I Have Set My Hand to the Plow

Once again another semester has come and gone, and I, standing at this crossroads that is Christmas break, am given a chance to reflect on the whirlwind that was my life for the last four months. This past semester may have been the most difficult one ever, but because it was difficult it was also rewarding—spiritually and intellectually.

In October, I learned what it is like to be confronted with something that turns you bitter against the Lord and to choose that bitterness and to pretend that everything is still okay even when it isn’t. Losing both of my grandmothers three months apart from each other was not exactly my ideal plan for how life was going to go this year. And I refused to acknowledge for a couple weeks that I was angry with the Lord for taking them both so quickly. In a sense, I didn’t want Him to heal this grief in me. I told myself that I was okay with their deaths. I just didn’t want anyone to be involved—even God. And then one day, wondering why I was having such a difficult time praying, I realized that I had put this wall up.

I asked myself: What kind of disciple would I be if I stopped here, dropped the cross, and turned back now? I knew then that I couldn’t drop the cross, that I didn’t want to drop the cross. I knew I had to be faithful, to move forward, to allow this piece of the cross to shape me towards sainthood. I knew that I had already set my hand to the plow and that I could not look back. I wanted to be fit for the Kingdom of God.

Another said, “I will follow you, Lord; but let me first say farewell to those at my home.” Jesus said to him, “No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” 

– Luke 9:61–62

This image of plowing was one that continued with me through the rest of the semester, as I struggled with the difficulties of researching and writing my thesis, trying to complete my reading homework, and saying “no” to numerous opportunities that I would have taken if I didn’t have work to do. The image of plowing is one that will probably continue with me through the rest of my life. Why?

Plowing is an image that speaks to me of choice. It reminds me that I have chosen. I have chosen Christ. I have chosen holiness. I have chosen to plow until I reach the Kingdom. I have chosen to write. I have chosen to love.

Deliberately I have set my hand to work, knowing that it will be difficult—the soil is heavy, the plow is clumsy, my grip is slippery. I am going to sweat. There is going to be struggle, exhaustion. Perhaps sometimes I will fall.

And when I am overwhelmed in the midst of a furrow, I can abandon the field, leaving it unfinished and unable to bear abundant fruit. I can look back. But then my work will be unfit for the Kingdom of God.

Or I can plow ever onwards, ever so slowly, in the path I have already chosen, towards the Kingdom of Heaven. Christ Himself waits at the end of the furrow with open arms. All I need is to keep my eyes on Him—to persevere—and He will allow my plowing to make the field fertile.

Constancy that nothing can shake. That’s what you need. Ask God for it, and do what you can to obtain it: for it is a great safeguard against your ever turning from the fruitful way you have chosen. 

- St. Josemaria Escriva

The Best of Me

Yesterday morning, I drove into nearby Pittsburgh in an attempt to attend a talk that I thought would inspire and influence me. It was called “Writing as Vocation.” All week (more or less) I asked people if they wanted to go with me and even succeeded in finding someone willing to drive into the city with me. Unfortunately, that fell through about twenty-four hours before hand, as she found out about a meeting she was required to attend. I decided that I would go to the talk anyways, even if that meant driving by myself.

Despite the fact that I am typically okay with driving in traffic, I got flustered in the light traffic that I encountered coming through the tunnel on Saturday morning. The short version of this story is that I ended up driving around downtown Pitt in search of St. Paul’s Cathedral, certain that I would find it. But my twenty-minute cushion time quickly dwindled as I realized that I was nowhere near the cathedral. 

In a last effort to get to the talk on time, I got back onto the highway that I had come from. The highway only took me back to the tunnel and so I drove out of the city, fifteen minutes after the start time of the lecture, frustrated with my spoiled plans.

“This is stupid.”

“Lord, bring good out of this.”

The two phrases alternated in my head for the next five minutes. Then I made up my mind to enjoy myself and drove to a little French café that I discovered over the summer, deciding that well, if I couldn’t attend a lecture about the vocation of writing, I could at least write.

Maybe that is what I really needed that morning—a sort of retreat from familiar faces and places, a time to recollect myself and to think about how writing is a vocation and what that means for my life.

Maybe there are times in our lives when we don’t need conversation. Times to pause and think. Times to enjoy a smooth cup of black coffee. Times to fill the cream colored spaces between notebook lines with dark loops and swirls.

Writing is something I can throw myself into—with my heart, my mind, my short experience, and my faulty wisdom—and become better for it.

Writing requires endless learning. Not simply learning in the sense of research, but in a deepening disposition of wonder towards the world. 

In the development of a critical eye for culture and for my own writing. 

In the discovery of my own relationship with the Infinite. 

In an understanding of how particular circumstances relate to the universal situation of man. 

In a tuning of my rhythmic ear. 

In a ripening sense of humor. 

In a sharpening of my notice of small intimate details. 

In a deepening ability to relate to all types of people simply because they are people and I am a person. In a discipline and passion for the gritty revision of my own words. 

In a vocabulary that expands to become more precise.

At this moment, looking at all these ways that writing will continue to demand the best of me and to sharpen what exists of me now, I have great hope! It is a work that will not be futile, a calling that will stretch me beyond the narrow limits that I set for myself.

Writing about writing—what a stereotype! But it’s necessary sometimes to step back from what we are doing and to think about why we do those things.

So why do I write? I write because it’s how I discover the world. It’s how I discover myself. And it’s how I discover God.

If the glory of God is man fully alive, I pray that the Holy Spirit comes to animate me, to inebriate my writing, so that my person and my words may be a spring of water welling up to eternal life; so that through my work, I may be refined into the sanctity that the Lord requires of me.

Of A Lack of TP and Other Nonsense

Yesterday I discovered the one thing that has the ability to make me grumpy first thing in the morning: a complete toilet paper deficiency in my house. It wasn't just a toilet paper shortage. No. There was not one sheet of TP in the entire house. I can live without coffee or in grave circumstances, even breakfast. But yesterday morning I would not endure living without toilet paper, so I promptly took myself across town to the local Wal-Mart.

Now we have toilet paper again and I have enough dryer sheets to last me for a year. They're hypoallergenic. Yeah yeah…big deal.

In other news, I'm beginning to think that I may never need to water my plants this summer. It rains here, on average, every twenty-four hours. Three of my six tomato plants started to blossom this week, and the pepper plants are getting nice and tall. Hooray! Fresh vegetables will soon be appearing in my own backyard.

Since I don't have to take time out of my day (or evening) to worry about watering the plants, I can spend more time perfecting my Dutch Blitz skillz. I think Dutch Blitz is the most addictive card game ever, but maybe that's just because I can never beat my housemate when I play against her…

When Dutch Blitz stresses me out too much (or when there's nobody to play it with), I usually pick up a book and start reading. As a kid I devoured books, probably finishing two or three every week. I remember always going to the library during the summertime and checking out a nice healthy stack of books (approximately 5-8). My efficacy as an avid summertime book reader has greatly diminished. I have only finished one book so far this summer, even though I've started at least five. (Well, I guess I've finished two books if you count the one I had to read for work.) But the loss of my book-ravaging has come with a gain - the desire to spend more time with what I'm reading and to really understand it.

Life as a Costume Elf

During the first semester of my freshman year at college, I was blessed to find the coolest student job ever – sewing costumes for each semester’s theatrical production. Since I have been sewing since roughly age twelve, thanks to the inspiration of my friend L, and because the theatre was my refuge during the crazy years of high school, this was naturally the perfect job for me. The charm of this job has not worn off in the past three years.

After people have asked me where the costume shop is located, the next most common question I get is: “Wait…you make clothes?” Apparently saying that I sew costumes for the theatre isn’t a clear answer. So I respond calmly that yes, I make clothes and that, in fact, I get paid to do it. Sometimes people also ask what it is like to sew costumes for my job.

The first duty of each semester is to wait patiently for a cast. Once that small detail has been settled, we measure the actors – around their heads, their arms, their legs – and we jokingly warn them that the worst is yet to come. Measurements are the easy part; costume fittings, not so much.

During the beginning part of the semester research on the time period of the show is printed out and talked through. Then an exorbitant amount of time is spent sorting through every single stitch of clothing in the costume closet to see if there are any pieces that could possibly be worn in this particular show. Sometimes we get bored and we play dress-up, donning ridiculous hats that we would never wear in real life.

Once we have pulled out all the potential costumes we meet with the student designers and see which costumes are left that we need to make. During this part of the process, lots of time is spent looking through pictures of patterns and conferring with student designers about which fabrics are suitable for which characters based on their temperament and social status.

The next part is the best: we actually make the costumes! We typically cut out the various pattern pieces on the landing of the stairwell, since it is a wide-open space where we can easily spread out the fabric on the floor, and we get the strangest reactions from people who come by to go up or down those stairs. “Oh! I’m sorry.” Or “what are you doing?” Even “what is this for?” It’s a great way to promote the show!

Numerous other tasks go into making each show a success, including last minute scrambling to add drawstrings to pants, hem up skirts, or stitch trim to suit jackets before actors go onstage for the final dress rehearsal before opening night. One of the funniest instances of this was the time when an actor came up to the costume shop on the night of the final dress rehearsal and told me, “I don’t have a costume.” You what? Sure enough, we had a suit for him, but we had never put the appropriate trim on it, or even hemmed his pants. Oops. His suit got done in time for opening night, though.

Once show week rolls around and all the actors are properly clothed and on stage, one of us “elves” is stationed back stage every show in case there are any emergency repairs. This is our reward for all the hard labor of the semester. As I sit in the costume shop and work on homework or clean up the tornado of fabric scraps and threads, I can hear the sounds of the actors’ voices playing over the speakers like an old-time radio drama…

“You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate,

And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst;

But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom

Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,

For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,

Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;

Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,

Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,

Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,

Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.”

― William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew