Tag: Religion

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Starting Over

 New day, new start over Navy Pier.

Is it ever too late to (re)start?

So, after seeing the depressing latest Avenger’s movie (don’t worry, no spoilers), and living with someone who is generally always depressed about turning 40, I got to thinking about life and why death can be such a preoccupation.  Ok, so we all have to die, unless Christ comes early and sweeps the believers away, but if not  we all have to die. I get it. But maybe because I am perpetually optimistic, to a fault sometimes, I don’t think thinking or worrying about death has to be all consuming. Take my husband, for example, turning 40 for him has almost been a death sentence. He complains his life is over, his youth is gone, he can’t do things anymore (like dunk a basketball, umm, ok), he’s old and he’ll be dead soon.  I live with his dread everyday and it can be quite oppressive. So, being the mother of a toddler, I have mastered the art of redirection and I apply it to my husband. I tell him how great his life is (he’s a lawyer like he always dreamt!), he’s not old (at 40 he doesn’t have to worry about the superficial things of his 20s like clubbing, not having money and having random sex, which aren’t valid arguments to him), he maybe can’t dunk a basketball, but he can learn to golf, and generally that his life is good because he has a family, a house, decent clothes, good friends, and a comfortable life. But still for him, he wishes he had accomplished more by 40, more traveling, more episodes of random sex, and now it’s all gone. However, with the exception of the random sex (while married to me), I believe that whatever he wants can still be accomplished.

Take me, for example, I’m a few years from 40, but I’m not worried about it. Sure, I haven’t accomplished everything that I have wanted, my job is super, super stressful, my post-baby weight is ridiculous, and I haven’t been the most attentive friend post-baby, but generally my life is good. I have a family and home I love, friends who are supportive and a job which does offer a good amount of flexibility as a trade-off for all of the stress. And now, because I believe if you don’t like your life you can change it, here I am writing. I don’t know where this will lead, but I do know wherever it does lead, it will be good because I am finally doing what I have dreamed of and what is God’s purpose for me. So, this is what makes me encourage my husband to get up and change the things he doesn’t like despite his age. Death will surely come, but it doesn’t have to come and the expense of us forgetting to live. If there is something out there that you always wanted for yourself, why not go after it? Whatever it is. And if you are too old, like becoming a NBA star at 45, then try for the next best thing. Be the best 45-year old in a basketball league for your age and if you want to be famous, find a way to monetize it. If you want to be an actress, but think 36 is too old to start, get over it. Get a headshot, take some classes and go on some auditions. Tyler Perry always seems to be hiring. I’m not saying walk away from your day jobs to follow your dreams, unless of course you can afford to do that, but find a way to make your dreams work in your current life until a time comes where you live them full-time. Of course following your dreams or changing your life will not be easy, but if it is something that you want to do anyway, you already know it will be worth the determination, trials, and setbacks for all the success in the end. All it takes is the courage to take the first step. So, go out there, dreamers. Live that life, go get that bag, walk it like you talk it, be a trap star or whatever, but don’t waste any more seconds dying without living. And because I firmly believe in the prophet Jay-Z when he said, and I paraphrase, don’t waste my breath, I don’t know how many more of them I got left, I intend to live on purpose. Death will come, but I’m sure as hell not waiting on it.

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On Being Catholic

 The little chapel.

I grew up in a religious household with one foot in each of my parents’ denominations. My mother grew up Catholic, attended Catholic school her entire life and even went to a Catholic college. I don’t think devout is an adequate description for her upbringing. My father on the other hand was raised Baptist, and always looked to attend a free-spirited, diverse Baptist church. This meant that I was christened Catholic, but baptized in a Baptist church and floated between attending the two my whole life. While they both have their attributes, I have mostly ended up attending a Baptist church as an adult. There are times however, when I miss the certainty, quietness and stoicism offered from a Catholic church. Maybe it’s because they tend to be in older, massive buildings steeped in history which provokes awe, but genuflecting in a Catholic church immediately makes me feel like I am in a most holy place and realigns my spirit.

Earlier this year, I felt like my life was going down the road of chaos on what happened to be Ash Wednesday. So during my lunch break I ran down the street to the local Catholic Church for Ash Wednesday service to get a spiritual tune-up. While there, I got everything I bargained for and walked out feeling invigorated with an ash cross on my forehead to boot.

I understand that not everyone knows about Catholic traditions/rituals in the South as Catholic churches aren’t as prevalent as they are in the North, so I was unnerved by the stares that I got because of the ash cross on my forehead on my walk back to work and into the building. I brushed off the looks from people who work in the building who I have seen before but don’t really know and focused on the fact that my sprit had been renewed. It was not until I got back to my office and stopped by the restroom that I discovered that what I thought was the usual wisp of ashes smeared across my head turned out to be the biggest, blackest cross that has ever been made. It looked like God himself had drawn a cross from the top of my forehead to the bridge of my nose with black magic marker. In that bathroom, I must admit that I had a crisis of faith. I debated whether I should wash the cross off of my face and keep my Ash Wednesday service attendance to myself or just proudly wear it as a mark of my dedication to God. Eventually, my Catholic guilt won out and I emerged with the cross from a medieval crucifixion still affixed to my head.  I managed to stay in my office the rest of the day, so the stares died down but I had to make a stop at the grocery store on my way home to buy my requisite organic groceries (see here) and prepared myself for more peering. I soldiered through my shopping, scurrying down the lanes and picking up things as fast as I could, telling myself that at least I didn’t rinse it off and I must be making God proud by not being ashamed (I was hoping embarrassment wasn’t frowned upon by God though). I almost explained to the checkout girl the reason for the cross when she refused to look at me during check-out, but I didn’t want to come across as doing any religious grandstanding. And so, I scuttled my cart to my car, threw in my groceries and pulled out of my parking space happy that I was done with the day.

Once I began driving in the parking lot, a friend from high school and her seven-year old and five year-old daughters walked in front of my car. Without a thought I rolled down my window and yelled “Hello!” I will never forget the faces of those girls. Usually the girls are so happy to say “hi” when I run into them and tell me about how school is going, but when they saw me that day, or really the gigantic cross on my head, they froze in terror. When my friend also looked at me slightly scared and quizzically like I had lost my mind, I figured it was time to cut the pleasantries, roll up the window and just take the cross to the house. When I finally got to my mom’s house to check-in with her, I was frazzled but happy to be around another Catholic who would understand my day. That was until my so very Catholic mother told me that with St. Peter’s cross hanging on my head and wearing a black dress, I looked like I participated in an exorcism. Then she asked me why I just didn’t wash it off. And that’s how a  part-time Catholic Baptist does Ash Wednesday.