Grace

“Who am I Lord?” asked St. Maria of Paris before she found her vocation as a monastic. She went on to provide an answer to her own question:
“Only a pretender, broadcasting grace, distributing sparks from the fire.”

By that fire I am burned but not consumed, despite the one step forward three steps back routine that’s put a permanent limp in my stride, like Jacob forever wounded after wrestling with the Angel. I have questions too, you know– loud, accusing inquiries about my motives, authenticity, and audaciousness:

“Do you think if they knew how imperfect you were, how easily persuaded you continue to be by greed, fatigue, and hunger, they would listen?”

“Only a pretender,” Oh dear St. Maria, is it possible to admit such a thing? Well, shoot then, let’s do it! I am a fake. I’m a fraud. And yet still, still yet, my weary soul keeps reaching - keeps wrestling with the sin that mocks my Faith. But I believe, with every flawed fiber in my being! Prayers for mercy continue rolling off my tongue, even as it slices, and sometimes (how I do wish it were all the time) edifies my neighbor. Forgive me my brothers and sisters; I beg of you to focus only on the grace heaped generously upon this silly, foolish girl - the same grace, of our Lord, God and Savior Jesus Christ, I will continue to broadcast until death unveils the mystery of eternity.