Sippin' Suds

Random Laura memory for your reading pleasure:

One of the first times I ever remember enjoying beer was following an indoor soccer game when I was in medical school. A gal in my women's group played for a team that needed a sub, and being (un)arguably the most athletic option in our group, she asked me if I would join her. I remember sucking wind so hard I had to go to the restroom at half time because I thought I was going to vomit. I remember a few good touches and a lot of bad ones, and the muscle memory of over 10 years coming back to me by the end of the game. And I remember going out for pizza and beer after the game.

This may seem routine to most of you, but to my sheltered, introverted, prohibitionist 23-year-old self, it was quite a thrill. First of all, to think I was meeting new people, going outside my comfort zone, showing off my athletic prowess (that last part may not be what actually happened)--it was kind of amazing. This is what young, single adults do when they're not crouched in their room rotating a model of a human skull to memorize nerve pathways! I was basking in the glow of the guys calling me "Mia Hamm" (so maybe I didn't suck so bad after all). I marveled at our captain's vast knowledge as he discussed draft options with the waiter (How does one even know that many beers?). And I can still taste that wonderfully greasy cheese and Shiner Bock merging together to form perfection.

I remember wondering if it was only because I had exhausted myself and my salt stores on the field, or if it was because I was drinking something besides Coors Light, or if it was because I was enamored with my new-found social graces, but that beer tasted good! This must be why people drink it, I thought. It took a few more years for my palate to fully agree, but considering that now my standard day-off activity is microbrewery flights with the womb-mate, I've come a long way, baby.

Also, speaking of bocks, Paulaner's Salvator is pretty delish as well.

"Take a moment to remember..."

It’s now been over a week that we’ve been down from camp. The end of summer party has come and gone. The counselors have returned to their homes. I am (almost) unpacked. I’m still trying to capture the enormity of the four weeks, to somehow process it. My journal entries provide a raw look at what transpired during those weeks, so that’s where I started.

As I read the musings of my heart while at camp, I was struck by the intensity of it. So much longing, so much doubt, so much desire, so much gratitude and regret and openness. It’s no accident these writings spring from the grace of daily Mass, frequent confession, adoration, and daily prayer. When I am close to Him, my true heart is known. I can know myself more accurately, see His work in me more easily, hear His voice more clearly. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Camp is hard—the writing is evidence of that—worry, anxiety, frustration. The storms, the fatigue, the soreness, the feelings of inadequacy. But more than that, there is comfort. Prayers of gratitude and safety and confidence in God’s love also fill the pages. I can almost hear the sigh of relief as the words move from questioning to resting in Him, over and over again. He is in control, and He came to give us life to the full.

The Suscipe of St. Ignatius made its way to the front of my mind numerous times at camp, and is one of my favorite prayers. It embodies the abandonment necessary to give completely of oneself without calculating the cost. This is the radical availability that we live at camp, which is one of the greatest lessons and challenges of the whole summer. 

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will,
All I have and call my own.
You have given all to me.
To you, Lord, I return it.
Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
that is enough for me.

The Burning Bush

The things that happen at camp are unlike anything that happen off of the mountain. Ever. How do I explain to people who have never been up here the epic lightning protocol poetry slam, or engaging teenage boys in conversations about virtue and love languages on a 13-mile hike, or a Hanz and Franz 230 wake up call, or Mass every day in front of the meadow (or in a car wash parking lot), or the deep conversations that happen in a pick up truck in the rain while on a sandwich delivery run. 

Those things don't happen anywhere else, and in a way that's what makes this place so special. God works in a way up here that is unlike anywhere else, and that makes it challenging to remember that He works just as much (though differently) off the mountain, every day of our lives. It's easier to see it up here because we don't have the distractions of cell phones and traffic jams and work and television. It's easier because we know that's why we're here and we want to be intentional, because everything here is oriented towards restoring the four harmonies. It's also a little bit harder because camp is exhausting and the definition of sacrifice, but ultimately, it's all more full. Life to the full. 

What's hard about it is bringing it down from the mountain. Because this is a very brief reality that needs to overflow into our lives when we leave. We need to have those deep conversations, take time for prayer, connect to nature, sacrifice our preferences for others, live in the dirt and grime and exhaustion of our state in life. I may still never be able to articulate these experiences, but I hope that they show themselves in everything I do from this day forward. That's a tall order. But our God is big.

Camp Doctor, Year 2

I've come down the mountain for a breather. Laundry, showers, and, you know, having to work. Gotta pay the bills.

The first two weeks at Camp Wojtyla were for middle schoolers. My favorite. #sarcasticfont. The nice part about the middle school camp is that most of their activities take place on the campgrounds, so my job is infinitely easier in terms of treating injuries and doling out meds. The bad part about the middle school camp is that most of their activities take place on the campgrounds, so it's boring. No summit hikes, no rock climbing, no rafting. But it's good to have it both ways. Made for better prayer time and more naps. #pronapper.

Once again, the best part of camp seems to be the counselors--thirty-some college students and seminarians from around the country who give up their summer for these youngsters. They. Are. Awesome.

Sherpa selfie--no stick needed

Also, this year, we have six full-time staff. Six! So things like new water pumps and an organized office and frequent mail runs all happen. Score! The joy of the summer and full-time staff is contagious, from singing while doing dishes to labeling the food all crazy-like.

I've decided that in terms of simplicity and not wrecking my back, hammock camping is for sure the way to go. Look at my tiny little home. Isn't it cute? Bug net, tarp, and a holster for my walkie-talkie. All without killing the wildflowers.

It's true that nature makes a great cathedral--prayer and reflection come super easy at 8,000 feet. And God has been so good moving in my heart the last 2 weeks, drawing me closer to Him and reassuring me in my ways. Looking forward to 2 more weeks, complete with all the fun stuff and no sleep.

Love wins

I’ve been torn on what to say, if anything, in relation to yesterday’s Supreme Court decision. I am not surprised by it, but I am saddened by it. However, I find myself having a much stronger reaction to the social media response to it, and here’s why.

I lament that the left-leaning secular crowds have claimed “Love wins” as their mantra. It sounds so intuitive and so, well, loving, that anyone who disagrees with anything they say is labeled a hater and a bigot. Who doesn’t want love to win? But here’s the truth. Love isn’t 5 appointed judges making some arbitrary decision. Love isn’t being able to be with whomever you wish, for however long you wish, for whatever reason you wish. Love is a man who hung on a cross for three hours after enduring abandonment, mocking, torture, and crucifixion, who then conquered death and rose again. Love is a God who holds us in existence, whose love is so concrete and dynamic that it creates. Love is wanting the good of the other person for his or her own sake (and we could have a whole different discussion about defining “the good”, but suffice it to say it’s not comfort). So, yes, love wins. Love always wins. But I’m reclaiming that phrase for Love Himself, who wants better for us. Who wants us to walk the straight and narrow, which is difficult to be sure, but leads to life to the full.

Furthermore, I’m upset by the subtle, unrecognized discrimination of the so-called “tolerant”. All those people posting rainbows in solidarity with the “persecuted” would never post a cross to support the Christians around the world who are being put to death for their beliefs. They would never post a picture of a church if one were forced out of its tax-exempt status because it held to its beliefs in not holding same-sex union ceremonies. Those posting rainbows are only in solidarity with those who hold their same beliefs, namely that people should be able to do what they want, but only if those people are not Christians who are convinced that God’s law still trumps the law of the land. 

Finally, I’m disturbed by the short-sighted nature of those who are celebrating this decision as a victory. To say that marriage can be defined based on the whims of culture is to lead us farther down a slippery slope from which our society may never recover. This has nothing to do with the “rights” of homosexuals, to things like healthcare benefits, tax status, etc. To redefine marriage is to undermine the foundation of our culture, which is the nuclear family. What is to now stop someone from “marrying” their father, or brother, or dog, because who are you to tell someone who to love? When our children grow up seeing that “marriage” is merely a construct of convenience and enjoyment rather than commitment and covenant, they will extrapolate those values to everything else. I really don’t think it’s alarmist to go down this path. I think it’s ignorant and naïve not to.

So yes, it’s easy to post “Love wins” without thinking about what you are really saying, and it’s easy to say that anyone who disagrees with you is a bigot, but Love has always won and will always win, and Love looks a lot more like this:

Title IX Fail

I'm going to get on my soapbox for a hastily researched, but impassioned rant.

Here's the thing: women's soccer is a real sport. And in the United States, it is really the only soccer (USMNT qualifier thrills notwithstanding).

Case in point: The USWNT has won 4 Olympic golds and 2 World Cup titles (and has been on the podium in every Cup since the first one in 1991). No men's player will EVER come close to touching Kristine Lilly's international cap record of 352, and it's unlikely that any men's player will top Abby Wambach for goals (currently at 182).

And yet, the only media coverage that I saw leading up to this World Cup was over the lawsuit regarding the failure of FIFA to allow grass installation for the matches. The men's World Cup has been played on grass for the last 20 years. Turf not only plays a different game, but is dangerous (heat and injuries are much higher). It's also cheaper. So, turf it is.

Plus who really cares about women's soccer? Not the media. Denver Post coverage for the men's tournament began days before the first kickoff last year. Sunday's paper had one line the day after the women's tournament started, and it was the time of the televised Germany game that day, tucked away in the TV grid. No results from the first two games. No mention of the score to settle from 2011. No preview of the coming weeks.

It. Drives. Me. Crazy.

I realize that not everyone knows the names of the entire roster, or owns a jersey, or saved the picture of former coach Pia Sundhage on their camera from when the team came to Kansas City (because she's only adorable). And I'll also grant that we have lost a little bit of the magic of the Fab Five--women that carried the sport on their shoulders through sheer determination and love of the game. But can we please at least acknowledge that this is a sport? That this World Cup means something? That these women are incredible athletes that deserve far more recognition than they receive?

I would also take another title. Just sayin'.

The Edge of Time

My creative writing final. Not perfect, but I learned a lot while writing it, and a classmate said I'd improved 10-fold. This is a throwback to last summer's camp experience.

I spend most of the morning in the shadow of the cliff, my eyes drawn again and again to the imposing wall as if by some unseen force. It stares back, daring me to a rematch.

Two weeks earlier, I stood in the same shadow, with anticipation instead of wariness. The climbing route is aptly named: The Edge of Time. The edge is what strikes you, no matter how long you spend trying to take it in. A great slab of rock, wedged upright into the ground, as if a huge headstone was cracked in half and this piece was planted as a memorial.

That edge is where I got stuck that first time, forty feet up, my right leg shaking like it was tapping out a telegraph, despite my best efforts to control it. That edge is where I dangled, head heavy under the weight of my white helmet, telling my belayer to lower me down, mortified that the teenage girls had outdone me.

Now I am back, unsure if the possibility of vindication is worth the risk of another defeat. Being the only female on this climbing trip raises the stakes even higher; I can’t be “the girly girl”. I tighten my harness straps around my thighs and tug up hard on the belt loop to make sure it’s snug. My sweaty hands slide over the knots, double checking everything one last time. I turn back to my friend, holding the other end of the rope.

“Belay on?”

“On belay,” he says, indicating he is ready for me to begin.

At least one of us is.

I step closer and lay my palms on the cold granite. Inhale. Exhale. The rope pulls taut into my chest as the belayer takes in slack, forcing me to lean around it. I close my fingers around the first holds and lunge upwards. I settle into a rhythm of reaching, pulling, standing, reminding myself to use my legs, not my arms.

I surge past the point of defeat from two weeks ago, but my victory is short-lived. A few feet higher, I pull myself to standing and reach up yet again. My hands sweep left and right. Nothing. The ledge above me is barely enough to hook my fingernails on. I use my foot to grope for a step to my right, but it is out of reach. I am stuck. Again.

Voices call out from below with encouragement and suggestions, but all I hear is the one in my head telling me I’ve failed. How many more half-hearted attempts before I can throw in the towel? One more?

Resigned, I push up on my toes, pinched in the tight rubber shoes. I lean into the wall and strain upwards, trying to use my momentum to drive me past that ledge. Suddenly I’m 18 inches higher on the wall, not sure how I got here. I hear cheering from below and my fatigue and doubt evaporate. Surging ahead, my adrenaline crashes the same time my fingertips touch the metal anchor at the top. I collapse into the harness, letting it enfold me while I am lowered to the ground.