The old brick convent was immersed in a whirl of white, but we were warm in our nest, where I roasted lamb in white wine and baked nutty apple crisp. Today, the woods are sweet with icing. They are silent. But within many people, blue sky or not, the weather is yet whirling.

“Fear is contagious,” my husband said to me as we lay in bed, nose to nose. Yes, it is. It is no less a disease than cancer, burrowing its tumorous tendrils into one’s trust.

“I prefer a church that is bruised, hurting, and dirty because it has been out on the streets, rather than a church that is unhealthy from being confined and from clinging to its own security.”

I wonder: have the words cried from the rooftop by Pope Francis truly been heard? Or have his words deflected off the confinement created by the very sickness he decried? The cancer of fear, spreading rapidly.

Many fear that the rock that is Peter is eroding—but I believe it is truly their trust in Christ who established the rock that is eroding. They are clinging to their own rock, their own security, and thus have closed the doors of their hearts to the streets. They are spotless, righteous, in their pure white hospital gowns—and dying inside.

Whirling, whirling. Fear is stirring the water, awakening the leviathan of the deep—that is, the desire to take control—but was it not Christ who calmed the storm? When the Apostles cried out in fear, it was Christ alone who could assure them that no matter what, He was in control. Two thousand years later, nothing has changed, for Christ is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow. The rock that He established is as strong as it ever was and ever will be, because He promised that it would be: the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

We are not called to interrogate every act, every word, produced by Pope Francis—but to trust in Christ. It’s simple, and that’s precisely what our pope has been telling us. When we simply trust in Christ, the doors of our hearts are opened to the streets, where we the sick find our healing. Love, love, love, we are healed by love, in loving and being loved—when did this change? When will it ever change? Christ reached and He touched the leper, the blind, the maimed.

We the Church of this day are called to do no less.

Winter has come early to the island.

Finding ourselves snowed-in following our traditional wine-and-cheese with Nicholas’s relatives, his grandmother led us upstairs to the farthest corner of the pieced-together farmhouse. Tucked beneath the slanted roof of a bedroom smelling of nostalgia (musty comic books), my husband and I snuggled in the stifling darkness, toasty-warm in the stale bedding despite the snow tinkling against the window.

Awaking from a restless sleep (blamed on the lumpy pillows), we padded down the narrow staircase into the kitchen. Ordinarily, I would eat breakfast and get on with my day. But there is something about an old farmhouse that makes one stop, and sit, and keep sitting in the sunlight that has broken through the overcast to grace this retreat in the countryside.

I remember as a child, standing motionless at the bottom of the staircase in my own grandmother’s kitchen. Everyone else was either napping in the heat of the afternoon or tromping in the pasture with Grandpa. I was breathing the stillness of the interior of that beloved yellow farmhouse. And I was watching the stained-glass rose gently revolving at the window that peered out at the century-old evergreens (once believed to hide wolves in their shadows).

I think my soul grew wiser in those moments—I think my soul grew wiser in the kitchen of Nick’s grandmother. For I believe aging does not always occur through what you do . . . but sometimes through what you don’t do. When we sit a minute or two longer in that ladder-back chair and rest in the golden morning, we learn that life passes by as swiftly as we let it. We learn that when we abandon the frenetic rhythm of our daily schedule, we begin to hear the pulsing beat of the heart of God.

I confess that, in the busyness of life, I had forgotten just how much I yearn for simplicity. But it only took a few moments in the quiet of the farmhouse to remember that my heart is happiest when it is beating in time with God’s heart.

Human love is not an explosion. It is a series of sparks—and every spark rises to Heaven, for no matter how much you love your beloved, only God Himself can pervade every bit of your being as an inferno in a house.

Sparks. It is ridiculously easy to forget about the worth of sparks when we were created for the inferno of God. But they simply cannot be forgotten, for it is by sparks that we will catch fire. We must love in the little things, preparing ourselves for Love Himself.

Sparks: a tender kiss, fingers intertwined, an embrace by candlelight. But sparks also arise from the hammer honing me into a selfless lover: cutting the cucumber into round slices rather than long because that is how my husband likes them. Sparks: cuddling when I am antsy to write, rubbing his back when I am sleepy, biting my tongue from forming an unnecessary comment, or saying sorry for the second (or third) time today. And then, at times, there is no spark at all—only the steady glowing embers of love constant.

Now that I am a married woman, I understand more than ever that nothing and nobody can fill me in this life. There is a sadness in this, knowing that I must wait to be filled, but it is a happy sadness, because I know I am not alone. My husband is waiting with me.

Love at its deepest is silent, I think. Because often when I look at Nicholas and see who he truly is, my heart is full but my mouth is empty. But if Love Himself is the Word, my love for my husband is indeed spoken, just not in a way that the ear can detect.

My husband. On September 24th, I awoke to a crisp blue day on the island. My mother and sisters transformed me into a bride, and my father made me feel like a princess, as he has since I was small. Arriving a half hour late to the basilica (ahem, it’s a tradition in my family to rarely arrive on time), I could have skipped up the aisle to take the hand of my beloved. Indeed, from beginning to end, I was filled with such a light that it’s a wonder my fingertips and the end of my nose did not glow.

In the week prior, my family flew to the island and kidnapped me, and I quite happily did not resist. We cozied up in a cottage by the river, ate seafood late at night (chatted even later), sipped Apothic Red, canoed against the current, folded at least a hundred and twenty paper sailboats, picked crimson apples and bare branches in a misty drizzle, and watched our love for each other ripen in this new season of life. Families are the best. I cannot doubt that marriage is a gift from God when I see the fruit that my parents cultivated by saying yes to each other and yes to children. I see the same fruit in Nicholas’s family.

On our wedding day, we were blessed to be showered not only in the love of our families but also in that of our many friends. Was it only the excitement of a bride—or was there something more that made the day as beautiful as it was? I believe it was the sense that Heaven was celebrating with us.

Such joy to embrace your beloved freely, knowing that everyone who loves you is embracing him with you. Such joy to embrace him totally, knowing you’ve waited to give yourself to him and he to you . . . Indeed, when I awoke in the middle of the night to find his arms still around me, his wedding band glinting in the dark, my heart could have burst—because I knew I belonged to him and he to me. We were now one. Are one.

Here are a few pictures from the incredible day that the Lord gave us:

https://www.facebook.com/pg/DeniseMallettAuthor/photos/?tab=album&album_id=1770511683229498

My family is here and I am happy.

As I prepare for my wedding day, I’ve left behind my little haven in the country to stay with my family in a cottage by a river. My beloved is staying with us as well. How could a bride-to-be’s heart not be topped up with peace and joy? And it is indeed filled—and overflowing.

Awaking to cool grey light, I escaped the cottage to walk barefoot in the red sludge over which the river flows. I walked with Abba, leaving footsteps that were swiftly filled in, like those mistakes of mine that He fills in with His love. I walked through water trickling from the grassy hill above to the river’s edge and saw how my heart is like a stream meandering to the River that is Abba. We are all streams, but the way by which we arrive at our destination is never the same from one person to the next; it is Abba who directs the heart, over and between pebbles, with all gentleness.

As I stood on the warm wooden dock to dry my feet, I asked Him to come to me, to give Himself to me, and in doing so transform me into a holier person. I was struck that it is the same in the union between man and woman: if I as a wife allow Abba to give Himself to me, when I then give myself to my husband, he too will be enriched by what I received from Abba, for we are one.

I sense that much goodness, truth, and beauty is destined to come from our union, for the grace of the Sacrament of Marriage is designed to enrich not only Nicholas and I but the whole Body that we are one in by Baptism, the first Sacrament. We may be entering into marriage during uncertain times, but I know, more than ever, that the strength of the Lord is with us and will work through us.

The bloodied and broken man is slung across the concave back of an ass and carried in this way to the door of an innkeeper. The master of the ass presses a coin purse into the innkeeper’s hand and leaves with the promise that if the expense taken to restore the invalid exceeds the purse’s weight, he will be repaid.

In the parable of the Good Samaritan, our focus is often directed to the Samaritan. But what about the innkeeper? Did he indeed go above and beyond to restore the man found on the wayside? Many of us acknowledge that we must love and serve our neighbour—but to what extent? Must we only do what is obvious? Or should we go further, as the Samaritan invited the innkeeper to do? So often we—I—do the bare minimum, but if we do more, if we give of our very selves, we will in turn be repaid that much more.

If this life on earth is the dust mote that it is in the scope of eternity—and yet an infinitely crucial dust mote that determines our eternal fate—why would we not make the most of it? Why not pour this life’s savings into the life to come? Well, I don’t know about you, but I find that it takes intentionality to live with an eternal perspective.

The other week, while running an errand, I walked past a young woman sitting on the sidewalk holding a sign on her lap. Yes, I walked past—but I felt my body stiffen, and ten strides later I came to a halt. I had to turn back and place a little money in her pot. God bless you, she said. Yes, God’s blessing. I realized that while my head was telling me I needed that money for personal expenses, my heart knew that what would be remembered in the scope of eternity was my sacrifice, not whatever I may have purchased with those five dollars. It took intentionality to live with an eternal perspective, to sort through the many excuses that will flood in without fail when presented with a choice like that. Like the innkeeper, we can choose to do what is easy and obvious (save that money for our personal expenses) or we can can look beyond the moment to what truly matters.

Personally, I believe the innkeeper reached into his own purse and dished out whatever was needed so that when the master of the ass returned, the invalid would be found in far better shape than expected.

I have a confession to make. I am a caterpillar. I eat holes in people’s leaves. I do not intend to be destructive, for I do not realize what I am doing until I am plucked up by the Great Gardener, given perspective, and see what I’ve done.

I don’t want to be a caterpillar. I want to be free from what cannot fulfill me. I want to be free to fly.

The beautiful thing is that the Gardener wants my metamorphosis to take place as much as I do. He too wants me to be free to fly. To begin, I must allow Him to cocoon me in His will, and then I must die to self, shedding the old me. Only then can I be born again as one who is changed, one who is a new creation, graced with wings to fly.

Driving home one evening from work, I noted an older couple strolling along side by side in the twilight. They were not holding hands, content with each other’s presence. And this image gave rise to the question: how does the bond between husband and wife survive through the years?

After all, every other bond I’ve known has disintegrated or been altered in some way, no matter how dear to me. Indeed, it is this way for us all: a child does not, indeed cannot, live under her parents’ roof forever; she must fly lest her wings atrophy. She must leave them, as she must leave her siblings. Cousins move away and begin their own families. Friends come and go as surely as do the seasons.

How, then, does the marital bond not follow the same ebb and flow that seems to be natural in every other relationship? Indeed, many a couple would say it does ebb, considering the abundance of divorces—but there is nothing natural about divorce. Consider the difference between a child saying goodbye to her parents and a wife saying goodbye to her husband: the former bears good fruit, for the child is leaving to find something (herself, her calling), whereas the latter bears rotten fruit, for husband and wife are broken by the sense of having lost something of their very selves. After all, how can two selves made one become two again?

It would seem, then, that it is unnatural for husband and wife to separate. And if so, marriage must somehow be designed to withstand the changeabilities of the seasons. Marriage is an incredibly daring choice, this surrender of oneself to another, and thus the material that binds a man and a woman must also be incredible: grace.

Grace is something outside ourselves, something greater than our own strength. It is a divine gift from Love Himself to perfect our imperfect love, to carry us when we cannot carry ourselves. Such is what husband and wife must remember when the water rises and threatens to sweep out the bridge between them. They are privileged to a grace that no other relationship is given, a grace that will hold them fast to each other when otherwise two people would easily pull apart or drift away. By this grace, whatever damage that may be incurred through the years can be healed, again and again, leaving a couple stronger than when they first fell in love, like a reinforced bridge or the new, thick skin over a wound. Grace provides the ability to forgive when otherwise you might simply turn away, the ability to continue on the same path no matter the shadows ahead (veering from the path will certainly lead to brambles and more brambles). A couple’s joy, present even amid the suffering of doubt or anger or pain, is this: if they keep to the path together, they will taste the fruit of fidelity found along the way.

If the above is not true, if I am naive, why should any young couple take hope in the joy they share if it is inevitable to fade with time or even to die completely? If marriage is not designed to last, every young couple should be scorned for their naïveté, for the folly of what can only be deemed infatuation. Love lasts; infatuation does not.

But if we believe in love (meaning self-gift), we must believe in marriage by grace—a bond fused and sustained by God—for love cannot survive without grace. Rather, it may survive, but thrive? Only with grace will a man and a woman know what it truly means to be one and taste the ripened sweetness of their fidelity.

We are living in a memory, said my youngest brother. He spoke this at random as we sat on the auburn beach of the lake I’ve swam in since I was a child. Quietly, we adults contemplated this sage comment, a comment made that much more profound by his seven innocent years.

Every moment eventually becomes a memory. Indeed, that moment at the lake is already a memory, cached in my mind, hazing over with time. Bradley was right, and I realize: why cling to memories when the present is only a moment away from becoming a memory itself? Memory heaping upon memory—too many to hold on to. Indeed, our hearts are not strong enough to carry the past. I think I am finally learning this, for when I try to collect and carry my many sweet childhood memories, the weight is too great; it hurts too much. I need not forget, but I must let go. I must live only in the moment. I believe the same is for anyone, perhaps especially for those with painful childhood memories.

I have returned to the island. Contrary to what I thought, my visit to Saskatchewan did not end up being my last two weeks of childhood. Strange, to do what I once did—garden, ride, swim, play—and yet not as a child longing to never leave behind those days, nor as an adult longing to return to them. I am quite content to have grown up, to live on the red island, to love Nicholas, even as I value the past as much as the present. For I realize it was my childhood that stair-stepped me to where I am now.

Yes, we must value the past, but we must not miss out on the moment for a memory, for soon enough this very moment will also be among the memories we strain to hold on to. I am grateful to have returned to the island, to Nicholas, with new memories of the home of my family, a place that incubates not all I long to return to, but what I love for all it has been to me and will continue to be.

What words can be used to describe something as beautiful as an everlasting soul?

When I flew home to spend two last weeks with my family before I am married and begin my own family, I did not anticipate that I would be privileged to watch my sister labor to bring forth new life. I thank God that her child decided that late was better than never, for I’ve rarely been as moved as I was the day Clara was born.

My sister was a beautiful bride, but perhaps a more beautiful mother. I watched quietly from the edge, in awe at how she embraced the swelling of the sea that accompanied the storm of childbirth. Was it terrifying to watch the ship careening on the waves? A little—until I understood that a mother must not go down, she must not drown, until every ounce of strength has been spent to liberate the stowaway. She must fight for what is her own, and this is not terrifying but inspiring, for it reflects the fierce love that God Himself has for us. I have always looked up to my sister for her courage, her strength, but now more than ever.

When the dark, crimped hair of a baby’s crown appeared, and then a creamy forehead followed by a face, my heart danced in my chest. And when a pale lavender-hued body slipped out with a hot gush, I cried with my sister. Even from the shoreline, it is a victory to watch the ship bear through the storm—the stowaway at last stumbling onto deck to greet sweet light. With big, blinking eyes, Clara looked into her mother’s face. The ship did not go down.

I pray the world would open its eyes as this impossibly perfect little girl has, to see that every storm, if embraced, leads to the victory of everlasting beauty.