Aesop's Volvo

Last Saturday, it snowed for the first time—which provoked a meditation I was not expecting.

I drive a Volvo. Many of you know that these are Swedish cars, well outfitted for snow. Repeat: well outfitted for snow. So, as a native of Phoenix, Arizona, it never quite made sense why our family always bought Volvo's. At one time, I think we had 4 Volvo’s in our desert driveway. Sure—they are incredibly safe. But, as far as the stamina of an imported vehicle in 120 degree weather goes—Volvos do not win.

But, naturally, when the time came for me to drive, I inherited a 2000 Volvo. So, picture this: my Volvo spent 10 years in the desert, followed by one year in southern California becoming acquainted with beaches—until the Lord called me out to Minnesota this August.  And the import of this didn’t hit me until I found myself—and my windshield—braving galactic snowflakes last Saturday. Almost immediately, I was cognizant of the beauty of this moment: After 11+ years in exile, this Volvo had finally reached the end for which it was crafted: driving in snow.

At this realization, I was just overcome by a deep peace. Who would have thought that such an event would actually cause spiritual consolation? Honestly, I was shocked by my reaction, “This Volvo persevered!” But, the moment far transcended the Volvo, the weather, and Swedish mechanics.  This was the satisfaction only experienced when something has finally reached the end for which it was created. And this is no exaggeration: it imbued me with hope that I too will someday reach my end if only I persevere. The desire we all have for fulfillment, for happiness, is not an empty dream.

If the Lord cares enough to let a Volvo finally reach its end, how much more does He want that for us?  Let us be confident that our desires for ultimate Truth, Goodness, and Beauty are not in vain. We are crafted for eternal happiness. Let us only persevere.

A Modern Pieta

Today, I found myself at a 10am Saturday Mass at the Basilica of St. Mary's in Minneapolis, honoring veterans--both living and deceased. Auxilary Bishop Lee Piche presided and delivered an incredibly somber homily about the wounds and trauma of war. He closed with an anecdote about a man whose duty was to accompany the bodies of fallen soldiers back to their hometowns. This entailed meeting with the families. Sometimes it was the mother and father, but mostly, he would just meet with the mothers. And the mothers would always ask one question: “Are you sure this is my son?”

When Bishop Piche announced this question, I caught a glimpse of a stone sculpture of Christ crucified, with Mary Magdalene and the Blessed Mother on either side. I immediately thought of how that question must have crossed Our Lady’s mind when she held the dead God in her arms, “Are you sure this is my Son?” A question which would echo Isaiah’s prochecy, “As many were astonished at Him, His appearance was so marred beyond human semblance” (52:14) God had suffered so terribly He had become unrecognizable. Similarly, the reality of the death of these soliders  presented something almost unrecognizable--the horror of a dead son—of a mother burying her child, that mothers were compelled to ask, "Are you sure?"

Suffering comes to us with manifold faces--faces which provoke this same question. Indeed, despite the external disappointments we all face, the hardest suffering is often what we find within ourselves. This is how we approach our brokenness: We look at ourselves in the existential mirror and ask, “Are you sure this is me?” We see the scars, we see the disfigurements and whatnot. We almost ask in horror—“Are you sure this me?” The question is spat out into a void—waiting to be filled by the one answer we both long for—and yet fear. We wait, like the Blessed Mother, like those mothers of the soldiers, with our poverty cradled in our arms.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

But, the God who answers, "Yes"--is also the God who speaks with infinite compassion, "You are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you.” (Isaiah 43:4)

Let us remember this truth--the truth of God's all encompassing love--when we consider all of what makes life so terrible and so beautiful--and allow ourselves to offer to the Father that poverty--the unthinkable--which is cradled between our arms.