in Porterville. Stayed with Uncle Randy and Aunt Patti. Water skied on a single. Devoured FroYo. Played cards. Feasted at El Tapatio Mexican Restaurant. Welcomed fellow seminarian Emilio. Shopped at the Dollar Store. Attended Mass. Cooked Asian. Conserved water. Told stories. Swam in the lake. Said goodbye. Drove to Orange.

Celebrated Michael's Rite of Candidacy. Saw friends from Mount Angel. Continued to Oceanside. Slept overnight with cousin Anne. Played with her girls MJ and Dylan. Watched MJ's dance class. Enjoyed appetizers. Laughed over memories. Explained my year off. Waved au revoir.

Attended the priestly ordinations for three San Diegans. Offered congratulations. Partied at a Vietnamese reception. Returned to Orange with seminarian brothers. Slept soundly.

Met Michael's family and friends. Spent a sunny day at Disneyland. Rode Pirates of the Caribbean. Dropped down the Tower of Terror. Soared over California. Dined on hand-dipped corn dogs. Returned late. Experienced liturgy with the Norbertines. Watched How I Met Your Mother. Dirtied hands and face with spicy shrimp. Body boarded at Newport Beach. Shared dreams and discernment over tri-tip dinner for seminarians. Toured Christ Cathedral. Rode almost every attraction at Six Flags Magic Mountain. Fell 415 feet on the Lex Luthor Drop of Doom. Finished a BJ's Pizookie Platter. Experienced Korean Barbecue. Paddle boarded to a cove. Told first kiss stories. Savored Boba Tea and Brick Toast. Took the court for a seminarian-parishioner game of hoops. Slurped homemade Pho. Watched more How I Met Your Mother. Had three desserts on the last day.

Braved I-5 through L.A. in the afternoon. Said farewell but not goodbye. Flew to Oakland. Landed in Boise. Missed the SoCal beach and sunshine. Returned to reality. Gave thanks for friendship, rest, and recreation. God fills my life abundantly.

Decisions

My prolonged silence on this blog is for good reason. The past weeks I have engaged intensely in discernment and come to a decision for this point in my vocational journey. I am taking a year off from the formation program for the priesthood. This year offers me hope that I can discover increased clarity and purpose in how I am called to serve God's people. How did I arrive at this point?

For much of my two years at Mount Angel (and for much of my previous four years as a youth minister), I sensed a strong call to ministry in the Catholic Church, especially to parish ministry. I felt reassured that God would use me as a catechist, mentor, program director, relationship builder, and organizer in some ministerial capacity. Yet as a Catholic, this call did not answer a greater question: What is my primary vocation?

One of my vocations directors, Fr. Caleb, likes to frame discernment in layers, something akin to a wedding cake. The foundational layer is the universal call to holiness. Everyone has this call. Each individual is created uniquely to know, love, and serve the Lord. Simple enough. The next layer is how we live out that universal call, what we might call our career, job, or professional calling. This is how most people identify themselves in our culture today. When we meet someone, we inevitably ask them what they do. "I'm an engineer at Boeing." "I am a stay-at-home mom." "I own a small business." "I'm a high school English teacher." "I am a seminarian." Choosing our work is tremendously important. How we work is how we give to the world, and there is great dignity in work. However, our career is not the top layer. We will likely change jobs or careers many times. Our lives do not find deepest meaning in work. Our lives find deepest meaning in primary vocation. This is the top layer.

Primary vocation is being a spouse and parent. Primary vocation is being a vowed religious sister or brother. Primary vocation is being a committed single person when singleness is chosen in order to give one's life to others in a way that does not involve marriage. Primary vocation is priesthood. Primary vocation is the top layer of the cake, but it is foundational to everything we do, to every choice we make. If one is a husband and father, one might switch jobs and move to a new city but should do so because a career change is also best for one's wife and children. A single person may choose to be a missionary abroad, but their role as a single person may not mean they are a missionary their entire life. A priest preaches, cares, and shepherds, but he may do so at many parishes over the course of his working life and even into retirement. My mom has always been a nurse (her career), but she has changed jobs many times. Yet her primary vocation (wife and mother) never changed after she and my dad married. Every choice she made professionally grew from her primary vocation even if there were always multiple considerations in her decisions. Primary vocation is central. Our lives find deepest meaning in primary vocation.

The decision to take a year away comes from a desire to investigate interiorly my primary vocation. I have for some time wondered if my connection to pastoral ministry should be expressed as a lay person or as an ordained priest of Jesus Christ. The Catholic priest undergoes an ontological change when he is ordained, meaning that his soul is indelibly marked. Even if a priest leaves active ministry, his soul remains changed. Discerning the priesthood is therefore monumental and comprehensive. The priesthood would be my marriage, my work, my purpose, my life. With a decision of this magnitude, what is one more year in the process? I want to get this decision right. I want to fall more deeply in love with the Lord, to know Jesus Christ more intimately, to welcome the prompting of the Holy Spirit more readily. How will I do that?

I'm not sure yet. Honestly, I'm not sure what that means yet. This is a path of discovery. There are many opportunities in parish ministry, but there is also work outside of the church that would enable me to be active in ministry without making longer term commitments. Seattle and Boise are possibilities. Wherever I go, whatever I do, my discernment is not complete. This time is ideal for a break, a deep breath, and continued reflection. Prayer must be more vital in my life. It is my avenue to God's providence, not to convert God to my point of view but to enter into the eternal goodness the Lord has to offer. God will provide all I need to make a wise decision if I earnestly seek to know, to love, and to serve.

Will you pray for me? Conversion is a long process, a lifelong process, and I, like you, am striving to live authentically. Thank you for being part of my journey and for letting me be part of yours. Let us enter into the mystery of what God has in mind for you and me. Nothing less will fulfill us.

Awards

When I was a senior in high school, I attended the Idaho high school yearbook and journalism convention in Boise for the third time. In the morning at this convention they scheduled contests in various categories. Photographers were given a roll of film (to date myself, this was shockingly before digital cameras), a theme, and a couple hours to shoot. Writers were given a prompt, paper, and a couple hours to compose. I took part in a competition to develop a theme for a yearbook along with a layout and ideas for carrying it through the composition.

In the afternoon, the winners of the competitions were announced along with advisor of the year and yearbook of the year. I sat next to my advisor, with whom I was close and shared many inside jokes. He had a history with the organizers of the event, many of whom had spurned him in some way in prior years. We joked quietly about the yearbook "bigwigs" sitting at the front. When the results of my theme category were announced I received nothing -- not an honorable mention or a participant award. Nothing. Whereas before I held back in the jabs directed at the organizers, my restraint evaporated after my category passed without my name being announced.

"What do these people know about yearbook, anyway? I've gotten honorable mention and at least some sort of recognition the last two years at this thing. I am the editor-in-chief of our yearbook! I've got to know more than some of the people that were in my category! Right? Am I right? What do these people know?"

I kept going, the sarcasm dripping deliciously.

"I know, I know what the problem is. They invented a new category that they're going to announce at the very end -- a best in show category. With a cash prize! That's it. They're saving me for that. That must be it."

I continued on like this for the remainder of the presentation, and my advisor and I continued cracking jokes. If we were going to be spurned, we were going to enjoy ourselves, darn it.

Then they announced the advisor of the year. As they listed the accomplishments of this yearbook teacher, I knew it was my advisor they were describing. He had started the yearbook program from scratch just a few years before. He had helped students produce some award-winning annuals. It was him. Sure enough, when they reached the end of their speech, they said his name. He peered at me sheepishly as he went forward to receive his prize. These organizers, what did they know? They knew that my advisor was excellent, even if he didn't care for them. He returned to his seat, humbled. I felt it too, though even with his award, I still felt personally slighted.

Then the announcement came: There would be one final award this year. A new one. With a cash prize. For "Best in Show," comprising the best entry in all the competitions. Wouldn't you know it, those organizers, the ones I couldn't stop criticizing minutes before, well they knocked me from my preachy perch alongside my advisor. I won. I won the most humiliating award of my life. After spending the better part of an hour bagging on the people who had allowed this event to happen, my advisor and I both had to walk to the stage to accept recognition that we didn't deserve based on our behavior. Pride overtook us, but humility reminded us of our imperfection even in our achievement.

I share this story because on Tuesday I received another award, this one coming from my peers and faculty at the seminary who named me the winner of the St. Michael the Archangel Award. This time I was not dismissing the event organizers of our Annunciation Dinner, but I had a similar feeling of honor and unworthiness to be distinguished among such fine people. Though seminarians struggle in real and personal ways as a typical human being, every person who comes here to study, discern, and grow is giving this time to the Lord and the Church. Each is deserving of accolades that are not possible to hand out at awards ceremonies. For every authentic prayer, sacrifice made, hour spent studying, and investment in formation, I am grateful to my brothers for walking the way with me and showing me how to become a better version of myself.

The St. Michael the Archangel Award recognizes "that person who has contributed significantly to the life of the seminary by establishing something new and beneficial or, through exceptional fidelity, commitment, creativity, and good will, has furthered something already established." Without knowing why people listed me for this award, I speculate that it was for my work as the soccer coach and as a contributor to our Mount Angel Seminary Journalism program. I spent a fair amount of time with both projects this year and enjoyed each. If I can contribute to the life of my community doing things I enjoy and receive an award as a result, I am thoroughly blessed.

In addition, two close friends were also award winners at the Annunciation Dinner. My seminarian brother Michael was recognized with the St. Benedict Award for exemplifying the ideals of formation as a student, man of prayer, and servant leader. My journalism instructor and Writing Center advisor Sr. Hilda Kleiman, OSB, received the St. Bonaventure Award for faculty achievement and excellence. Both were deserving, both celebrated with me, and both helped me along my way the last two years. Sharing the joy with them made the award even more special.

Thanks to my seminary community for the opportunity to live, be formed, and work among you. Thank you for honoring my place in the community. Thank you for loving the Lord and His Church. And thank you for journeying with me each day.

Sr. Hilda Kleiman, OSB, and I show our medals and our joy.

Break

Spring break usually comes as the flowers bloom, the leaves return to their trees, and the outdoors become enjoyable again. But not always. This year our "spring" break from Mount Angel Seminary came at the end of February. For the most part, the weather felt like spring, with the one exception being a daunting drive from Boise that I detailed in my last post. Before that, I enjoyed an active time away from classes and responsibilities on the hilltop.

Two seminarian brothers and I planned many months ago to spend part of the break in Seattle exploring the city and doing the tourist circuit through Pike Place Market, the Space Needle, the waterfront, downtown, at St. James Cathedral, among local churches, and eating nice meals. Before our trek northward, the Mount Angel basketball team took part in the Rose City Classic, a four-team tournament hosted annually by Multinomah University on President's Day weekend. Last year our team finished just shy of the championship after leading most of the penultimate game, and we had set our ambitions to beat our rivals from MU this year.

In game one, we faced a scrappy Samoan team put together at the last minute. No worries for us, right? Wrong. They had one shooter who rarely missed. He hit ten three-pointers on his way to 48 points. But we won a tight contest. The next day in the championship game, we played Multinomah for the fourth time this season. The score was high -- they shot the ball well, and we used our size advantage to score most of our points in the paint. At half, we led 52-51. I had two personal goals for the game: To score in double digits and to hold the opposition's best scorer (who I guarded most of the time) to under 20 points. If I did those things, I thought to myself, we would win based on what we had done all year. Unfortunately, we could not stop Multinomah in the second half. I reached my personal goals, and we scored a season-high in points, but they had crafted a game plan offensively that we couldn't match with our man-to-man scheme. Plus they brought a varsity player down to face us, and he provided a big boost as an extra big man to counter our most significant advantage: size. Multinomah beat us again 105-96. Still, we had reason to be proud. Our limitations as seminarians make it difficult for us to compete against teams like Multinomah that have far more players, more practice, and more resources. Losing stings, especially after putting forth so much work during the season, but what we lack in victories, we can still make up in virtue. Being graceful in defeat is far more defining than being celebratory in triumph.

Photo by Ivan Garcia, Deus Photography.

We spent the night at the home of my seminarian brother Stephen's family, and the next morning departed for the Emerald City. Seattle treated us well -- sunny skies, welcoming friends, uplifting liturgies, and much to explore. We opted for the full experience of the Space Needle since a ticket to the observation deck is $20 by itself and a nice meal in the 360-degree rotating Sky City Restaurant is only a few bucks more. The clouds obliged with a clear, beautiful afternoon. This is a rare treat I only expect to have a couple times in my life, and to point out all I knew about Seattle with my seminarian brothers was thrilling.

Besides the Space Needle, I took Frankie and Stephen to see vendors throw fish at Pike Place, to walk beneath the towering new ferris wheel on the waterfront, to visit Stephen's cousins in the U-District, to devour my favorite bubble tea, to meet some of the beautiful people at St. Elizabeth Ann Seton Parish where I used to work, to poke around the holy grounds at St. James Cathedral, to capture the views at Kerry and Gasworks Parks, to drive the streets of my alma mater, Seattle Pacific University, to the many sites around Seattle Center, and to the home of our gracious host, Deacon Craig, to rest at the end of our site seeing days.

The last leg of our trip was to Boise for the Idaho Catholic Youth Convention. Four seminarians from the Diocese of Boise joined us, and we enjoyed a weekend to celebrate our shared faith with over 1,600 youth from around the Northwest. As seminarians, we are asked to serve at the liturgies, man the vocations booth, interact with youth groups, and lead the ongoing rosary. Each seminarian contributed uniquely and enjoyed the event their own way. The highlight for me was being the thurifer (incense-bearer) for the Eucharistic Procession on Saturday night. Hundreds of teens fell to their knees before their God, our God, the God of all. As thurifer I led the procession walking backwards with incense streaming and my eyes fixed on the monstrance that holds the true and living Jesus Christ. Processions like this convince me afresh that teens do not need to be entertained to be invited into the salvation story -- they need to be engaged. And what is more engaging than our God present to them in a tangible, mystical, and inexpressible way? Hearts were touched, lives were converted, and I got to play ever so small a part in God's revelation.

The end of our journey over break was harrowing, but you can read about that in the post below. Spring break is over now. Midterms have begun. Please keep me in your prayers as I do you in mine. See you in the Eucharist, my friends!

ICYC Photos by Savannah Amyx:

Frozen

When I finally opened the door to my room last Sunday night, Sunday night had become Monday morning, and spring break was over. I spent the afternoon, evening, and night driving from Boise to Mount Angel, a trip that usually takes a smidge under eight hours by car. This drive took eleven.

The usual culprit for a delay between here and there is the Blues Mountains in Central Oregon, but besides a patch of thick fog, the roadways were smooth and temperatures above freezing. Driving at near the speed limit with two of my seminarian brothers, I thought we were in the clear after we passed Pendleton, but the adventurous trek back to seminary would continue for many hours.

In the Columbia River Gorge, the roadways started to freeze. We drove past four separate accidents with emergency lights flashing around us. I let the speedometer drop even though I didn't feel any slippage to that point. Slowly we crept at a steady 40-to-50-mile-per-hour pace, singing together and conversing. We counted down the mileage to Portland, and we skipped gas stops thinking it was better to get through the icy conditions first. Then we reached Hood River.

I have driven through this Gorge-side town dozens of times, but as I saw semis pull to the side and snow banks pile higher, I knew this time was different. We pulled off as well, debated about putting chains on the vehicle, checked the road report, and forged onward. A few minutes and a few slips up the hill, I veered to the shoulder, and we christened the set of chains I purchased in December. Thankfully my seminarian brother Stephen had put them on a car before because I was completely inexperienced, and the other seminarian in the vehicle, Frankie, is from Hawaii, so the situation was not one he had faced in paradise. With some cold hands and a few looks at an instructional video on my iPhone, we managed to secure the tires. We set off again. The only problem was that the iPhone wasn't with us. We had used it as a flashlight to see our way in the night, and when the screen had gone black, we forgot that the phone had been set in the snow. Oops.

With no smartphone and less than a quarter tank of gas, the ride was tense. We stayed at 15mph or less for about two hours from Hood River to Multinomah Falls, most of it through rugged ice caked on the roadway. Twenty or so vehicles sloshed through gingerly behind a semi, occasionally being passed by a fortunate motorist with four-wheel or all-wheel drive. The conditions finally seemed to clear for a few minutes, so we pulled off to remove the chains, which turned into a 45-minute endeavor because one had been attached improperly and had gotten ahold of the axel, which made it particularly difficult to remove, especially fumbling around blindly under the car along a dark roadway with impatient drivers zooming by. When we eventually escaped the chains, we sailed for about 15 minutes at 40mph when traffic stalled to a standstill. And still our gas tank was emptying.

I turned off the car. We sat for two, three, four minutes at a time. We moved a couple hundred feet. Car off. Wait. Turn the keys. Move a little more. Converge to one lane. Pass another accident. There were further roadway moguls to dodge once we found space to move until we passed Multinomah Falls. As we did, we seriously contemplated stopping for the night to wait out the storm and hopefully conserve our gas until we could safely reach Troutdale, the next place we could refuel. Thankfully, the temperature rose rapidly after Multinomah Falls and so did the speed of traffic. With plenty of fumes to spare, we glided gratefully into a Shell Station in Troutdale, filling the car's tank, emptying our own, and grabbing some 11:30 dinner at Taco Bell. The final leg to Mount Angel went swiftly, and we vacated the vehicle wearily knowing that Monday back on the hilltop was going to be long.

But we were safe. We survived the snow. We were grateful for the passageway home, discovering later that just outside of those tricky Blues Mountains a large pileup had closed Interstate 84 West an hour after we had passed safely through. Many were not as fortunate as we were.

Now I can laugh at the tension, the lost phone (I was due for an upgrade and purchased an iPhone 5C this week), the treacherous end to "spring" break, and the adventure endured. Such an occasion is quite a reminder to give thanks to the Lord for delivering my friends and me safely and for the abundance in our lives. I am immeasurably blessed.

Diversity

In my course this semester on the Multicultural Church we are reading and discussing journalist John Allen's The Future Church, a look into world trends that are dramatically changing Roman Catholicism. Gathered at the table are two Vietnamese Americans, a Micronesian, one Hawaiian, a seminarian from Rwanda, an Anglo raised in China, someone born in Vietnam who came here after high school, another Vietnamese who was born in the United States, a professor of mixed heritage with Japanese grandparents, another seminarian who was born and lived childhood in Poland, two who were born in Mexico, one with a Filipino parent, and only four Americans with Western European heritage.

We meander through Allen's trends--the rapid expansion of Catholics into Africa, Asia, and Latin America where the majority of Church-goers now reside; the morally conservative but socially liberal views prevalent in third world countries; the seminaries at capacity in Africa and the sending of Southern Hemisphere priests to the United States and Europe; the indifference toward religion in the  Western world; the rise of Islam and tension with Muslims; the shared tenets of faith that might ally Muslims and Catholics in grappling with secularization; the challenges of a multicultural church at the parish, diocesan, national, and global levels; and the hope that these trends can be recognized, embraced, and utilized for the betterment of God's Kingdom and Christ's Body.

Just as important as the content, though, is the meeting of minds. How is it that such a diverse group of people that could choose to do many other things with their lives come to meet here at Mount Angel Seminary twice a week in preparation for future ministry as priests? The mystery of God brings us to gather. We are drawn to something greater, more ancient, more lasting than any of the careers or aspirations we might otherwise know.

That's not to say every statement and conversation we speak is wise or that we avoid the typical temptation to nod in and out of attention, but we share a journey in our diversity, a purpose in our presence, and that is enough to intrigue. As we sort through the muddiness of culture clashes, religious fervor, historical shifts, and the need for humility in this rapid, charged era of the world, we fill our minds with the direction needed to lead people effectively, whether in ordained ministry or elsewhere. The seminary experience is one with high demand of our time, intellectual exploration, cultivation of virtue, commitment to prayer and divine relationship, and formation of our temperament, character, and skills. In settings like this classroom we see foretaste the fullness of the eternal, immense, diverse Church, and we are invited to explore as far as we are able. I thank God for the opportunity.

Snowfall

Classes were canceled on Friday, and so were all our weekend activities as the snow began to accumulate. Our hilltop is magnificently covered in inches of powder, shrouded in the fog of the Willamette Valley, blanketed by the quiet snow brings. I have been slowly reading, pondering, praying, and breaking from life during this unexpected respite from the normally jammed schedule.

That's not to forget the fun we've had during this winter storm: A few snowball fights ensued, the seminarians from warm weather climates played like grade schoolers, a tackle football game took place, a few cars were stranded at the bottom of the hill, and even now, many of us have spent the additional time to do homework figuring out ways to avoid doing homework.

This winter reveling has been wonderful, but I'm almost ready to return to normalcy. Almost.

I suppose one more day of messy roads and canceled classes would probably be welcomed by all of us procrastinating seminarians.

Joani

All my activities seem to have been back-to-back for the last few weeks, so I have not been able to spend time here blogging. I promise to write more soon. A couple topics are swirling in my head already. For now, here is a piece I wrote for the Journalism Practicum on a friend of mine and of many on the hilltop who recently retired.

Joani Steffen Retires, Remembers, is Embraced

By Daniel Miller

After ten years, 121 tubes of lipstick, hundreds of meals, and untold hugs, Joani Steffen retired from Bon Appetit’s food service at Mount Angel Seminary on Thursday, January 30. As an overseer for the dining room, Steffen gained the friendship of seminarians, staff, faculty, monks, and members of the hilltop community.

“With Joani, she’s so much more than an employee,” seminarian Andres Emmanuelli of the Diocese of Sacramento said. He added, “She makes her ordinary work an extraordinary thing, the way she’s living it—with her whole attitude of loving care and the small things she does for each seminarian.”

Many that entered the Aquinas Dining Room when Steffen worked found the greeting to be as welcoming as the fare. Steffen became known for her hugs that helped fill the void of motherly affection for many seminarians. Abbot Peter Eberle, O.S.B., said Steffen's hugs would be the thing most missed by the seminarians upon her retirement.

“Her sheer goodness is such a delight to bump into at meals every day,” Eberle said.

For seminarians with particular dietary needs, Steffen vigilantly watched over the supply of foods they could eat and made sure they were fed well, Emmanuelli said. Steffen kept track of the many people in the dining room by studying the photo directory each autumn and matching names to faces. Steffen’s co-worker and friend Annette Dettwyler said that through her collection of current and previous directories and her notes in a small notebook, Steffen tracked where past seminarians had relocated through graduation to new institutions, ordination to the priesthood in particular dioceses, or discernment to other vocations. Steffen came to know much of the hilltop community personally. Seminarians often confided in her and felt uplifted by her demeanor, hugs, and advice.

"There is nothing she doesn't do for [seminarians] that she doesn't do for her own kids," Dettwyler said.

With Steffen at the helm, many noticed a distinctive sparkle about the dining area. She constantly picked up crumbs or stray bits of food to make the presentation of meals pristine. Steffen was sure to have the fruit bowls overflowing, with no intermixing of fruits from bowl to bowl but always a variety of colors to appeal visually to diners, Dettwyler said. A bowl of lemons, though functionally not useful, enhanced the display and showcased Steffen’s care for appearance and cleanliness.

Steffen also kept a professional personal appearance. Dettwyler said she went through a tube of lipstick about every month, which would amount to 121 containers over her tenure.

“I have lipstick I have been using for years!” Dettwyler said.

It was Dettwyler that advocated for Steffen to be hired 10 years ago after the two worked together at a special seminary event. Then in need of medical insurance that came with the job, Steffen joined the staff. She and her husband Bill were grateful for the medical insurance in the years following her hiring. In 2007, Steffen was diagnosed with cancer and underwent chemotherapy, and in 2009, Bill needed quintuple bypass surgery for heart trouble. When she was being treated, Steffen took a leave of absence for many months, but she still visited the hilltop and kept her friendly disposition.

“Guys would pat her on her little bald head,” Dettwyler said. “She said she would take cancer any day over depression.”

Though she will not be spending 32 hours a week at work on the hilltop, Steffen will visit. Her connections are too deep to relinquish.

Since Steffen spent much of her childhood in Mount Angel, she has built relationships with many families, community members, and even a couple monks over some 50 years. Eberle has siblings that are Steffen’s age, and he will often ask how their mutual acquaintances from town are faring. Fr. Paschal Cheline, O.S.B., met Steffen when she attended Kennedy High School and he taught there starting in 1964, and they have maintained a friendship since.

“She has been an excellent witness to what the Lord asks from all of us: joyful service!” Cheline said. 

As retirement neared, Steffen wondered how she would replace her work routine. Her commute from the Silver Falls area provided time for a rosary and prayer, and as she reached the bottom of the hill, she would intercede for members of the seminary and abbey communities by name. Her trips between the dining room and kitchen helped her walk 3-5 miles per shift. But it was the relationships Steffen said she would miss most.

Still, her retirement to-do list is full: Deep cleaning the house, sewing, beading, scrapbooking, helping Bill with their tree farm, spending time with her twelve grandchildren and four children, all of whom live within an hour.

Steffen ceased full-time employment with a lunchtime celebration on her final day featuring house-made cupcakes, fried Twinkies, punch, and affection from the community she embraced in her decade of service.

“I had to work, but loving my job is an extra benefit,” Steffen said.

Tradition

I am 28 years old, yet I can still be a little kid at times. One of those times is on Christmas Eve when I make my parents read The Polar Express with me. (They happily oblige, and we all relish the chance to do this each year.) We have a wooden train whistle to blow when the locomotive arrives in front of the house and some bells we ring as Santa presents the first gift of Christmas. (Or when my nieces and nephews read the story with us, they sporadically blow the whistle and ring the bells as they see fit.) The story is timeless, and the tradition of reading it is a throwback to simpler times. No matter my age, I am always my parents' child.

Doodling

I probably distract those around me slightly, but when I sit to listen to a long theological or academic conference, I find that my attention is best kept if I bring a journal and pen to doodle notes based on what the speaker is saying. If a neighbor didn't know better, they would probably think I'm disengaged, but for some reason, my brain processes the information more attentively and effectively by transferring it from head to hand to pen to page. Last week as we entered our silent retreat to begin the semester, Bishop Emeritus Gordon Bennett delivered 13 conferences over four and a half days based on the questions asked by Jesus in the Gospel of John. He spoke poignant truths and challenged us to think and pray over our relationship with the Lord and with the Church as we continue this path to priesthood. I listened. I doodled. And I pondered.

I journaled 14 pages by Friday, some of it notes from the conferences but some of it personal reflection too. When silence is ample, reflection is inevitable. Before ordination, bishops and priests are often expected to make a silent retreat. This is a purposeful time of discernment rather like Jesus going into the desert before his public ministry or to places of solitude before he met people to perform healings and to preach. Since I've written about silence many times before, I do not need to recycle the theme, but I want to share the single insight that meant the most to me during the retreat.

The insight came near the end as Bishop Bennett closed his conferences by speaking to us about the individual responsibility of relationship and fidelity. He put to us the question Jesus asks Peter in John 21:22. This question comes just after Jesus finishes asking Peter three times, "Do you love me?" Following each answer from Peter, Jesus tells the apostle to tend his sheep and feed his lambs, which Peter rightly understands as Christ asking him to assume a position of leadership carrying forward the Lord's ministry. Then Peter asks Jesus about the Apostle John, the Beloved Disciple. What about him, Peter asks. Shouldn't he be the one to lead us after you are gone? Jesus replies with the question that Bishop Bennett used as the basis for the conference: "If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you? You, follow me."

You, follow me. Cease looking around you at others. Possess yourself. Own the feelings, choices, and actions you make. Your call is unique. Listen carefully, and listen individually. I will speak to you, Jesus says.

Then Bishop Bennett spoke a thought I needed to hear: God will not likely tell you what to do. God does not make decisions for you. God does not invade on your freedom. The choice is yours.

This idea is simple, but for me it was new. I subconsciously understood discernment as a passive process--ask God for the answers, and eventually the direction will come. Directions at times may very well be obvious, but God's revelation is not usually that cheap. If discerning direction were easy, everyone wouldn't struggle through the many significant choices we make throughout life. The crucible of change, formation, and decision shapes and molds us; it shapes and molds me. I am called to take an active role in my discernment. This is what I wrote in my journal as I responded to Bishop's Bennett's (and the Holy Spirit's) message:

God will not make a decision for you. The Lord gave you freedom to do that for yourself. Stop passively waiting for a divine answer. PURSUE your vocation FERVENTLY. List the dreams you have. Take a spiritual gifts inventory. Make your liturgical and devotional prayers regular and joyful. Receive God's love. Rest in God's peace. But do not cease to give back what you can, what you are able, what your circumstances will allow. Discernment is not passive. Go.

Later at lunch when the silence was broken, I thanked Bishop Bennett for the retreat and for this thought in particular. He told me that our lives are like pieces of glass God fits together into a mosaic. God may be the one forming the masterpiece, but we provide the pieces. The Lord can make beauty from our messy, scattered, at times even ugly humanity. We are His. And for that reason, our mosaics are transformed into stories worth telling. What story are you and I writing?