Author: Maria

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Quiet Pages: Recovering from the Meh

The Power of Rest

I just finished another journal filled with snippets of scripture, quotes from saints, and the occasional inspirational words from writers and other artists. I started this journaling five years ago when I thought I would never be able to string two words together on the page, let alone a sentence. Writer’s block hit hard and I felt every ounce of creativity seep out from my pores. You can do the math about one of the probable reasons, but the truth is that I periodically go dark on the page. It flies against the common maxim that writers must have a constant flow of productivity. Sure, there are many writers who are prolific. And probably just as many who very clearly aren’t. I fall into that latter group, mostly because I’ve come to recognize my own cycle of productivity. For me, the best thing to do for my creativity is to put down the pen every once in a while.

These periods of writer’s block flow more like acedia, and I’ve recently noted the correlation between periods of spiritual listlessness and writer’s block. Is one responsible for the other? I don’t know the directional flow of this scenario, but for me, the two go hand-in-hand. I think it is because I journal my prayers. I laugh at using the literary label that my prayers are epistles, but there you go. Like little Venerable Nennolina, I write love letters to Jesus.

It has taken me a lifetime to reconcile with the idea that putting down the pen isn’t laziness but an opportunity for renewal. In many ways, it is an act of faith because I know that eventually I will make my way back to the page. Spiritually, it has been a battle against stacking on more and more devotions and setting a demanding schedule for prayer when I don’t feel like praying. And there’s the problem, if on the page I was just putting words down to hit a self-ascribed word count, prayer, on the other side of that coin, becomes rote. Scrupulous. A check-list to accomplish rather than relationship with the Lord. One Our Father prayed reverently trumps zipping through the Liturgy of the Hours while simultaneously compiling a grocery list and responding to the ding of my phone.

Seeking sacred silence becomes the antidote. It’s easier said than done, but I have found renewal in the silence. A walk in the woods. An activity far away from the usual things I do. Turning off all the electronic distractions that are on 24/7. All of that resets me. The remarkable thing about the re-set is two-fold. Somehow, time opens up and I do have time for the devotions I love, and this time in prayer becomes authentic relationship with God. And the pages fill up with endless ideas and content.

How does that happen? I think the short answer is recovery. When I rest, my body heals and refreshes itself, but so does my mind, and so does my spirit. Remember that we are called to rest on the Sabbath. Too often, my Sundays become the last-ditch effort to get everything done that didn’t get done before starting the next week. What if giving myself physical rest gives me energy to get through the week without having things pile on over the weekend? What if giving my mind rest opens the avenue for creativity? What if seeking silence in a sacred space opens my heart to hear the Lord?

My Favorite Recovery Strategy

For me, journaling, or rather, not journaling, is the first sign that I am in need of refreshment. It’s time to walk or sleep or sit in nature. It’s time to seek the silence in a dimly lit chapel and stop talking and making demands and instead listen quietly to what the Lord places on my heart. It is in this rest that I gather strength for the next thing.

So what can you do when, as a writer, you want to maintain the discipline of writing even when you aren’t producing it? I turn to the quote journal where I curate writing instead of producing it. I record inspiration, wisdom, recommendations, consolations, all from saints or scripture or other spiritual writings. It feeds my soul and keeps the ink flowing until one day, my creative voice re-emerges.

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A Lifetime Ago

Listen to my story in my own voice.

A Baby Passport

Sixty years ago today, my mother and I left Cuba with the hope of reuniting with my father. Well. My mother would be reuniting with my father. I would be meeting him for the first time. It would be some months before that hope and yearning would be realized.

My parents were married young, in the early days of the communist Castro regime. Nationalization of businesses, both foreign and domestic, resulted in both my grandfathers losing their ability to provide for their families. An uncle was imprisoned for attempting to escape the country. Religious persecution was rampant. Hunger was rampant; the ration booklets given to each family, on paper, was insufficient. In reality, it was not worth the paper and ink expended to produce it because there was no food, no supplies. Sixty years ago the situation was dire. Today the Cuban people, crushed by a communism, are hungrier than ever. Nothing has changed in a lifetime. On the contrary, it has devolved further into despairing want.

My parents made the decision to leave, and as evidenced in my passport, it was a multi-year mission of disappointment and hope. They were married in the late spring of 1962, and shortly thereafter, my father was granted both entry to the US, and exit from Cuba. He came ahead of my mother to get a job and find a home, and in the interim, the Cuban Missile Crisis shut down the possibility for my mother, pregnant with me, to follow him to the US.

My passport is a record of every attempt to find any country in the world that would take us. There were opportunities, but the communist regime, in its totalitarian goal of separating families and fomenting despair, denied every visa. Finally, after years of pleading, prayers, and very likely, bribes, my maternal grandfather secured an exit visa for us. My passport is covered in entry visas from Spain, my grandparents’ homeland, but no exit was ever given for us to be received by family, Instead, we were left to the mercy of a former business associate of my grandfather, who received us in Mexico.

I have a devotion to Our Lady of Guadalupe, one that was never encouraged in my home, where Our Lady of Charity, patroness of Cuba, was prominant. But it was in the shadow of Our Lady of Guadalupe that my mother and I were kept safe in Mexico City while awaiting our reunion in the US. I came to this understanding as an adult, and hope to one day return to that little harbor of safety where we waited in limbo to give my thanks.

I can only imagine the spectrum of fears and anxiety my family felt. It is a story of intrigue, hope, despair, hope again, surrender, and trust.

Today I reflect on the sacrifices made for me. Sacrifices that came at great costs across generations, shifting, changing while creating and re-creating a family story that that spans two continents and three countries. It is a story of exile that is both uniquely personal and tragically a common thread that all too often is the human condition. And yet, I am grateful for it all.

I have often felt that I straddled two countries and two cultures, belonging fully to neither, but where time heals some wounds and scars over others, there is something to be said about constancy and presence. The United States has been my home for 60 years. It is a mere technicality that my citizenship was granted to me as a young adult rather than at birth. What’s a few years across six decades? And yet…I remain neither here nor there, and perhaps that is the last wound, the last vestige of what it means to be in exile.

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Sister Jean: Trusting God with Every Next Act

When I heard that Sister Jean Dolores Schmidt had passed away this week at 106, I was a little saddened before reflecting on what an incredible life she led, and what an incredible legacy she has left. If there was anyone who knew how to live joyfully, purposefully, and with complete trust in God’s plan, it was Sister Jean.

You probably know her as the spirited chaplain for Loyola University Chicago’s basketball team, the charming nun in maroon and gold who became a hit during the team’s unexpected run to the Final Four in 2018. But for those of us who followed her story a little more closely, she was so much more than a team mascot, she was a lifelong educator, mentor, and proof that God’s call doesn’t have an expiration date.

She was also part of the inspiration behind my book, A Beautiful Second Act. Because Sister Jean didn’t just talk about trusting God with your next chapter, she lived it.

A Life Rooted in Faith and Student

Sister Jean’s career in education stretched across decades in classrooms, campuses, and generations of students who were touched by her. She entered the Sisters of Charity of the Blessed Virgin Mary back in 1937 and from then on, teaching and guiding young people became her life’s work.

She taught in California before “graduating” and moving on to Mundelein College in Chicago, and when the college merged with Loyola in the early ’90s, she just kept right on going with her mentoring, advising, praying, and showing up for students in unexpected ways.

The Inspiration She Gave Me

When most people would have been thinking about retirement, she was stepping into a brand-new chapter as Loyola’s team chaplain. She was in her 70s. That’s when the world really started to see what her students already knew: this woman radiated faith, joy, and a fierce love for her community. I loved to see the love poured out to her by the students. She was truly a gift to all who knew her.

Sister Jean was sharp, funny, and full of energy. She answered emails, gave interviews, prayed with players, and waved from her courtside seat at a hundred years old!

But even in all the noise and fame, she never lost her center. She kept it simple: love God, love people, and keep saying yes to the next thing He puts in front of you.

When I was writing about women who embrace new beginnings with grace, Sister Jean immediately came to mind. She didn’t reinvent herself so much as open herself to God, to change, and to life.

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. May she rest in peace. Amen.

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