Shoe Box Baby

Posted by HolySmack on November 2, 2013

Momma took us to buy new shoes for the first time. We wandered the building all day looking for the right store when Momma stopped.

I recognized the box. We all recognized it – Momma, Big Sister, and me. The cardboard body, glossy skin, red and white makeup. It smelled like rubber bands. We used to put special things inside, like flowers, feathers, amber.

I remember the last time we saw the box – back home in the desert far away, far from our new home in America. We were pushing dirt over the box, covering it like a bad secret. The falling dirt and rocks made tapping sounds on the lid. Sometimes I think it was him – trying to come back out. But I know it was too late.

I knew when Momma tried to feed him. I knew when he was too quiet. I knew when Momma cried.

After we kissed him goodbye, Momma took one of her dresses and wrapped him inside. He looked like a big red yam. Then she took the special box down from the top shelf. She left everything inside alone and put him inside. He fit perfect.

Big Sister took me outside and we used sticks and our fingernails to open the earth. The ground was dry because the sky stopped sweating – even though it was very hot. We had to scratch hard to tear the hole big enough.

When Momma came outside of our hut, she held the box like she held him. We watched her kneel and listened to her breathe. I know she was singing even though I do not remember the song. Then she put the box into the ground. The sun shined off the lid like it was a puddle. It was wet.

Big Sister and I helped bury the box. We watched the red rectangle disappear under the ground, like a sunset. We stopped when Momma stopped.

Momma went to the shelf of red boxes – so many of them, all new, all the same. She picked one and stared at it. I saw her hand tremble when she touched it. She took it from the others and kneeled down. Big Sister and I stood still. We watched her open the box, then another, then another.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” a woman said, “Can I help you find something? What’s your size?”

Momma did not stop. She searched more boxes and left more new shoes everywhere. I was embarrassed when the woman became angry and told Momma to stop. Everyone in the store watched us.

Then Momma told Big Sister and me to help her, “Help me find your brother. Help me find him.”

Made of Love, Made for Love

Posted by HolySmack on October 29, 2013

Dear readers,
Today I’d like to share with you the Theology of the Body (TOB). In short, it’s an insight, a philosophy, a rejuvenating lifestyle that saved my life in October of 2006 and changed my life forever. Nothing’s been the same since — in fact, I divide my life into two parts: BTOB and ATOB [BEFORE Theology of the Body and AFTER Theology of the Body]. This past weekend, I celebrated my Sixth Year of Purity and reflected on how far I’ve come from where I was, and how beautiful the destination ahead looks. Honestly… it’s something you gotta see to believe.

I due time, I’ll tell you more about it from my personal perspective, but for now, may I introduce to you Sister Jane Dominic Laurel. Below is a link to her TOB talks. I just finished the final video and quiz (see if you can beat my score!) and cannot wait to share them with you all. Please give Sister a chance at your attention, and hang on. Even if you’re already familiar with TOB, I don’t think you’ve seen it from this perspective yet! Don’t let me be the only one!

Sister Jane’s “Rich Gift of Love” series.

Drink Drank Drunk

Posted by HolySmack on October 24, 2013

Once upon a time, a dear friend of mine turned 21. She, a few friends and myself went to celebrate at a bar. In general I find bars too noisy and distracting for good conversations, but I made an exception this time to go anyways.

I do not mind legal drinking. I drink a bit myself. Heck, even Jesus makes wondrous wine from waste water! And He turns ordinary wine into His Precious Blood! And if THAT’s what He meant by True Drink… well then gimme summa dat!

But seriously, what I do mind is when someone I love and care about can’t even understand what I’m saying to them. The alcohol blinds them from me, puts me on mute, and makes them dumb. I do not want my beloveds to become dumb – not even for a minute! If your friends/family wants you to go dumb, who needs enemies?

Sure, there’ll be laughs and giggles. But what is there to laugh about? THINK about it – it’s laughter at someone saying and doing stupid things they don’t even know they’re doing. And this person is someone you care about? Good way of showing it…

Then what if they get themselves hurt, in trouble, and do something irrevocable? Something they’ll regret? A fun time becomes a nightmare. A celebration becomes a wreck.

Maybe I’m just being picky, stubborn, overly serious, and am overreacting. But I just value sharing meaningful conversations with loved ones – and I want us both to remember the meaningful time.

Many things in life are painful – but none as much as being the only one who remembers something special.

[This was a post originally written March 14, 2011. A friend recently reminded me of it and here it is now for your reading consideration!]

The Priest Disappears

Posted by HolySmack on October 13, 2013

For most of my life, I’ve been going to the Ordinary Form (aka: the Novus Ordo, the New Order) of the Roman Catholic Mass. It was the Mass I was born into, grew up with, and still appreciate. It’s the Mass of Vatican II, the Catholic Mass of today.

But once you taste the sushi, the steak, the cake, the wine… you just don’t wanna settle for the canned tuna, the burger, the Twinkie, the Hi-C. (That’s not to say you can’t have a really good tuna sandwich, gourmet burgers, and fresh homemade creme cakes with organic fruit punch, though!)

Mmmm… Mmmm!

Hmmm…

And once I tasted the Extraordinary Form (aka: the Vetus Ordo, the Old Order, the Tridentine, the Traditional Latin Mass), I just found it more and more difficult to feel satisfyingly fed at the Ordinary Mass. I mean, even the name itself sounds… not-extraordinary.

Well today (October 13, 2013, World-Wide-Consecration-to-Mary Day!), a few fellow seminarians invited me along to the Tridentine. I was surprised at first, because we had just went to a Mass! At the Cathedral! Five minutes ago! But at the same time, I felt like someone was treating me to a banquet — how could I decline? How?

So I went to Mass again, twice within four hours!

And WHAT A DIFFERENCE.

I could give dozens of reasons why I’ve grown to love the Extraordinary Mass. Ever since my first encounter with the EF in 2010-ish, I’ve seen my love for the Liturgy and my reverence for the Eucharist mature and ripen. The Tridentine has taught me how to worship, how to pray and praise, and how to serve the Lord.

And today at Vetus Ordo, I noticed yet another reason why: the priest disappears.

That’s right! The priest — he disappears!

I found myself wrestling with the prayers, exercising my soul, working out my mind and disciplining my body. Then I looked toward the High Altar and couldn’t see the priest. “Wait, where did Father go? Where… hmm… OH! There he is!”

So what happened?

I meditated on what just happened (the silence of V.O. Mass let’s you do that easily) and I realized: Mass is really not about the priest. It’s not about his homily, not about the jokes that he shares, not about the stories he relates (good as some are).

No. Mass is about the Lord. Mass is about Christ sacrificing Himself for love of us. And about Him feeding us with Bread from Heaven, with True Food and True Drink (John 6: 48-69).

And the servant of the Lord — the priest — knew Who was the focus of Mass. The priest submitted himself to Jesus, submitted so much so to the Church that *poof* he disappeared.

I must decrease, and He must increase (John 3:30). Right?

Bon Appétit!

*Please see this short video for more*

The elevation of the Blessed Sacrament.

UPDATED [Jan. 20, 2018]: My intuition is only further affirmed by this quote taken from this article from OnePeterFive:

In the Old Mass, the personality of the priest does not matter. His office matters, and he and the people together are facing the Lord. Conversus ad Dominum. And for that reason the role of the priest is an objective one. It’s not subjective, and for that reason he disappears. That is, obviously, he is the mediator between the congregation and God, leading the congregation toward God, but because of the objectivity of the structure, he disappears. That is very salutary, because the Mass is not about the priest; it’s about God. In the Novus Ordo, because of the versus populum practice, and because of all the options of the priest inserting something like a comment, or spontaneity, the role of the priest becomes terribly subjective. Therefore, he becomes the focus of attention, so the New Mass is terribly clericalized because it’s all about the priest, as opposed to the Old Mass. And this is unfortunate.

Just Another Day in Seminary

Posted by HolySmack on September 30, 2013

It’s been just over a month for me now at seminary. If anyone’s curious, here’s my typical schedule for a typical day:

6:30am) Good morning! Best wake or else be late!
7:10am) Morning Prayer (I’m usually the one scratching his eyes and stretching my jaw [aka: yawning]).
7:30am) Daily Mass – aka: what I SHOULD wake up for in the morning.
8:20am) BREAKFAST – aka: the real reason I wake up in the morning.
9:00am-ish) First Class of the Day: varies between Philosophy of Nature, Ancient Philosophy, or Power Reading (yes… they want me to read faster than my measley 277 words/minute. Don’t ask me how I have an English Degree.)
11:00am) Free Time – aka: study, study, try to study.
12:15pm) LUNCH – aka: the real reason I’m still awake.
1:20ish) Second Class of the Day: varies between Introduction to Logic and Ecclesiastical Latin I (go ahead – guess which is my favorite)
3:00ish) Free Time – aka: get ready for Holy Hour (Today, I’m writing my blog as we speak, but usually I get ready for Holy Hour – aka: anything but study)
4:00pm) Holy Hour in Adoration before the Most Blessed Sacrament – aka: staring contest with the Lord Himself, but He wins most of the time.
5:15pm) Evening Prayer – this is when I realize the day is almost over…
5:30pm) DINNAH TIME. YES.
7:00pm-ish) Varies between Introduction to Theology, Free Time (study), or a nice long walking Rosary.
9:00pm) Sometimes I’ll start exercising now for an hour – must stay fit otherwise instead of me caring for others… others would be caring for me in my illness!
10:00pm) Winding down, sometimes a healthy snack, showering, washing up.
11:00pm) Last minute homework, turn off the internet, light reading, Night Prayer.
Midnight) Goodnight.

I’d include more insights, but off to Holy Hour I go!
P.s. feel free to message me prayer requests anytime.

Stored in Stomachs

Posted by HolySmack on September 21, 2013

All I can remember is Mother eating my necklace.

I do not remember leaving Vietnam. I do not remember the boat, no matter how small and stinky everyone said it was. I do not remember the night we hid in the jungle, even though everyone said to watch out for scorpions. I do not remember anything except that the necklace was my favorite thing in the world. Its slender body of flat gold links always caught the sun – tracing a halo around my neck. Dad said it made angels jealous of me.

After Bà had given me the necklace for my twelfth birthday, Mother took a stainless steel wire and twisted it through the clasp. She had said it would keep me from ever losing Grandmother’s necklace.

“Hurry, go call Anh Bình and Chị Phôi.” Mother told me. I ran out into the field and found my older brother and sister busy pitting their crickets against each other.

“Má said to come home.” I said to my brother. He pushed me aside and shouted at his cricket to kick more butt. My sister caught me by the arm so I would not fall over. She reached out to snatch my brother’s ear. He yelped and I laughed as she pulled him away.

Inside the house, we watched as Mother rushed about, throwing all of the jewelry onto the kitchen table. Some of the rings and bracelets I had never seen before. My sister helped Mother sort the jewelry into smaller piles.

“Children, do as I say. Men are coming, and they do not like people to have nice things like gold. We are leaving with Daddy when he comes home. We can only bring some of these with us.”

“Má, are we going to Nha Trang?” I asked. I loved Nha Trang. I learned how to swim there and can still remember how the warm Eastern Sea washed my young skin.

“No.” Mother said.

“Is Bà coming with us?” I worried about Grandma.

“No. We are going on a boat and it will take us to a better place.”

I looked around our home and tried to imagine the better place. Would it have crickets for us to catch? Monsoons for us to play in? Red dirt to stain our feet? Was it Nha Trang?

Then Mother filled some glasses with water and set them on the table. She picked up a ring, put it into her mouth and drank it down with a few gulps of water. I thought she was taking medicine until my sister and brother did the same.

I watched them eat gold and jade, and I started to cry.

Mother swallowed a short necklace and coughed, spitting water out from between her pressed lips. Her eyes became red and her face became purple. She drank a whole glass and breathed heavily.

When my brother took a necklace, Mother grabbed it out of his hand.

I touched the necklace around my throat. Mother noticed and tried to unwind the steel wire. Although she barely touched my skin, I could feel her rough hands struggle. The necklace tingled me as it squirmed in Mother’s fingers. When I was younger, I had felt a little snake slip over my bare foot. I began to panic and had to remind myself there was really no snake over my collar.

The wire had cut some of Mother’s fingertips. At first I squealed and thought they were snakebites, but then reminded myself again. She wiped the blood off onto her pants and washed my halo in a shallow dish basin. It felt strange to have nothing tug at my neck anymore. I rubbed my throat – looking for gold. Then Mother looked at me. She tore the wire off the necklace and beckoned me over.

“Will you let Má keep this for you?” She asked.

I could not say anything. I just stared at it, and at the blood dripping out of her fingers into the basin.

“Má will keep it safe until we are safe again.” She promised. I nodded and watched her head lean back. Her hand dangled the shimmering string over her lips, and then she dipped it into her mouth.

That is all I can remember.

I do not even remember the storm that drowned Mother in the sea, even though everyone said I watched and cried.

—

BoatPpl

Kyrie… Eleison…

Posted by HolySmack on September 15, 2013

Today at Mass, while we prayed to the Lord to have mercy on us, I began to cry from the beautiful sight I was allowed to see…

In front of my pew was a small group of people who could not hear. They were all deaf, and were watching the signers interpret Mass. I watched with wonder as they signed their prayers into the air (I learned how to sign Alleluia!). There were also people who could not control their speech and bodies like we can. Most of them were young — just children.

But as we chanted the Kyrie… Eleison… I saw, in my mind, a blind man rising into Heaven on the last day. His name was David. Water drooled from his eyes, and he was kneeling in a puddle of his own tears. He was weeping, not because he was afraid, or sad… but because he could hear so many of his friends singing, laughing, dancing! He knew something amazing was happening to them.
And then the blind man felt two hands touch his face. The fingers found his eyes, and wiped the tears from his eyelids. He hears the Man say to him, “David — open your eyes and see.”

And David opens.

First, everything is blurry. But he cries even more — just being able to see haziness brings him unbelievable joy. Soon he realizes it is his own tears that he is looking through. He has never even seen his own tears before…

Then the Man wipes David’s eyes dry.

Then David sees.

For the first time in his existence — he sees. And the first face he sees is the Face of Love. The Face of the Lord. Smiling at him, welcoming him into paradise.

All around them are the blind who now see. How happy they are to finally know sight, to finally see how beautiful Beauty can be.

I cry with them… Christe Eleison… Christ have mercy…

Then I see the deaf. A deaf woman watches all those in Heaven, singing and laughing and dancing! She can see them open their mouths, their lungs filling Creation with song… but there is no music for her, no laughter, nothing.

She watches the Man approach — He puts His hands to her ears. He brushes her hair back and her ears blossom. She hears, for the first time, her heart racing with excitement — her lungs wild and weeping. “Sally… listen… we sing for you… we all sing for you…” The voice of Love calls to her — the voice of the Lord.

Heaven sings for her. The first song she ever listens to in her entire existence is the song of stars and sky, the music of saints and angels. How happy they are to finally know music, to finally dance with the rhythm of life.

How happy they are to finally know speech, to finally express their thoughts and loves, to finally sing their hearts into the winds. How happy they are to finally know the flavors they were forbidden to taste, to finally dine at the banquet waiting for them. How happy they are to have their full being as truly theirs at last – at last.

I cry with them — our tears trickling down from Heaven onto earth… Kyrie Eleison… Lord have mercy… on me…

How much beauty there is that I know not how to gaze upon.
How much melody there is that I know not how to hear.
How much life there is that I know not how to live.
How many beloveds there are that I know not how to love.
How many blessings there are that I know not how to share…

Everybody Learn Heavenese!

Posted by HolySmack on September 3, 2013

Someone once challenged me that the English language cannot express everything — that it’s limited… like all languages are.

True.

That’s why we won’t be speaking English in Heaven (sorry British-accent lovers!).

But think about the reason why we have to learn languages in the first place… it’s because we’re not endowed with linguistic abilities at birth, at least not like we’re endowed with —

Before I finish that thought, think about this: you’re listening to a song in a language you have no idea how to use. The song seeps into you, and you start sleeping with the song on, driving with it on, dancing with it, and after a day or so… you start singing it in the shower, then wherever. Yes — it’s stuck in your head. EVEN THOUGH you don’t know the language. And even if you did, maybe there’s that one part where you’re not sure what they’re singing, and you make up words of your own.

Has that ever happened?

Happens to me all the time, especially since I semi-speak Cantonese, Vietnamese, and Mandarin (keyword: semi-speak). There’s always that line I’m not sure about, and I just blah and sing on – sing on… even those Latin words at Mass, even if my voice is an ear-ache, the song must be sung!

That’s it then: MUSIC. We’re endowed with musical abilities like no other creative essence. I can’t cite the sources, but I’ve heard so many times about the ways music and song effect life. Babies who can hardly speak can tell when a note skips in a song they’ve never heard before. Most animals in some veterinarian care are soothed by song and music – and interestingly, the harp is the second most potent instrument to soothe animals. The first is our human voice.

Our human voice is a powerful force, especially when we use it in Gregorian Chant. Research has shown that the chant of the Church has a healing and energetic effect on our physique. Prolonged exposure to the rhythms and prayers (especially when you chant them yourself) have been shown to cause monks to be alert, healthy, and happy — even if they sleep only two hours a day, never eat meat, and work hard labor! Check out this page for more.

Music. Can’t see it, but it makes you see. A character in my first novel regains her sight partly from when she hears powerfully moving music. But you don’t have to be blind to see what music does for your eyes. It makes memories come back. The imagination tries to fit the tune with an event — a soundtrack. And what’s with soundtracks anyway? Watch a film in mute and how long will you stay awake for? Drive across the country without a CD or the radio and what’ll happen?

You can even feel music. The vibrations in the air wrap around you – tingles and tickles. Sometimes it beats on your heart and you wonder if it’s safe.

Then the music picks you up. Your fingers tap and snap, arms flail, shoulders hop, head whips, and your legs… and feet – they’re not just for transit after all. Suddenly you are a dancer — like when you were three and your mom or dad let you stand on their feet and held your hands up so you could waltz and tango.

But it’s just noise! ORGANIZED NOISE (keyword: organized)! And it’s an organization that babies are born able to recognize. So… if we’re born able to, then even a deaf baby can — even though they may never get the chance. But they can. That is key… that they can. Because organization means something caused it [noise] to be organized – something intelligent and creative… an ORGANIZER. Even a thunderstorm sings a song, but its song is less composed than a bird’s, and its is less composed than ours, and ours is less composed than…

And Music is what we speak in Heaven. Finally, we get our own soundtracks when we share our dramatic life story with others. We get to dozy-doe with billions of buddies, sing a musical with friends we never thought we’d see again, karaoke with the original artists themselves, and be as expressive as God made music to be. Why? Because everything about Heaven makes us more human than we are now. We are more ourselves then than we can ever be now.

Hope to see you there one day…

—

[Inspired by Dr. Peter Kreeft’s quote]
[FYI: ever wonder who set up the modern form of written music as we know it today? (It’s Guido D’Arezzo, a Benedictine monk)

[Psst, this is an edited re-post of a piece I wrote in Dec. 2009.]

Just Too Beautiful

Posted by HolySmack on August 27, 2013

I once heard a friend say this, and what she said shocked me:

“No matter how much a man tries, he can never be a woman. Women are just too beautiful.”

I agree with my friend.

No matter how good technology gets, no matter how advanced surgery gets, and definitely no matter how much effort, money, and care it takes – no man can be a woman. He will never smell as good, look as good, feel as good – and absolutely never be as beautiful.

Because a woman’s beauty and a man’s beauty are not the same, not equal, not interchangeable.

A woman is as different as she can be from a man – and still be 100% human. A man is as different as he can be from a woman – and still be 100% human.

Anyone who believes a man can become a woman must also believe that the night sky can become the stars, that the frame can become the painting, the page can become the story, the dress can become the body.

But no matter how similar the two – it is impossible for one to become the other, because the one is meant for the other, and the other for the one.

But it is understandable why any man would want to become a woman. Who does not want to be beauty? Who does not want to be the person he most adores, admires, cherishes and loves?

So did men get cheated then? Did men lose out somewhere in the scheme? Did we get suckered out of the bargain?

No.

No, because when man holds woman – he supports the stars, he protects and presents the painting, he carries the tale, he embraces the beautiful body. He gets to hold beauty, gets to be with beauty. He gets to care for beauty. He gets to love her.

TOB Inspired,

-Evan/Even/Ivan/Evian/Ev/Evon/Kevin/Evin/etc.

[Written originally in Autumn 2012]

Meeting Maria

Posted by HolySmack on August 22, 2013

QueenMother It was during my discernment year. I promised God if He helped me get my English degree, that I would set aside one whole year to see what my vocation was.

So at the end of the discernment year, in May 2011, I went on an eight-day Silent Retreat. I remember the morning of May 15th: thunderstorming. I woke up and was immediately tempted: “Evan, you don’t have to go to this retreat. You’re holy enough. You make your holy hours regularly, you pray often, you do so much good… just stay home and keep doing those things. You don’t need to go into this storm…”

But I sat up in bed and remembered, “But I told so many people I would be going… I told the priest, my parents, my siblings and friends… I’ll just go. For them.”

So I set out and drove two hours through downpour. It would end up raining for five out of the eight days.

When I arrived, the staff gave me orientation: the retreat house was in the woods, away from the main road, surrounded by trees, gardens and a pond. Inside the house, the bedrooms were each dedicated to a saint. One was for St. Anthony, another for St. Therese de Lisieux, one for St. Joseph. and the last one for St. Mary. I was given St. Joseph’s room and altogether, there were enough bedrooms for six other retreatants. That’s when the lady told me: “But you’re the only one who signed up for this week. You’ll have the whole house to yourself!”

Wow. All to myself. And here’s the routine:

8:00am: Wake up, wash up, exercise.
9:00am: Meet with the spiritual director, Father Dennis Brown, a priest of the Oblates of the Virgin Mary. He would guide me through the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius for about 30-45 minutes, asking about my thoughts, concerns, hopes, etc. Very good priest he was, I will never forget him and will be indebted to him for a long time.
10:00am: Mass. And it was just me and the priest. You can say that I really learned the responses of the Mass after that, and picked up some Latin too!
And after Mass, I was on my own. I wouldn’t see Fr. Dennis or anyone else until the next morning. It was up to me to keep up with the prayers and spiritual exercises.

But I constantly felt exhausted, constantly tempted to sleep away the entire retreat. The rainy weather made it worse. Every day was overcast, grey, and dark.

On my first whole day, I kept feeling paranoid. The silence made me start wondering about my thoughts… yes – I started thinking about my thoughts. I also had a strange experience: to help remind me of how much I need God, I would hold my breath while silently praying the Our Father. The prayer isn’t long, so this wasn’t difficult to do. The point: I rely on God for everything, including my next breath of air. If I finish this prayer and there’s no air, well… then God took it away.

So I started this prayer habit. I’ve never had breathing problems, and the first few times I did this was easy. But during the middle of the day on Tuesday – I blacked out. While kneeling before the tabernacle in prayer, I saw the ground rush up at me, over and over, but I never collapsed. It felt like my head was being jerked around, then I saw nothing. When I opened my eyes, I was perfectly fine and kneeling where I had been. Very strange…

Then came Wednesday, the 18th of May. I was wrapping up my morning spiritual exercises (and they ARE exercises… very tough and rigorous). The rain had finally let up outside, and I decided to go for a walk in the garden. I pulled out the Divine Mercy Chaplet and prayed. Around 4:00pm, I felt very tired again and decided to finish the prayer and take a nap. As I was going to my bedroom, I passed by the room dedicated to the Virgin Mary. I thought, “Well fine, I’ll pay the Queen a visit. Why not?”

When I entered her room, I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to. Our Lady’s picture on the wall, I first saw it during orientation on Sunday, but it was not the same anymore. It was much more beautiful. The picture did not physically change, but my response to it changed… I felt her presence: a warm embrace, very peaceful, tender and gentle. I heard her voice touch my heart:

“Evan, my child… I love you. Why are you so anxious? So worried? Am I not yours? I will take care of you. I am your mother.” (Like St. Juan Diego’s encounter with Our Lady of Guadalupe!)

And my worries disappeared. I felt safe. I felt guided. I stood there gazing at Mary for fifteen minutes, and I didn’t want to leave the room. I wanted to stay with her. But I knew I couldn’t just stay in the room forever, so I took the picture off the wall, embraced it and carried her into the chapel. I rearranged the furniture so that I could kneel at Mary’s feet while praying to Jesus in the Tabernacle.

That’s when the retreat changed. It became easy, sweet, and so productive. I read Scripture, but Our Queen was reading it to me! She helped me see myself in the stories: especially the Wedding at Cana (Not only do whatever He tells you, but also when He tells you…). She helped me examine my deepest conscience, and she dug up the secrets I buried so long ago that I even forgot them. But she didn’t embarrass me! She was so tender. It was so easy to talk with her, so easy to love her, so easy to let her love me.

Lovable.

I found out later that the day this happened was also Pope John Paul II’s birthday. I realized he must’ve asked Our Lady to pay her poor child a visit.

But since then, my devotion to Mary began. Before I met her, I didn’t really know her, and really didn’t think about her (I went into this retreat without anything Marian on my mind!). I was sometimes even annoyed by how much attention she got from others. But now I know… now I get why she’s so beloved. She is so beautiful. Now I’m a believer too. And now I’m convinced that she’s real. How can you deny someone exists if you’ve met them? And if Mary is real and alive, then so are the other saints, and if they are real, then the Church is real. It is true! Then God is real. This is all for real.

And every time I share this experience, I know the Queen is listening, making sure I don’t skip any details I should share. There are some personal things I leave out, but if you want to know, just ask me. I’ll be glad to share it in a more private way.