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I recently listened to a Pints With Aquinas podcast episode with guest Malcolm Guite, an author and poet.
What he had to say about stories and poetry was quite fascinating. It revived something inside me and made me think about story in a new way. I pulled out my copy of "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” a poem I hadn't looked at since my sophomore year of college, and re-read the whole thing.
I flipped through the first few pages of J.R.R. Tolkien's translation of Beowulf, which I also hadn't read since college, and saw it in a different light.
I found an audiobook of L'Morte D'Arthur and listened to nothing but the first few sentences. It still struck me how beautiful the story was despite thinking it boring when I first read parts of it for English class in high school.
There is something grand about these stories, something timeless. But I haven't reflected on it enough to have the words to describe what that is.
The greatest story I know, that of Jesus's life, death, and resurrection, is also grand. I have found that story is most profoundly reflected in the prayers, life, and art of the Catholic faith.
When I converted to Catholicism, there was certainly an intellectual conversion, but what wouldn't let me go is that the Catholic way of life is so beautiful. It was beauty and story along with it that had all the puzzle pieces clicking together in my head.
From the moment one enters a Catholic church a story is being told. It begins with blessing yourself from the holy water fonts, a reminder of baptism and a symbol of purification before entering a sacred space. Baptism begins the journey towards Christ.
Genuflecting before Christ in the tabernacle typically follows that, showing one's reverence for Christ and the desire to seek a relationship with him.
Each gesture, movement, and spoken word during Mass continue that story of relationship and reverence. Each mass the story of Christ's last supper and sacrifice on the cross is retold. We physically enter that story by partaking in communion.
An hour long mass that tells the full story of Christ then becomes a small part of the full story of our lives. As I've been reflecting more on seeing my life as a story, I can see all the stories I've written in my mind about the future, some that became reality in part, and others that did not.
One of those stories that did not become reality has affected me greatly the past month.
It was a story of belonging, of becoming more ingrained in this community I've come to love. A story where I'd had my last first date. And it was a story where I could call the jack pines home for the rest of my life.
It was a beautiful story, but it wasn't the one that God wanted to tell.
Instead, he told the story where I fell ill, not once, but twice: The first time where I woke in the middle of the night shivering from a high fever and layers of blankets and clothes did no good. I whispered prayers in the midst of it, offering my sufferings for the intentions in my heart. The second time two weeks later, with a low fever but after effects that didn't lose their grip until over a week later. Headaches, fatigue, and loss of appetite persisted.
But in between those sicknesses, he gave me a blessing. I spent the two most healing days of my life exploring some yet unexplored areas of Northeast Michigan with my twin sister. Lumberman's Monument, Oscoda, the Presque Isle lighthouses. We jumped off the pier at Rockport, went to the quarry overlook in Rogers City, and of course saw Toy Story 5 at Sanctuary Cinema.
A second blessing the Lord gave me when I found out one of my prayer intentions that I'd had while ill was answered. A gentle reminder from God that he is listening and that I didn't suffer in vain.
Although different from what I hoped for, the story that God told was beautiful and meaningful in its own way.
One day I'll get that story of belonging that I dream of too. In the meantime, I will continue seeking the Lord in the story he is telling through me and through others.