the most beautiful woman at mass

Years ago, I was neighbors with a woman who was struggling with addiction, and who would circle my car at the school bus sop, with cigarette in hand, clothes hanging from her wasted frame, and she would ask me about God. It was uncomfortable, to be honest, and I was not completely sure that I wanted to respond to what felt like God's will for me, and I'd be lying if I did not say, I was afraid. I was afraid of inviting her and her mess into my own messed up life. I was afraid to get too close, wondering what that would mean for me. I was scared that I would actually be called to live out my faith in the hard ways I can read about, but cower at the thought of actually doing.

With the encouragement of a favorite writer, also a recovering addict with rock solid faith, who assured me nobody is more afraid of this woman than the woman herself, I invited her to join me at mass. About four times, she said yes, and about four times, she never did. And then we moved. And I have not seen her in years.

The night before my son left for college, I brought to mass with me a similar fear that I had at that bus stop. A fear of living out God's will, a fear of walking directly through the hard things instead of around, a fear of what I sensed God was asking of me, and what possible mess that could mean, what possible circumstances might unfold if I were to actually do what He was asking. And as I walked into the church carrying this cross, the first woman I saw in the pews, was the woman from my bus stop; the woman from years ago, who circled around my car, who was asking about God.

And I have seen her since, at daily mass. And I have smiled and said her name at the kiss of peace. And I have kneeled down and sobbed each and every time, because this just might be the most obvious sign of hope God has ever thrown my way.

Do you even know the courage it must take for her to walk through those church doors? The strength? The humility? I weep at the thought of Jesus, and the joy He must feel, because of that woman's return. And I pray that she knows that. I pray that she knows that she is where she belongs, and that she is no different from any other broken woman sitting in that same church, and that her presence for me is just about the biggest and most profound witness of the power of God and the truth that there is always reason for hope.

You see? We think we need to be all cleaned up to lead others to Christ, don't we? We think we need to stand and kneel at the right times, and know all the words by heart, and sing the hymns loudly, and speak with the eloquence of a theologian or great Saint. We try to appear holy and confident and want to prove we have it all together and that we are in control and that we know what we are doing and that we are on top of things and because we say our prayers and know what Adoration is, and get all our work down, we are close to God, and so we are worthy to be His disciple, qualified to speak on His behalf. And yet, none of this true. None of this makes us worthy of anything. Except for, maybe, pride, ego, false humility.

What makes us worthy is that broken part of us that we are sure God does not love, and nobody wants to see. That wretchedness, that sin, that ache, that hollowness we have attempted to fill with dark things, and hide from others, certain that we are different than everyone else. It is precisely this broken part that God longs for, and that allows Him to to pour His grace deep within us; the grace we need to give us that courage, to give us that strength, to walk through the front door of His house, drop our hurt at His feet, and say, "I do not feel worthy to be here, but here I am. Help me, Lord. If you truly are real, please help me."

And I wonder if she feels helped. I have seen her two more times at Mass, and so something must be stirring. And if not for her, well, certainly for me. And I am working on the courage to let her know this. To let her know that not that many years ago, I was her. I was the woman who cautiously walked through those front doors at 9am on a weekday, who felt too broken to be there, who was sure all eyes were on me, because I was so different, because I was not like the others. And that because I found the courage to do so, I have even been told since, that yes, people did notice me...but not in the way I had imagined. They did not notice something was not right with me. They did not notice I did not belong. They noticed in fact, that something was beautiful. That faith was real. And they wanted the same for themselves. It sparked their own faith, it stirred something deep within them. And it was not because of anything that I did or that I was even aware of. It was all God. Every morsel of it. He used my pain and brokenness to help those around me, and I had absolutely no idea.

We can think what we are going through is pointless. We think the pain has no meaning. But God wastes nothing, you know. He makes use of it all.

God uses the weak. God uses the humble. God uses the ones who have tried everything to the point of a wasted frame. And He reminds us that there is always, always, ALWAYS, a reason for hope.

She is broken, and she knows it, and she has come to the living water. She is Magdalene, she is the woman circled by men with stones in hand, she is the woman at the well. She is faith come to life, the Gospels leaping off of the pages. She is hope and she is grace. And she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen at mass.