When you wake up, you look at your floor, strewn with t-shirts, phone numbers of friends, and your journal. You remember the moments that challenged you, the resolutions you made to make changes in your life: to delete the songs on your computer, to change who you hang out with, and to basically be the Mother Theresa of the tenth grade.
If you're on the interweb, you've seen #YOLO unfold in a series of tweets or status updates of shenanigans involving late nights, red bull, and impulsive hair dye. I don’t find the choices in these updates all that inspiring.
In choosing what you do to commemorate these final days of school, whether after graduation, prom or band practice, at the forefront of our mind and hearts should be this reality that all is a gift from God, to be used for His glory. This doesn't require walking around yelling, 'hallelujah,' but it demands that our actions be a reflection of who we belong to. We are not our own.
Deep in the heart of Paris, there is a Catholic Church that you could walk right past, if you weren't paying attention. It's on a cobblestoned road lined with shops and apartments with classic french windows that you half expect the characters of Beauty and the Beast to pop out of, yelling, 'Bonjour!' and 'I need six eggs!' It was only at the tip of a local that my friends and I ventured down ru de SÌÄ®ÕÌâå¬vres and into the Chapel of the Priests of the Congregation of the Mission. We were told that it was the burial place of St. Vincent de Paul and not to be missed.
Joanna and I became friends in college, when I was a junior and she was a freshman. Her family had converted to Catholicism when she was a teenager and she struggled to embrace their new beliefs. I was a theology major who loved my Catholic faith and a good discussion. Joanna would often knock on my door, offer me a pudding snack, and spend hours grilling me about the Church.
Patti was an easy target for these jokes. She went to a different school, dressed a little differently, talked a little louder. Leaning against the sink in the girl's bathroom, sensing everyone's attention and wanting to seal my spot in the group, I made a joke about her. It was true, but it wasn't nice.
When we attend the March for Life, we stand in the streets of our Nation's capital to protest a law that is unjust. To take a day to gather and give a very public witness – to 'shout' that we are Pro-Life, and that the law of our land is unjust. But as Catholics – as humans – we know that at the heart of the pro-life movement it is not a question of laws but of souls. The souls of babies, the souls of mothers and fathers, and the souls of those with whom we disagree.