It’s been a while since I’ve written anything. I’ve started writing something about a dozen times and then just hit a wall. It’s easy enough to attribute this to ‘writer’s block.’ However, more than just not knowing how to say what I want to say, I think the problem is that I simply don’t know what I want to say. Not because I don’t have any ideas (if anything I have too many floating around my overwhelmed mind), but rather because I’m not clear myself on what is true. I’m in a state of ambivalence.

I keep going back and forth on several big things, wrestling with woundedness and brokenness, with doubts and fears so big I can’t see the truth that lies beyond them. And so, every attempt to write inevitably ends with a blinking cursor staring at me expectantly from my screen as I realize that all I really know is that I don’t know.

I understand all I’m saying is probably frustratingly vague but I think everyone can relate to times of uncertainty, hesitancy, painful indecision and waiting. Most of all, waiting. Waiting for direction, waiting for understanding, waiting for peace, waiting for a reprieve from the constant questioning and doubting, from the incessant litany of what-ifs and could-be’s. It’s painful.

Of course, on top of my own personal, interior battles–is that struggle which our world is currently facing against COVID. The madness that has ensued is alarming and heartbreaking. Of course there is the illness itself, the deaths that have occurred–and then there is the fear. The anxiety that has taken over our minds and hearts, preventing us from any semblance of normalcy.

The deprivation of the sacraments, especially, has been a breath-taking blow. Those of us who were anticipating and hoping for a fruitful Lent are now wondering how on earth we’re supposed to achieve that with our primary source of strength taken away from us. Just like that.

Half-hearted attempts to live out our Faith will no longer get us anywhere. We must painstakingly seek out Christ in prayer despite all dryness we find in this spiritual dessert or else let the tide of fear and spiritual deprivation take us where it will:

“You tempt the deep, the ruse called sleep 
And pass the Muses on the sea. 

The souls of those who weakly praised 
Who never damned nor banner raised 
The ones who never claimed a side 
Are tossed within their spineless tide 

Their dumbness on the part of love 
Has sewn their mouths with wire shut.”

We can’t be spineless if we want to survive this season. Complacency will now be on par with death. The time for sitting nicely in our pews has passed, we will now have to fight if we truly want to Love.

Last year, during the Fiat 90 journey (an intense 90 day fast) I went on with a group at work, I wrote this letter to my fellow sojourners. It was a hard season–of course looking back it now seems laughable as I face the evident disappearance of the sacraments–and I wrote this as a source of encouragement for myself as much as for the women on the Lenten journey with me.

It seems appropriate still, almost a year later, and so I thought I’d share it as a reminder: this isn’t it. This calamity is not where our story ends, and our Savior is simply asking us what He asked of His mother: humble obedience, trustful surrender to whatever He is going to do, however He plans to do it.

So on the feast of the Annunciation, let us hold fast to the words which became the source for our Salvation: let it be done.

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A few years ago I was dating this guy, and every now and then I would put up small decoration in his apartment to celebrate special occasions.

In February of that year, I painted a wooden board with the word ‘love’ for Valentine’s Day and put it in his apartment.

When I went by to pick up my things from his place about a week later, he had taken it down and put it in a bag for me, which felt like just another painful rejection in the aftermath of our break up.

In any case, the word ‘love’ didn’t seem very festive anymore, so a few days later I painted over it–the word ‘fiat’ now read across the beams in green.

I’m not sure what possessed me to use that phrase, or why I didn’t just get rid of the small piece of wood and be done with it. But since then that little phrase has not ceased to haunt me.

It sounds so sweet and harmless when you understand the meaning, especially in the context that it was said. But in reality, this phrase is one of the most difficult and powerful combination of words in human history, and certainly in my life. 

Even when someone you care about ends the relationship, let it be done.

Even when they move on without you, let it be done.

Even when you move far away from friends and family, let it be done.

Even when it takes so long to feel at home, let it be done.

Even when you feel alone, let it be done.

It is essentially an invitation. You open your door to any possible thing that could be sent your way. It is too short, too simple to specify what you actually mean: let comfort be done, let happiness be done, let success be done. . .

Let it be done. 

After a while this phrase became more of a nice saying than anything else. It made me sound holy, it made me sound devout, it made me feel I was faithful.

And then we started those 90 days. And the first two weeks were exciting, invigorating. It was a challenge, and I was ready.

But around the third week I had lost any and all desire to finish the journey we had so eagerly started. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was sick of saying ‘no’ to every inclination, every comfort, every attachment.

I didn’t see fruit. I hadn’t lost weight, I didn’t feel holier. . . I was done. But I couldn’t escape it.

I couldn’t attend a social gathering without someone inquiring; ‘how’s fiat 90 going?’ as I enviously eyed their wonderfully alcoholic drink.

I couldn’t get through the week without someone sending some well-meaning words of encouragement that I didn’t want to hear. I wanted to be left alone with my small pleasures.

I couldn’t get through a day without feeling the guilt and shame of failing over and over and over.

‘Let it be done.’

The words now sounded empty, I had heard them too often and had come to associate them with the anger and resentment of frustrated desires. 

I just wanted to live my life. And to do so without the inconvenience of daily Mass, weekly adoration, daily rosaries, small meals, and early morning meetings to worry about.

I kept trying, although my efforts were weak and halfhearted. Unsure of why I was persevering and wondering if anyone else was experiencing the same levels of frustration and lack of ‘results’.

And then March 28th happened. The layoff that took my own job and that of so many others.

Suddenly a chapter of my life which I felt had just begun was ripped into shreds before my eyes.

Once again something out of my control had happened, a loss I couldn’t repair. 

Let it be done.

Dear sisters,

I don’t know, I can’t know exactly how this journey has been for you. From where I’m standing, you all are much holier, much more disciplined and much more faithful than I. But I can’t imagine that these 70 days have been a walk in the park for any of you.

I can’t imagine that your life is without turmoil and suffering and life-changing events you can’t stop from occurring.

And that is where this beautiful, painful, breathtaking phrase comes in. Because I have to believe that as CS Lewis said, our Lord breaks down our rickety houses to build us castles. He gently removes our mudpies to take our hands and lead us to the seaside.

There are far better things ahead than those we leave behind.

Mary faced the bitter tears of death as she held the lifeless body of her ‘beautiful boy’, but her outstretched hand remained open; let it be done.

Three days later she felt His beating heart inside His glorified body.

Let it be done.

Her fiat was rewarded a hundredfold on Earth, and infinitely so in heaven.

I have to believe that, while we all experience heartbreak, and while we all have sat in the dry and lonely desert these last 70 days, that our fiat will bear fruit, our fiat will be rewarded, our fiat will be victorious.

I don’t know what will happen in my own life, or what a resurrection looks like in yours. I can tell you that the prospects look bleak, that I am sitting in the dark — but not without hope.

That is what these days are about. That is what this exercise of fiat has been for us. A daily surrender to what the Lord wants for us. Choosing to believe that it is so much greater than what we are capable of envisioning, than we could possibly achieve on our own. It is a time of waiting, a time of emptying, a time of complete and total dependence. We have slowly and excruciatingly been emptying ourselves so that we can be filled by Him. We are making room, growing in receptivity. 

And we will be filled.

We can only be filled to the extent that we are first emptied.

And so, no matter how much we have failed, no matter how often we didn’t do what we set out to do, no matter how deserted or discouraged or entirely disappointed we have felt – let us hope that He will come through. That He will resurrect and bring us along with Him. That any efforts we made – though weak and half-hearted – will be rewarded by He who longs to give us all the good things.

We’re almost there, sweet sisters.

Thank you for coming on this hard and long journey with me. Thank you for the encouragement, thank you for the prayers, thank you for your warm smiles and comforting words.

I feel honored to have said–and continue to say–these words with you that our most holy Mother once said before receiving our Lord: ‘fiat.’

Let it be done.

With love and all the hope I can muster,

Miranda