An Unexpected Lesson

An unexpected lesson
By Alison Oen, BCC Leadership Team

The school year had ended but apparently God still wanted to teach me a lesson.

It was the first day in the middle of my doing my hours for IPPE-Introduction to Pharmacy Practice Experience when I heard a voice I recognized. I was the voice of Valerie, a fellow peer in my pharmacy class. Little did I know that she worked part time at this Walgreens store. My first impression upon meeting her last fall was highly judgmental. I had immediately written Valerie off as someone who I would never be able to connect with, to learn from or to work with. I had felt that our personalities were too different. I admit I was panicked when I heard her voice and my stomach sank. I was worried my experience was going to turn into a disaster but it turned out better with her. Valerie was so nice to me. I could ask her a question without her judging me or telling me I should know that by now. She stood at one of the cash registers with me and explained how to look up certain medications, how to find out if a patient’s medication was ready, how to enter a new prescription into the system, and even how to enter a new patient profile. She is one of the most upbeat and energetic people I know, a lot of people would call her “perky” but I like her enthusiasm and it has made the long hours more bearable. I will definitely miss her enthusiasm when she starts her own IPPE hours at another store this coming week. I guess the old saying is true “never judge a book by its cover.” I believe God tried to teach me a lesson on judging others before I even know them. I hope that I can continue to learn more from her and work more with her in the coming school years we have together at Butler.

Memories from Appalachia and Seeing God

by Kaitlyn Willy
Chaplain's Apprentice

Looking out my bedroom window and seeing snow all over the place, working from home because the road still has snow on it and the white flakes continue to fall en masse from the sky, it’s hard to believe that last week (really, I guess two weeks ago) was Spring Break or that this Sunday is Easter.

We’ve been on a bit of a hiatus here at the BCC Blog because, frankly, everyone is busy at this time in the semester. It’s the time of the semester when the reality of finals, only five weeks away now, hits and everyone is scrambling around trying to get the work done that they have been slacking on since before Spring Break. I remember that time in college vividly. It was when I stopped eating real food, stopped sleeping more than a couple hours a night, and lived off only tea and midnight runs to Whataburger (which hardly constitutes as real food) with my friends who, wanting to escape the pressures of papers, exams, theses, and work, called me and begged for a ride, for a break, for quality time with someone other than Socrates or Augustine… or, during my last semester, Evelyn Waugh.

I’ve been thinking about my own college days a lot lately. There are a lot of reasons—missing friends, seeing their statuses on facebook talking about their own new lives, feeling far away from home—but I think the main reason is that while the rest of you were at home resting, hanging out on a beach somewhere, attending a show on Broadway in New York, or whatever you were doing over Spring Break, I took a group of 8 amazing Butler students to Nazareth Farm, which is the sister farm of Bethlehem Farm, where I first really felt my call to ministry.

As a college junior (I was a bit of a pain in the neck, to be honest), I arrived in West Virginia not knowing why I was there, what I was going to do (other than farm, which was something I did know how to do), or who I was going to meet. Like many of the most important events in my life, I had chosen to go on the University of Dallas’ Alternative Spring Break program without having a clear idea of why. I just ended up going. I worked for campus ministry (is anyone surprised?) and was friends with the graduate student Campus Minister who was leading the trip. He had been talking about it a lot, I didn’t have money to do anything else (at UD, campus ministry had the ability to fund the trip completely because we had an awesome church on campus with parishioners who gave generous donations and supported our many fund raisers), and it just felt right. It was a big commitment, we had meetings almost every week leading up to the trip and it was a struggle to fit everything in.

Finally, after a great deal of preparation and shopping around for work boots, a rain jacket, and all the other things I would need for this week of lots of work and no showering, I climbed into the 12 passenger van that we would be in for almost two days before getting to West Virginia (friends, Dallas is a LOT farther from WV than Indianapolis is). After listening to John Denver’s “Country Roads” several times (which is actually about the Western part of VA, not WV), we drove down a long road on the side of a mountain and then up a (seemingly) longer driveway and finally saw a sign that read “welcome home.” I got out of the van (which by that point, we lovingly called the “vomit comet” after one of my friends got sick only a couple hours into the trip) and was attacked by a whole bunch of people giving me hugs.

Now, twenty-one year old Kaitlyn differed from twenty-four year old Kaitlyn in many ways, and one of them was that I honestly hated hugs, except for from about 10 select people, four of whom were my parents and my two dogs (seriously). So, yeah, I had been at the farm for about two seconds and I was already totally out of my comfort zone. Fortunately, things got better (but also more intense) pretty quick.

Over the next five days, God took the opportunity to mold and shape me but also to remind me of who I was. I had lost a lot of myself in going to college because UD (while a great place that I love) was the sort of place that made you change yourself to fit in. Very few people enjoyed being themselves there, and they were usually disliked by the majority of students on campus. The Catholic University for Independent Thinkers was , ironically, never that big on individuality. I was the only farm girl in my group of city kids and, needing to fit into their world, I had lost a lot of my own culture. At this point in my college career, only four of my friends had ever heard me speaking in my accent, and then only because they had gone home with me or had been around me when I was so tired I couldn’t control it. So when I found myself at Bethlehem Farm, surrounded by people who reminded me more of home than anything else, it was a bit of a shock. While my friends struggled with a totally new culture, I struggled with my own identity and fought back memories from childhood and tears.

The farm house reminded me of my grandmother’s house, an elderly man whose house I worked on reminded me of my uncle and my dad, while his wife reminded me of my grandmother. They spoke with the same accent that I had grown up with in the Ozarks and they lived a lifestyle that reminded me of the people I had known from childhood. On community night, when members of the community came over for dinner, a couple older men brought banjos and guitars and I sat and listened, remembering the many, many nights of sitting and listening to my grandfather play the same instruments. When we went to a local protestant church for their worship service, while my friends were complaining about how weird the gospel music was or how uncomfortable it was to be in a protestant church, I was having flashbacks to my cousins’ gospel quartet and listening to them play at their church when I was younger. These people sang the same songs and, to my friends’ surprise, I found myself singing along.

All in all, the trip to Bethlehem Farm helped me to remember who I was in the midst of both the identity crisis that was college and the haze that celiac’s was causing— the damage that disease was wreaking on my body and soul. My time at Beth Farm is probably the clearest memory from the entire of my junior year, and I imagine it’s partly because even though I was still eating gluten, I was eating a lot of natural food without preservatives. My time at Bethlehem Farm also shaped me as I was introduced to new knowledge about the earth and the environment and when I got back to UD, the immediate impression of my roommate and best friend, Rebecca, was that I was becoming even more of a hippie than I was before, something she found amusing as long as it didn’t affect her directly (which, in the long run, it definitely did).

In the four years since, I have not returned to Bethlehem Farm, but I have been to Nazareth Farm twice and each time I have been reminded of the huge importance that first trip played in my life. It is probably true that I wouldn’t have ended up in Echo or working at Butler, had it not been for that trip and the influence it had on me. But I would also just simply not be me. And in each trip to Nazareth Farm, I have found more of myself hiding in the deep and dark corners of my soul, dying to get out and see the sun. And those little bits have found freedom there, in a place so drastically different from my everyday life and yet, not so different, and perhaps more like home than anything else I have experienced.

This year’s trip to Naz Farm was no exception. While the snow fell down on us, making our work harder (because snow mixed with warm soil creates mud, and mud makes dirty work like underpinning a trailer even dirtier), and while my girls shivered out in the barn and later moved into the common room because the heater in the barn was broken, I was being reminded of who I am, what is important to me, and what I believe. God was challenging me, reminding me of where I have failed, but also consoling me, inviting me into deeper communion with him. As any of the eight students who went with me can attest, it was a busy week, packed with a lot of events, a lot of emotion, and a lot of God. There are so many stories I could tell you (like about the Mountain Justice seminar we went to or about how I accidentally glutenized myself and how very unpleasant I can be when I’m sick), but I’ve already taken up a lot of your time and so, I would like to share just one story with you, about the Eucharist.

At Nazareth Farm, as I’m sure you would expect from any Catholic organization, we have a couple opportunities for a Eucharistic Celebration (Communion Service). Of course, my celiac’s prevents me from being able to consume a normal consecrated host and so, because we had no priest or gluten free hosts available, I was unable to receive. Before our Communion Service at the beginning of the week, I had spoken with a staff member who I am friends with and had been reminded of Mother Theresa saying that the Christ in the Tabernacle is the same as the Christ on the street. Typically, I find communion services or Masses where I cannot receive to be a little frustrating, as the Eucharist is my very favorite part of being Catholic. This time was different. Sitting there, watching the other volunteers receive the Eucharist, I had an overwhelming feeling of consolation and I truly felt Christ’s presence in the others. It was a beautiful gift from the Holy Spirit, and I know that having this experience so early in the week shaped my experience of God through the rest of the week and continues to do so.



As we go into Holy Week, I think we all need to remember Christ’s true presence in our lives though others, through the Eucharist, and in so many other ways. I encourage you to remember to celebrate this Holy Week, even though the snow, studies, and homework have you pretty busy now. And don’t forget, the BCC will be having Easter Sunday Mass at 11 followed by Brunch in Robertson Hall. Please rsvp to me (kwilly@butler.ed) if you’re coming and let me know if you’re bringing guests.

And next year, consider going to Nazareth Farm. Every student who went this year said it was an amazing experience and many want to go again. Check out the Naz Farm pictures on facebook and keep us in mind next year!

Peace,

Kaitlyn

Lent Time

Lent time

by Mary Allgier

BCC Leadership Team

It’s almost Ash Wednesday, you know what that means? McDonald’s Filet O’ Fish returns.

Okay, yes, but it means Lent will have officially started and many of us will be giving something up.

Many choose chocolate, or some other food item. Some try to give up or limit technology or anything they think they use too much.

For me, Lent is a time to become a better person. What keeps me from God? What do I need to work on?

Last year I gave up swearing (Not afraid to admit I can be a potty mouth). It was good, but two years ago I decided to give up complaining. I realized after a day I didn’t know how to have a conversation without airing some sort of grievance. It’s too cold! It’s too early! I’m so hungry! My C-Club pizza is SOGGY (Yes. That happened).

So I tried to just put a positive spin on all my complaints.

At least I have food to eat. I have to get up early to go to school, but many people don’t get that chance. At least the snow is pretty.

And I think that’s my favorite thing I’ve ever done for Lent. I think I’ll do it again this year (along with Strawberry Pop tarts… seriously, it’s a problem) and I encourage you to join me. Instead of whining about what we don’t have or what we have to do, let’s try and focus on how blessed we are!

Here are some other idea too  http://www.examiner.com/article/ten-innovative-things-to-give-up-for-lent

A Quick Note on the Psalms

 “The Beloved Waiting in the Heart of Darkness” Part III

A Quick Note on the Psalms

by Kaitlyn Willy, Chaplain’s Apprentice

First of all, thank you to everyone who sent me supportive emails and texts after my last blog. I am still processing my grief. I appreciate continued prayers.

I wanted to talk about one more thing that happened at my retreat, a tool that I believe many of us forget about when it comes to praying through darkness: the psalms.

During my first Echo Summer, before I came to Butler, I took a class on the Psalms. Ever since, I have loved them. And really, why shouldn’t we love the psalms? They are the prayer, not only of Christians, but of our Jewish brothers and sisters as well. Jesus himself was taught and prayed the Psalms. If they’re good enough for Christ, they’re good enough for me.

Throughout the retreat, we kept coming back to the psalms. We talked about how the psalms can give words to our emotions. There are so many about so many different things. There are psalms of lament and psalms of praise. Some end happily, some are just angry all the way through. Our director of formation reminded us that when praying a psalm of lament, it’s always good to pair it with a psalm of hope. Or, you can do one that covers both. My personal favorites are 23 and 42. Then, rarely, when I’m really angry and refuse to be consoled, I go to 77.

Since the early church, it has been a tradition to sing the psalms daily. Monks used to have to memorize the psalter before they were allowed to officially join the monastery. St. Augustine says: “Singing is for the one who loves.” The Psalms were the most common songs of the early church and Augustine wrote hundreds of commentaries on them. I’m not certain, but I think that the only thing in scripture with more commentaries than the psalms is the Lord’s Prayer.

So, my invitation to you is to open up your Bible to the Psalms and give them a try. They’re good consolation in times of distress.

He waits in the Heart of Darkness

“The Beloved Waiting in the Heart of Darkness” Part II

He waits in the heart of darkness

by Kaitlyn Willy, Chaplain’s Apprentice

As I mentioned in my blog yesterday, the theme for the retreat that I just went on was “The Beloved Waiting in the Heart of Darkness.”

One of the things that occurred to me on this retreat was that if I take the beloved to be Christ, then Christ waits for me in the heart of the darkness. He doesn’t wait on the outskirts, he waits in the center of it. In order to get to him, I have to go through the dark and then he will help me through to the other side.

This revelation was truly a grace to me. My retreat director could not have chosen a better time to give me this piece of wisdom. I need it right now. I woke up this morning to find out that one of my dearest friends from high school had passed away. I haven’t processed the emotions from this yet; it’s only been a couple hours since I found out and right now, I am just trying to put one foot in front of the other. I don’t know yet how I feel, other than the obvious answer of sadness. I don’t know what I’m going to do, or how I am going to find consolation in this. What I do know, I know from experience. The sadness I feel now is nothing compared to the darkness that I might face in the next few days as I slowly come to know the reality of Jessica’s death. Thanks to this retreat, I also know this: I cannot sit on the outskirts of grief and avoid dealing with my emotions if I expect Christ to be with me. He is waiting for me in the heart of that darkness, and I will have to go there to find him. As much as I would like to just bury myself in my work and avoid thinking about it, I can’t. I have to go there.

During the retreat, it hit me that this is like the Paschal mystery. When we’re on the outskirts of the dark, it’s like Holy Thursday in the Garden of Gethsemane. It’s like when the soldiers came and took Christ. We’re scared, we’re sad, we’re confused. Darkness is threatening to overcome us. We want to run, like Peter ran when he denied knowing Christ. But the thing is, we can’t run if we want to get to the Resurrection. Only through the Passion can we come to the Resurrection.

In one of the texts I’m reading for comps (Athanasius’ On the  Incarnation) I was struck by a simple line, something that any kindergartener would think was obvious. But this statement must not have been too obvious, because Athanasius bothered to say it and, let’s be honest, paper and ink was not cheap back then (really, papyrus and ink). The line was this: “Death must precede resurrection.”

I think this is a fact that we all too often want to overlook. I would like the resurrection without the passion, thank you very much. I’ve seen a crucifix. The passion doesn’t look too fun. I would like to avoid that part, just like I would like to avoid recognizing the reality of grief. But consolation cannot come from avoidance. That’s not healthy. We have to go into the heart of darkness, where Christ, the Beloved, is waiting. He will bring us out the other side.

So, friends, have hope. Do not be afraid to know the dark. Instead, fear the unlived life—the one that is avoided by living in fear. And know that for every Good Friday, there is always an Easter Sunday. As my favorite poet, Wendell Berry, says: “Practice Resurrection.”

Please pray for Jessica and her family and friends. And friends, please know that whenever you feel alone in the darkness, Fr. Jeff and I are here and we will always be willing to sit with you and be with you. You are never alone.

The Joy of Waiting

The Beloved Waiting in the Heart of Darkness, Retreat Reflections part 1:

“The Joy of Waiting”

Kaitlyn Willy, Chaplain’s Apprentice

Last week, as many of you know, I was away on retreat for five days. It was a retreat with Echo (my graduate program) and in packing and preparing for the retreat, I was much more focused on the idea that I would soon see my friends than I was on spending five days with Christ. I am embarrassed, as a campus minister, to admit that. Yet, as I have spoken with my students so many times, friendship is in itself a form of prayer. Everyone in Echo is close, and it had been since August that I had seen my fellow Echo Apprentices, my dear friends. Perhaps it is fitting, given my attitude, that when my community (Pat, Amy, and Joe) was almost all the way to the retreat center, a four-hour drive for us, we started receiving text messages from our friends that their flight into South Bend was delayed.

We arrived at the retreat center thinking that perhaps our friends would be there later that night. As time passed and the plane was still not leaving, we all realized it was not going to happen. Instead, my community would wait with the Associate Director of Echo, Luke, and hang out at the retreat center and the retreat would start the next afternoon, when our friends would finally arrive. While twenty other Echo apprentices were stuck in the airport for almost an entire day (and later, stuck at a shabby hotel where Delta had put them up), my community and I were forced to entertain ourselves. Patrick, Amy, and I played soccer in the dining hall (or, more accurately, half-heartedly kicked the soccer ball back and forth) for an hour and then, joined by Joe and Luke, we ate pizza as a community. We were not in the highest spirits—we were waiting.

After dinner, we managed to raise our spirits a little. I confessed I had never played pool, so the men decided I needed to learn. Patrick and Luke patiently taught me. While I was frustrated at first, they coaxed me into having fun. We managed to enjoy ourselves and lose track of the time amid our laughter at my epically poor pool skills—all the while anticipating our friends’ arrival the next day. We tried to come up with stories to tell them when they arrived and, through the glory of technology, kept up with where they were and what they were up to, even though we were still apart.

It is interesting, given this incident at the beginning, that the theme chosen for our retreat was “The Beloved Waiting in the Heart of Darkness.” We spent a lot of time waiting that first night, waiting to hear if our friends would come. Once we knew they weren’t, we were waiting for the morning when they would be there and the retreat could begin in earnest. All the while, we reminded ourselves that we were not alone—we could wait together and in our companionship, find consolation for missing our dear friends.

I think that one of the great things about this retreat theme was that it was ambiguous—we weren’t really sure what or who the beloved is. Perhaps I am the beloved one, the beloved of God who is waiting amidst the darkness of my life—waiting for God, waiting for love, for hope, for light. Perhaps Christ himself is the beloved and he waits for me in the darkness. Or, perhaps it is the waiting itself that is beloved.

During one of the talks during the retreat, the last of these was suggested by our formation director, Jan. What if it is the waiting itself that is beloved? She told us a story she had heard about a grandmother. This grandmother was well loved by her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. On one of her birthdays, they threw her a surprise party. When the party came around and the grandmother walked in and they surprised her, she was disappointed. She asked them, “How could you rob me of the joy of anticipating being with you?”

The joy of anticipation… how beautiful is that? But you know, thinking about it, it is true. I know that before my students all come back at the beginning of the semester, when I’m sitting in my office, organizing for the upcoming events, I anticipate their arrival. And it’s a joy to anticipate. I know that soon, I will be busy and in the thick of it. At the beginning, I spend some time just anticipating, preparing, and readying myself… and, hopefully, doing so with love. Anticipating is part of the loving.

My community and I experienced this very clearly as we were anticipating our friends at the retreat center. When they arrived, the vans pulled up and they piled out. We raced out to the cars and hugged each of them almost before they were out of the car. And as we waited for the last two vans, I know that the anticipation was growing in my heart. My best girlfriend from my senior year of college, Meg, was in the last van to arrive. As much as I LOVED hugging each of my other 19 friends, I know that I kept anticipating her arrival even more after the others were there. Having friends like Matt, Sarah, Annie, and Kathy in my arms made me want to hug Meg all the more. The promise that she would arrive soon took away any anxiety of the waiting. The waiting was truly beloved, and it made the moment of reunion that much more beautiful. Had Meg arrived first, I might have lost track of that moment, or, worse, I might have been denied a moment of reunion with my other friends. Instead, the waiting was beloved and beautiful.

Perhaps this revelation for me, the beauty and beloved quality of waiting, should have come about before… like, at Advent, for example. I mean, it is the season of waiting ( and, as I have said before, my favorite liturgical season). Advent is dark—literally, as the days grow shorter; and figuratively, as many people face seasonal depression or sadness related to loss experienced during the holidays or simply from being alone. But even now, in ordinary time, we might face waiting. I wait anxiously for a final decision to be made about my plans for next year. Seniors wait for jobs or acceptance to grad school. Many sophomores wait for acceptance to the Pharmacy program. We are all waiting for something.

As for the anxiety associated with waiting, I found consolation in some of the reading we did on retreat. Thomas Merton wrote: “On all sides I am confronted by questions I cannot answer because the time for answering them has not yet come.” (from The Fire Watch)

We have to trust that God’s silence is not because He doesn’t know the answer or, an even worse thought, because He doesn’t care. It is simply because the time for answering has not yet come. There can be any number of reasons for this. In my experience, it is often because I am not yet the person who God intends to give an answer to.

My invitation for today is to remember that even in the heart of darkness, the waiting can be beloved. Let the joy of anticipation fill you. Trust in the Lord, do not be anxious. The time for answering will come. For now, we wait in joyful hope.

A Reminder of Good

A Reminder of Good

By Lauren Stark, BCC Leadership Team

(Written December 20)

It has been an emotional week for the nation. The Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting has impacted many Americans. The photos. The videos. The stories. In the midst of this tragedy, it’s hard to see God. It’s hard to find the good in the world that He promises. But on Monday, I caught a glimpse of it.

I met one of my closest Butler friends, Brett, in Chicago for a day of holiday fun. We went ice skating and window shopping, reminiscing about old memories and planning for future ones. Finally, we said our goodbyes, and I sat down on my train for the ride home. That’s when I realized my wallet was missing.

I panicked when I realized that I had left it on the bus I took to the train station. That wallet held everything—my license, car keys, cash, credit card. I was stuck in the city. On the verge of tears, I called home. My dad said he would call the bus company. Then I called Brett, who, without a second of hesitation, walked the five blocks to come wait with me and gave me money to buy another train ticket.

I have heard so many times of people whose wallets get stolen. And mine was just sitting there, free for the taking. That’s when I started crying. It was just a few material things—some paper and plastic and fabric—but I felt so helpless and lost.

Then I got the phone call from home. A man had found my wallet and had it at his apartment for me whenever I could get there to pick it up.

Tears kept flowing, and this time, they were out of pure relief.

By this point, my dad was already on the highway coming to pick me up, assuming as I had that the wallet was gone for good. When I told him the news, all he could say was “Wow.”

Two hours after I first realized the wallet was gone, I stood in the courtyard of a downtown apartment complex, waiting for this Mr. Napier who had my wallet. As soon as he walked out, I started crying again, getting out a few “thank you’s” amidst the tears.

My dad tried to give him some money, but the man refused. He said to me, “I don’t need any money. Why don’t you just give an extra five to your church this weekend?”

Tears seemed to be the theme of the day because as I sat down in my dad’s car for the ride home, my wallet sitting safely in my pocket again, I was crying again. Only this time, they were tears of sheer joy.

Now, I have heard the story of the Good Samaritan dozens of times. But that day, it finally made sense. There are people in this world who will do uncommon good, who will go out of their way to do what is right. Mr. Napier is my Good Samaritan.

As we hit the expressway, my dad turned to me and said, “Well, this goes to show that there are still good people in the world.”

Such true words. We see so much horror and tragedy all around us that the brightness and good become obscured. But God is always working to bring that good back into focus. I have no doubt that God put Mr. Napier on that bus, in that seat, to find my wallet. God gave me a model of goodness, a stranger who could show me the light.

And this year,  I’ll say a special prayer of blessing for that stranger…and a special prayer of thanks to God, for always giving me a light to hold on to.