Go now.

You are forgiven.



It’s easy to get overwhelmed in life, even if you’re living in Paradise. And it’s not necessarily always a matter of negative energy bogging us down. Sometimes we can get so swept up in the excitement and movement of every day that we forget to bring our feet back to earth and take a breath.

I found myself falling into that familiar pattern recently. It’s funny: I recently spoke with my brother, who told me that the question of whether or not I ever have a bad day here in Kentucky had been raised back home on the island. I had to laugh. When I look at my past blog entries - which happen to be how most of you keep up-to-date on what I’m up to down here - I really do appear to be walking on clouds, conducting a blissful existence filled with rainbows, wildflowers, and sunshine. For the most part, this is remarkably true. But there is the occasional sensory overload, a few days where I realize that my mind, body, and soul are moving at different rates of speed and I need to find a way to refocus my energy on what I’m here for (in other words, whatever the Boss is wanting).

Holy Week is such a perfect time to tackle this task. It’s such a naturally grace-filled time; even if you’re not trying to get closer to God, He’s nearly impossible to avoid. On Palm Sunday, an announcement was made after Mass that confessions would be heard at the church on Wednesday, accompanied by Eucharistic Adoration. Now, despite the fact that the thought of Confession makes me start wringing my hands (as you Newman kids know quite well), I was missing my churches on Long Island very much: my dark, hidden back corner at St. Joseph’s, the reverence and community of the Holy Hour at the seminary, even the musty old chapel at Joe’s Place. And I was feeling like I was trying a little too hard to be in control. So, I decided that I had to make it there. And, though it kept me up most of the night before, I went.

I won’t go into the gory details of my imperfections. I don‘t have the necessary space here, nor do I have the interest of my readers (well, that may not entirely be true, but if you‘re reading this, chances are you have a fair enough idea of all that’s wrong with me). Let’s just say that, upon leaving the church, I felt a much-welcomed sense of peace within me. The sun was casting a golden glow on everything, and with my friend driving home, I let the wind hold my hand outside the window and run its fingers through my hair.

We got back to Camp AJ, and my friend wanted to check on the status of a jugline he’d set out earlier. We hopped into a canoe, yours truly landing directly in a very chilly puddle of water. The night was pleasant, and we rowed out to the jug floating on the surface. Well, he rowed. I made a valiant effort. Thank God, these people seem to have quickly become accustomed to the fact that, for all of my good intentions, I tend to be a complete and utter gong show. I think they get a kick out of it for the most part, actually.

Anyway, having realized an absence of fish on the line, we spent a few minutes drifting, listening to the sounds of the birds and frogs chirping in the twilight. We eventually made it back to the dock and, being that my jeans were already soaked, I was seized with the notion of getting the rest of me equally wet by jumping into the lake.

This isn’t nearly as crazy as it sounds, guys. I’m the only one in my house who hasn’t done it, yet. The night was getting a little chilly, but I was still on this Penance high and, damnit, I was going to make the most of it. So, after ten minutes of “You won’t do it”s and repeated false alarms with my friend (who really couldn‘t tell until the very end whether or not I was serious), I jumped.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never been so cold in my entire life. That dark water closed over my head, and every square inch of my skin was electrified by the cold. My lungs compressed, and I couldn’t even feel my blue-jeaned legs as they propelled me to the surface, where I gasped for air, wide-eyed and watching my friend enjoying my shock a little too much. He jumped in, too, of course, and we scrambled back up onto the dock, shivering and laughing before jumping in one more time for good measure. Then we tore up to the house in my car, windows down and blasting Led Zeppelin almost louder than we could sing along to it.

How awesome it is to be free. To be able to shed the mantle of guilt and pain and worry that gets heavier every day you’re on this earth in order to fold yourself in an embrace of love and forgiveness that’s always there and always has been. To quit letting your shortcomings hold you back from all that this life has to offer. To jump in and get the thrill of your life, to climb out dripping and shaking and smiling and thanking God for letting you wake up that morning. To get a second chance at a fresh perspective. To feel alive because you are.