Peter

I returned home from a whirlwind (haha I said 'whirlwind') long weekend in Buenos Ay-res (highlights: evening tango show in the basement of an old cafe, staying with a group of hilarious and adorable Sisters of San Jose in their tercer-piso convent in the center of the city and waking up every morning to the sounds of children at recess in the grade school below us, buying my first ever pair of really fabulous shoes [saying 'really fabulous shoes' reminds me of Pirtle], singing 'Don't Cry for Me, Argentina' for like four days straight, steak, red wine, medialunas and coffee every morning, astoundingly attractive young gentlemen, etc etc. details to come. no seriously)... to find an unread email from Steve in the ol' inbox. Somehow, even from 8,000 miles away, I managed to hear from about 60 different people how incredible this past Sunday's liturgy was. And Steve sent out one of those thank you for your beautiful ministry here's a touching story emails that always make me cry.

So I did. Of course.

I love this semester for what an incredible struggle it's been. I often find myself frustrated here at what a poor 'light' I'm being. Cultural adjustments and language limitations have so often rendered me impatient where I would have once been calm, frustrated where I'd have once been laughing, short and sarcastic where I'd one have been warm, timid and shy where I'd once have been outgoing. Especially throughout the first half of the semester, I so often felt this subtle, bitter taste of hypocrisy in my mouth when I'd go on endlessly about the glories and wonders of my Vision summer to the other people in the ND group here and then turn around and succumb to frustration or impatience or sarcasm about something probably very minor. And whenever that happens, I think about how I miss my friends and my Folk Choir and my faith community and the cereal section in SDH and self-imposed all-nighters and late-night conversations in Starbucks and nerdy jokes about liturgical music and the loft and the ceiling of CoMo 329. Long, peaceful, wonderful conversations with Fr. Kollman whenever I start thinking too hard about my future and freak out. The grotto after dark. Complaining about the weather. Sneaking coffee into the library. The windy Sunday morning walk from South to the Basilica. The Badin stairwell. O'Shag. Leaves. I get jealous that I never got the Vision group honeymoon, that I never got to walk into DeBart on the first day of classes and see it all in a new light. I get jealous that I'll have been in choir for almost two years before being in a group picture and singing in a Concert for the Missions. I get jealous when I get emails for campus lectures and events and concerts that I've been waiting to happen for like two years now.

And then I roll my eyes at myself, because if I'm only capable of being the best version of myself when I'm surrounded by the veritable paradise of Notre Dame, well, maybe I'm not the person I thought I was, or at the very least not trying hard enough to be the person I know I can be. It's easy to be kind when everyone is kind to you. It's easy to pray, to contemplate, to discern, when you're surrounded by so many people setting such a beautiful example. And it's easy... no, it's not, faith is never easy... but easier, I guess, to walk the path, you know, when you're walking it with everyone you love. And none of us knows where we're going, really, no one sees the road ahead, but I guess the difference is the faith in the unknowing. And how much more beautiful it is to know you don't know and have faith and have it in community than to not know and not know and not know.

I need to be trying harder. To stop and consider that coming down from the mountain of this summer and the past two years implies that the view from the base isn't going to be what it was at the summit, but that doesn't change the mission, and actually, that's sort of the point of it all. That's the reason you climbed all the way up there to begin with. But I realized today that I also need to stop getting frustrated at myself for being homesick sometimes. I struggle with being comfortable. I've been immensely blessed these past four years to encounter and be welcomed into communities of urban poverty, rural poverty, of North, Central, and South American poverty, of spiritual poverty and social unrest, of human rights violations and sweeping disregard for the dignity of human life, of faith and despair and simplicity and ordinary people doing incredible things to change the world around them. And who am I to be comfortable after all of that. I'll never forget standing in the middle of my bedroom for the first time after coming home from Mexico, just standing there, looking around and feeling lost, and lying down on my bed and missing the earthy discomfort of the scratchy burlap cot I'd been sleeping on in a room with a dozen other people and spiders the size of my hand. Because blessed are the poor, and blessed are the simple, in ways I couldn't have begun to understand until I finally accepted the invitation to an encounter with poverty and simplicity themselves.

And I don't want to be comfortable. Not completely. But that's what home is. And who am I, really, who am I, to look Christ in his so many earthly eyes and say a polite 'no, thank you' to the abundant, undeserved, luxurious comfort that comes with knowing, even in the middle of God Knows Where This Week, South America, that there's somewhere in the world in which I am unconditionally loved. Of course it's easier to be our best when we're surrounded by who we love and what we know. That's what home is. That's the point of home. And that's why we miss it. It's not a cop-out. It's Christ as much as the poor are Christ. And that's what we mean when we pray that our homes and our families and our communities of faith might become on earth reflections of God's love. Unconditional love. Heaven on earth.

Charity begins at home. And I think that even charity comes back home too.

I miss you all. A lot.