I was lured into the seminar room by the romantic sound of scimitars and swords clashing, to sit around for two years reading everything from Aristotle to St. Ignatius being like: HO, HUM, what IS the good life?
(If you want a summary of The Iliad, it’s basically bros being hos for hundreds of pages — if you’re a dude, you would probably enjoy it. I’ve read it twice, so no, not wasting my time on that crap again).
I was lured into That Corporate Job by the promise of Success and Stability, those elusive financial concepts.
I landed back in my parents’ basement like a cat, poor, again, as I always do. Or perhaps very rich?
When I called up God-is-Gracious to unpack five months of mutual misery and twenty-some years of angst, thanked her for being the bestest friend during the shittiest period of my life so far, and solemnly swore never to f*ck up her professional life ever, ever, again, when I got to the Catholic-men-are-sexist comment, I was accidentally rage-screaming:
“NO!!! THEY ARE HYPERPROTECTIVE!!!!!!”
…which of course explains…
96% of my life problems to date.
I don’t want to beat a dead horse, here, guys, but this kinda frickin’ matters.
There was the time my dad aggressively hunted down the president of GFU while I interviewed for the honors program and demanded to know if I would “be ok” or something as a Catholic there. Which is why I hardcore avoided P. Bakes for four straight years out of fear of being recognized.
Of course I was fine! I didn’t screw around with the party kids. I followed all the parental instructions about not leaving my drink near men I don’t know and all that. I’m not dumb.
I’m extremely responsible, when I’m not being irresponsible!
I bragged to Mr. Genevieve quite early on that I’ve read everything under the sun, which is…unfortunately rather true. I’ve read all the Greeks and Romans twice, all of church history (stern Mama Wolf was extremely thorough), the religious texts of every major world religion except Mormonism (that sh*t ain’t worth my time), the entire Catechism of the Catholic Church, literature from around the world, a ridiculous amount of British romance…I read myself, in fact, to the point of exhaustion.
But then there’s the day Mr. Spicy Chocolate asks how many times I’ve read the Bible, and I’m like…
*frantically checks notes*
There was the day I woke up and realized that, actually, my family rather does live The Good Life because we all do that God-honoring, God-worshipping thing.
And embarrassingly endlessly!
But this presents an interesting question for the spiritual life: How much time have I spent reading about God’s Word, rather than diving into God’s Word?
Because, well, the Bible is essentially God’s creative nonfiction — it contains every genre and has enough wisdom to be explored for lifetimes.
“Soooo, how Catholic IS he, Genevieve?” one of my Christian girlfriends asked. “Veil-wearing?”
In retrospect, I remember: Well, he’s been to seminary for a few years AND he’s met the pope!
But that’s not even the best part…
He told me his total for reading the Bible: TWENTY-FIVE TIMES!!!
And THAT is when it’s like: Ah yes, kind sir, I will accept your babies!
Somewhere in there I tossed my heart across the ocean
Somewhere in there my friends freaked they don’t know him
As I told my Christian girlfriends: When you finally, FINALLY find that happy, happy triangle of maximum holiness, sexiness, and maturity, you just don’t look back. You just don’t. Because frankly, all the other options stop looking tasty.
And here I thought I was Catholic because of all the Greeks, Romans, Latin, and dammit-stop-swaying-so-much-in-church-Genevieve!
I told God I wouldn’t settle for secondbest…
And he done out-nerded me!