I went on retreat this weekend to the annual conference hosted by the Fellowship of Catholic University Students in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. It was, objectively, a fantastic experience: Mass every day, intellectual speakers on a wide variety of subjects, fascinating keynote speeches, and the occasional praise and worship jam session. There was perpetual Adoration, and Confession was offered for hours on end the second night, to the point where the line wrapped around the hotel’s lobby in such a way that looking at it would make your head hurt. At least half a dozen religious orders had booths set up for twelve hundred college students to talk to them about their charisms, habits, hobbies, and a whole host of other things.
I entered into the conference somewhat hesitantly, as, I later found out, did most of us on the trip. To compound matters, I spoke to my ex-boyfriend there and was also holding onto problems I’ve been having with my parents, so that subjectively, conference seemed only so-so. I actually left thinking “Well doesn’t this just stink that I paid to come here, and had no spiritual movements or renewal or anything.”
Luckily, I spoke too soon, because Saturday night, something the keynote speaker said hit me over the head like a ton of bricks. He said that when he lost his son on a camping trip, he came to a lake in front of their campsite, and feared that any minute he would find his body floating in the water. In his panic and terrifying love for his son, he said to God “You’ve blessed me with so much in my life: a great family, a job I love, and more than I could ever have thought to ask for. Take it back Lord. Take it all back. Give me my son.” It made me think of my parents, and how I have almost come to the point where I’m ready to say the same thing: “Take back my blessings, Lord. Give me my parents.”
But I realized later that that was the incorrect prayer. I didn’t want to say “Take my progress, take my faith, take all the good I’ve done, and the friends I’ve made, and the love I’ve found in You- give me my parents,” I wanted to say, “Take control, give me patience. Take my comfort, give me crosses.” The same keynote speaker pointed out that God’s love for each of us is so terrifying that He became one of us in order to die on the Cross, just so that whenever we suffer, He can be there next to us crying out “Eli, eli, lemi sabacthani?” or, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” I remembered the popular colloquial saying that God doesn’t promise that there won’t be crosses, only that we’ll never have to carry them alone.
