Love is Painful

Love is painful.

I don't want to paint a pretty picture of love every time, don't want to romanticize it,  because the truth is that love, true love, hurts.

Love cannot be contained. It travels in me, claims me, has made me and keeps remaking me. Love is meant to give out, never to hold, only to disperse in striking amounts so that we can receive True Love. And its exit is painful.

I can't romanticize love. At times it can be reflected this way and that, but to say that love shouldn't hurt is to say that I've not loved enough. I've not loved big enough, high enough. To say that love is not painful is to assume that I am not weak, that my very flesh is invincible, immortal, perfect. To say that painful love is not love is to say that I have not given myself at all and am not willing to.

That is not love to me.

To say so would negate an act of love that poured Itself out on the very ground, opened Itself with each scourging blow, with each buffet and insult, those very wounds becoming faucets of mercy and love. To say love doesn't hurt says I can't perceive the pain of lonliness up high on a cross, the abandonment of friends, the alienation of this world upon the shoulders of this God-Man, my King subjected to be nailed to a tree aside two common thieves. To say I negate the pain in this act of love is to deny myself of the very Love being given from it.

True Love is riddled with self sacrifice and this world today is a clear sign of how painful that love can be, so much so that people have created a "pain-free" world in order not to feel the emptying of what true love really is. My heart sees a world of hearts not willing to give of themselves, holding on to the most valuable talent He gave us, dooming us to hold on selfishly to what isn't ours to begin with, what He commanded be shared.

The only reason love exists is because He is Love. In creating me, Love is branded throughout my very being. And this abundant Love is meant to be distributed, to the very last tearful drop.

Because a vat filled with wine cannot receive new, fresh wine. Its emptiness is required.

This vat, made of flesh and bone, feels the emptying of self, in love, to receive a Love far beyond my comprehension, far beyond my very own power to love. I can never receive That Love if I don't release the limited love I contain within.

And once I do let go and let Love, it is only then that I feel immense joy. Love leads to joy. To love, give it, wear it vulnerable and raw, is the only way to receive joy, not the fleeting kind, the everlasting kind. Eternal Joy.

Love to me is....

When I look at her, at her innocent beauty, her purity, my heart empties out, painfully ebbing out through the thinnest of tears. I lose myself, only to fill up with her. Her little fingers letting go of her love to wipe those tears. The exchange begins with pain and ends in joy.

I think of him and once again, the passion of detachment, my very soul, whose fibers have entwined with his, start to pull at mine, even with bodies close, whispers heard loud, emptying myself in helpless love. The exchange begins with pain and ends in joy.

But most of all, love is when I look upon my Savior, in whatever form He chooses to reveal Himself to me, His eyes turned to me, His wounded Heart beating for me, each pain-filled thump creating a whisper of the words, I Love You. This exchange begins with His pain and ends in my joy. In this moment I realize what Love is, I let go of me, bearing that pain, my heart being able to truly beat back...

I love You too.

God bless!

Finding Strength in Him

Seek the LORD and his strength;  seek his presence continually
— 1 Chronicles 16:11

This weekend, while on retreat, I'd walk down the hall from my room to be with Jesus in the tabernacle of the chapel. We spoke like I'd speak to my friends. I smiled and looked at the tabernacle when I saw something cute or funny as if, like an old friend, I knew He'd be giggling too. I spoke with Him about my worries, my insecurities, my fears. I thanked Him for all His blessings, for the opportunity to be with Him in this way. Many times, I just sat in silence, we sat in silence, Him and I, just being with each other, just hanging out. I felt myself growing closer to the Lord.

Friday night, after dinner and the talks, I changed into my pajamas and walked to the chapel to say hello. I walked the stations briefly. Then, as I sat down, there was a rosary in the pew. I could feel Him winking, egging me on. I'll do just one decade, I thought to myself, exhausted from the trip.

Ended up doing the whole rosary. It felt nice.

On Saturday morning I walked into the chapel and He was with a priest, who happened to be celebrating a solo mass. I figured I'd stick around. Any friend of Jesus is a friend of mine. We both received Him together. Very nice.


Later, in the retreat house library,  I had picked up an old book called "Teach Us to Pray." I turned to page 18. This is what it said:

"Our words hide things, instead of reveal them."

It went on to describe how full of wonder we are when we see an unknown flower, bird or insect. We stare and marvel at our ignorance of it, how we long to soak it in, get to know it. That continues until we are told or reminded of its name. Once we know it, we stop getting to know it. We don't know it anymore. This moved me. I can ramble on and on, then complain why I never hear Jesus talk back. I can repeat prayers and yet feel a dryness when I am done and get up to go. I've given Him little chance lately to communicate back to me. How can I get to know a friend if I don't let Him share something with me? How can I grow closer to someone I truly don't really know.

I felt small. I felt embarrassed.

So I walked back to the chapel and sat in silence with Jesus, because as much as I'd like to say I know Him, fact is I don't even know the half of it. What I don't know, what I don't understand of Him, is vast.


I came back various time that day. We spent time together. No one else walked into the chapel during these times. It was as if Jesus alerted everyone that He didn't want the chapel to be disturbed, since His good friend, Ivy, had come into town.

Sunday was my last day. I spent the morning with Him in silence. We'd grown closer in these last few visits, but I knew that once I stepped out into the outside world, my time would be monopolized. This saddened me greatly. I went through the morning feeling very disconnected. When it was time to go, I dragged my luggage out of my room and left it right by the chapel door.

I walked in, blessed myself, but instead of sitting down in one of the pews, I sat on the step leading to the sanctuary. I cried.

I told him,

Jesus, we had such a great time this weekend. We had alone moments I would've never dreamed of having back home. That's where I'm going now, back home, back to the normal. Funny thing is that You are my reality and I know where to find you. But I know it won't be like this for a while. Please keep me close to you. Call my name so I don't just wave and pass by. I want to sit with You, be with You, talk, or not. Just be with YOU.

I remained quiet for a while, hoping that He would reveal something to me.

And He did.

In His gentle manner, He told me something sad. I prefer not to share it. Let's call it a secret. But I'll share His advice. 

He reminded me that I was now in a sort of tabernacle, this retreat, joined with Christ in a most special way. When I leave, I'll be joined to Him in a different way. My eyes were moved to my Friend on the cross. This world is a cross. He invited me to get up on a cross, to suffer this world.

"But when you're tired," He said, "when you have no more strength, get off and come meet Me here, at the tabernacle. I'll help you get right back on the cross."

I left with a mix of emotions. How could one not be filled with all kinds of feelings when one encounters the Lord. There's no describing all those things I felt. One thing I can say for certain, is that I was a little more prepared for the outside. And each time I visit my Brother, my Friend, Jesus, He will keep filling me with strength and courage, perseverance and most certainly, love. 

For how could anyone face the world, our crosses without a heart full of love for Jesus and His people.

Visit Jesus in the tabernacle.
Go be with Him at a Holy Hour.
When you get there, sit, and be silent,
...and never stop visiting Him.

His doors are always open.

God Bless!

Lent 2013: Ashes, ashes and dirt and dust

I need saving.
Sometimes it's good to say things more than once, so...

I, Ivy, need saving.
Everyday, I need to be saved.

Because if I didn't believe that, feel that, know it, then I wouldn't need a savior, want one.
And I want Jesus.
I do.

My soul needs dusting sometimes. Other times it needs a major clean-up. I don't mean to be so messy, but life just trods through with muddy boots and though I attempt to clean the mess, the footprints stay embedded, reminding me constantly of those dirty moments, those muddy walks I took. My mess, my past is overwhelming. There's no way I can clean up a mess like that. I was never made for these circumstances.

And you should see me when I'm in a mess. I'm not happy. I'm pacing back and forth. I'm looking for ways to make this easy. I'm planning out my escape from facing it. My mess gets messier by the minute. I find the only way to clean up this kind of mess is by walking into a confessional.

Letting God in to clean up.
He loves to dust me off, wipe the stains clean, sweep away any worries. I am brand new. Cleansed.

Think what you want. This is my way of healing and has been for the rest of my family for over two thousand years. It's the only way that healed. This life, I thought was mine to control. My destiny, my dreams. Somewhat true. But they are nothing but dust and dirt if I don't recognize that without God those wishes will have no weight. So sad, as Jesus puts it, to gain the whole world and lose your soul. For when I die, I can't take my worldly dreams with me.

And because I love love love God, nor do I want to.


So this beginning of Lent, as the ashes are placed on my forehead  as I am reminded that from dust I was created and to dust I shall go, I will remember who lifted me up from dirt...

and He who will lift up this soul when this life is done.

God bless!