I’d Rather Go to Heaven

Aug 5, 2016 | 3 comments


By Amata

Some years ago, I was talking with a dear friend.  She and her husband had been struggling to conceive, and she was sharing with me how painful this experience was.  However, she said, if this was something that she needed to go through, to suffer, so that she could become holy, then so be it.  She said she’d rather go to Heaven than have a baby, if that was what it took to get to heaven, if this experience of infertility was purifying her and sanctifying her through her pain.

Her words that day stuck with me.  She’d rather go to heaven than have a baby, if that was what it took.  I continued to ponder and to be amazed by those words. I grew up in a large family, where babies are seen as one of the greatest gifts God can give, and now I feel myself drawn to marriage.  I love babies, and I could see the pain in my friend’s eyes as she spoke. And yet, she would rather go to Heaven than have a baby.  Her desire for God, for sanctity, and for doing God’s will was greater than her desire to have a child of her own.

St. Ignatius talks about the indifference that is necessary for sanctity.  He is not talking about a world in which we have absolutely no desires. Rather, he is talking about a world where our desires match God’s desires for us, where we make decisions based on God’s will, and where we subject our own desires to God’s desires for us.  When I first heard of this idea, I struggled to understand what it really means. What does this holy indifference really look like in today’s world?

I think I saw it in my friend’s eyes that day.  She’d rather go to Heaven.  She was placing her own desires at the feet of God and accepting His will for her as necessary for her own salvation. And even as she spoke, there was a joy behind the pain.  Nobody was twisting her arm making her accept the will of God. Rather, mingled with her tears there was a genuine desire for Heaven and an excitement at the thought of seeing God Himself face to face for all eternity. She’d rather go to Heaven.
I think that, in many ways, the greatest sufferings in our life come from a lack of this holy difference.  If we are really
able to say “blessed be God” no matter what comes, if we can learn to let go of something because it does not correspond with God’s will for us at this moment, then I think our lives would be so much easier. Easier said than done, I know.

As I continue to ponder my own journey of discernment of religious life, through living active life and nearly joining a cloistered community, these words have stuck with me. Would I like to still be in my religious community, joking that I’ll be buried out back?  Yes. But, I’d rather go to Heaven, and if living in the world as a layperson is my path to sanctity, then so be it. Would I rather have had that cloistered vocation that I explored? Somedays, yes. But, I’d rather go to Heaven.

And now, as I discern married life and am surrounded by friends and siblings with families of their own, it is easy to be frustrated. I never imagined that at this point in my life I would still be so… unsettled. Would I absolutely love to have a family of my own right now, or at least a serious boyfriend, so that I can be closer to the vocation God seems to have in mind for me? Oh, yes, by all means!

But, I’d rather go to Heaven.

Friends Under the Same Sky

Jan 21, 2016 | 0 comments


By Cecilia Therese.

As I transition after leaving the convent after 10 years,the hardest thing has been to miss everyone that I had meet in the apostolate in the parishes where I worked. I was at a parish for 6 years and in that time I met families, parishioners that became like family. Not being able to see them or talk to them is very heavy in my heart. Today I was reading the Bible and I came across this verse:

Genesis 31:49 “The Lord watch between you and me, when we are out of one another’s sight.” This could be a great prayer to lift up to God while we are missing them.  I also came across this : “Whenever I miss my friends, I look in the sky although I can’t see them there. But I feel happy because we are under the same sky.”

The great thing is we have a Mother -The Blessed Virgin Mary. We can ask her to keep all those we had to leave from under her mantle.  Recently I heard that a parishioner I was close with died of cancer this past month. She was 28 years old and a mother of 3 little children. I had the grace to sing and play organ at her wedding a few months ago and in her wedding she was baptized, received first communion, confirmed and made her wedding vows all in the same ceremony! It was beautiful to see her baptized in her wedding dress. She died on a Saturday (the Day of the Blessed Virgin Mary close to 3pm).I am sure Mary was waiting for her in heaven.

So when we are in those moments where we miss the convent and people we left behind, we can turn to Our Lady and ask her to be with us and with those we care about. She went to Jesus at the wedding feast of Cana in her concern and said they have no wine. She is always interceding and she is the queen of heaven and earth.  We are under the same sky as those we left. The Blessed Mother is also there. When you look up at the sky see your friends and the Blessed Virgin Mary.

“If you ever feel distressed during your day call upon our Lady and just say this simple prayer: ‘Mary, Mother of Jesus, please be a mother to me now.’ I must admit this prayer has never failed me.”
–Blessed Mother Teresa

“Love our Lady. And she will obtain abundant grace to help you conquer in your daily struggle.” –St. Josemaria Escriva

May Our Lady of Guadalupe Pray for us!!!!

Recalled to Life

Oct 5, 2014 | 0 comments

By Spiritu

I remember reading once that, if someone in the Middle Ages recovered from a severe illness after having been given the Last Rites, popular superstition considered that his earthly life was actually over: among other restrictions, he was not permitted to marry, to make a will, or to eat meat. *

Without wishing to seem morbid, when I left the convent, I began to understand a little of what those people would have felt as they muddled around after their recovery, trying to make sense of a world with which they were supposed to have finished. While getting ready to enter the religious life months earlier, I had realised why a former colleague – now a nun – said that in a way it felt like preparing for death: once my date of entry was set, I stepped into some strange area outside the regular flow of life, knowing that I was on a limited time-frame. I’d look in shop windows at racks of clothing, and realise that even if I bought anything, I wouldn’t have a chance to wear it. At the supermarket, I’d buy the smallest possible jars of honey or peanut butter (even though it was more expensive) because that way, I’d be able to get them finished in time. Also, of course, I was hauling bag after bag of clothes and books to the op-shop, leaving my closet looking stripped and abandoned… and most of all, my friends and family were holding small parties to farewell me, knowing it might be a long time before they saw me again.

And then I left. And then I was back.

Good grief, the noise! I’d lost the ability to tune out background music, the chatter and footsteps of passers-by, the rumbling and honking of cars, the clattering signals at pedestrian crossings… I couldn’t believe I’d ever been able to ignore so much noise. Advertisements on TV and billboards seemed surreal: having barely handled money for over half a year, I couldn’t believe that I was once again being marketed to. Visiting the places where I used to live or work was more like walking into a memory than living in the present, and everything I read/watched/listened to was something I had consciously, willingly, given up for good. None of it made any sense.

Of course, true death to the world only occurs during the rite of final profession, as the religious lies beneath a funeral pall while the Litany of the Saints is sung. So, what about the rest of us, who didn’t make it that far but still feel as if we’re no longer really part of the outside world?

For one thing, the experience gave me a taste of what being “in the world, but not of the world” feels like. It’s probably a good thing to feel slightly distant from the things you’re shopping for, to be able to step back from the advertising and think, “Seriously? They’re trying to make me want this thing? Do I want it?” It’s definitely a good thing to be able to sit back while sending a text or surfing the net and say, “You know, I lived for half a year without this and didn’t miss anything important.” And it’s wonderful to put your arms around your grandparents in the knowledge that, in other circumstances, you might not have seen them again. Basically, the world becomes unexpected: having lived outside it, you can’t now take it for granted, and whether that’s ultimately good or bad is defined by your response to it.

*See The Catholic Encyclopaedia chapter entitled ‘Subject’, paragraph 3. http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/05716a.htm.

At the age of seventeen, Spiritu watched some elderly nuns laughing together after Mass and decided instantly that this was what she wanted to do with her life. After six years of intense study about the Catholic faith and the religious vocation, she entered a beautiful community in her own country, Australia. Seven months later, she returned to the world, saddened that her discernment hadn’t worked out as she’d hoped. She is now exploring other possible options for the future, and owes an enormous debt of gratitude to her family for their love and help.