The Beauty of Becoming Ready

The first cold front of the year makes me want to get my house in order. I'm a little like the squirrels who reside in the big oak tree in my front yard. They're busy this time of year, scurrying about, gathering what they need to settle in for the changing season.

Every fall, I find myself doing much the same. Tidying, rearranging furniture, pulling out decorations, and preparing our home for what is coming. My fall decorations have already made their appearance, I've been watching the West Texas forecast with great anticipation, and I even made a big pot of soup. I'm ready.

I love the anticipation of it all. The promise of crisp air. The familiar decorations that make a house feel warm and welcoming. The little rituals that tell us another season is beginning. But today, I realized something:

Beauty isn't only in the season we're waiting for. There's beauty in the preparation itself.

And the Church recognizes this well. During my studies at the University of Notre Dame, I took a course called The Liturgical Year: What Does It Mean and Why Does It Matter? taught by Dr. Timothy O'Malley.

Okay, I know. Don't tune me out here. Yes, an entire course on the Church calendar. Be still, my theology-loving heart.

What I discovered was far more profound than learning the dates of feast days or understanding why the priest wears purple during Advent and Lent. I discovered an entirely different way of experiencing time.

Dr. O'Malley began by examining what he called late modernity, a world characterized by speed, constant novelty, and our relentless desire to control nearly everything around us. We measure our days by hours, our weeks by obligations, and our years by accomplishments. We move from one appointment to the next, one season to another, one holiday to the next big thing. We're constantly preparing for something, but how often are we actually present for any of it?

In Laudato Si', Pope Francis described the increasingly accelerated pace of modern life as "rapidification." More productivity. More information. More experiences. More control. We've become remarkably skilled at measuring time, but we've forgotten how to inhabit it. Dr. O'Malley contrasted this quantitative understanding of time with the qualitative time of the Church.

Quantitative time tells us how many days remain until Christmas.

Qualitative time invites us to contemplate what it means that Christ has come, that He is present, and that He will come again.

One counts the days, and the other teaches us how to live within them. How beautiful! As a convert to Catholicism, I've encountered people who view the Church's traditions as cold, outdated, or unnecessarily repetitive. I understand that perspective. There was a time when I might have wondered the same thing. But what I've discovered is quite the opposite.

***These traditions are invitations to encounter Christ.***

In Mediator Dei, Pope Pius XII describes the liturgical year as something far greater than a remembrance of events long past: "It is rather Christ Himself who is ever living in His Church."

I remember sitting with that idea during my coursework. The liturgical year isn't simply a calendar of religious anniversaries. It is Christ's own life, offered to us through the worship of His Church. Through the sacred liturgy, we are drawn into the saving mysteries of His Incarnation, Passion, Death, and Resurrection. And each mystery offers its own grace, gradually forming us more fully into His likeness.

The Church, like a loving mother, guides us through these mysteries year after year. She teaches us when to fast and when to feast. When to mourn and when to rejoice. When to repent and when to celebrate. And probably most importantly, she teaches us how to wait. Not the impatient kind of waiting, but the expectant waiting of someone preparing to encounter the One she loves.

One of my favorite parts of this course was our exploration of philosopher Josef Pieper and his writings on contemplation, leisure, and festivity. Pieper understood leisure as something much deeper than taking a vacation or having an afternoon without responsibilities. True leisure is the capacity to stop striving long enough to receive the world as a gift. To wonder. To recognize beauty without needing to accomplish anything with it.

In Happiness and Contemplation, Pieper writes:

"Contemplation is a loving attainment of awareness."

I keep returning to those words. How often do we move through our days without really noticing them? We rush through meals, scroll through photographs, hurry through conversations, and decorate for one holiday while already thinking about the next. We live as though the purpose of today is simply to get us to tomorrow. And sometimes, especially when life is difficult, that is exactly how we survive. I know about that kind of living.

Actually, I'm crawling out of one of those seasons right now. Day by day. My home was decorated for fall while I was packing for two trips, one after the other. One to visit my son who is away at college, and another to escape with my husband for a few days after a particularly difficult stretch of life.

I left a mess in my wake.

And while delayed flights kept me from getting home when I expected, a dear friend graciously came and surprise cleaned my house. Before I could begin preparing for the season ahead, someone had already prepared a place of rest for me. I've thought about that kindness quite a bit.

Sometimes, when you're simply trying to make it through the day, you forget that life was meant to be more than survival. Dr. O'Malley referenced philosopher Byung-Chul Han, who warns that when time becomes entirely consumed by productivity, life loses its capacity for festival and joy. It becomes impoverished, reduced to mere survival.

Yet the Church offers something radically different. She gives us seasons of contemplation and celebration, not because our work is unimportant, but because our lives are worth more than what we produce. We were made for communion with God. For wonder. For gratitude. For joy. And for me, recovering those things begins with stopping long enough to notice.

Today, my new Every Sacred Sunday Mass journal arrived. Now, for some people, this might not sound particularly exciting. For me it's a big day. Every year, I look forward to opening a fresh missal journal and anticipating the Scriptures, feasts, and seasons that will accompany me through another year in the Church. Each Sunday's readings are printed alongside pages for notes. It travels with me to Mass at home, throughout Texas, and even abroad. Its pages hold homily notes, prayers, reflections, and little reminders of where I've encountered Christ throughout the year. It's so very special to me.

This year, I even ordered a bag that says "Liturgically Speaking."

Yes, I'm geeking out.

No, I'm not sorry.

But when I opened this year's journal, something stopped me. The cover is green, embossed with a beautiful gold tree. A tree (!!!)

And inside, the Scripture chosen for the year was Jeremiah 17:7–8:

"Blessed are those who trust in the LORD; the LORD will be their trust. They are like a tree planted beside the waters that stretches out its roots to the stream: It does not fear heat when it comes, its leaves stay green; In the year of drought it shows no distress, but still produces fruit."

I gasped. Trees. Water. Roots reaching toward a source of life. Fruit produced even in seasons of distress. I've been drawn to trees and water my entire life. Both are tattooed all over me. And here I was, emerging from a difficult season, holding a journal with a tree on its cover and a promise about remaining rooted when the drought comes.

It felt like a love letter from Jesus. He sees. He knows. He is right here.

I don't know what this coming year will hold. None of us does. But I know what it means to experience a season of drought. And I know how desperately I want my roots to reach toward Him, regardless of what comes. Maybe that is what preparation looks like, too. Not arranging our lives so that nothing difficult ever happens. But learning where to put down our roots before the difficult days arrive.

My new journal begins with the First Sunday of Advent, when the Church begins a new liturgical year. While the rest of the world prepares for the holiday rush and eventually January 1, the Church begins her year with something entirely different. Advent. A season of preparation. A season of longing. A season that asks us to make room for Christ.

But here's something I found especially fascinating in my coursework: Advent isn't simply about waiting for Christmas. St. Bernard of Clairvaux described three comings of Christ:

1. He came first in the flesh, in humility and weakness, as the infant born in Bethlehem.

2. He comes to us now, in spirit and power, through His grace and the life of the Church.

3. And He will come again in glory and majesty at the end of time.

We remember His first coming.

We prepare for His final coming.

And in the meantime, we learn to recognize His presence here and now.

I'm not simply preparing to celebrate something that happened two thousand years ago. I'm preparing my heart to encounter the Christ who is already present.

And the Church doesn't ask us to do this passively. The Collect, the opening prayer at Mass, for the First Sunday of Advent asks God to grant us:

"The resolve to run forth to meet your Christ with righteous deeds at his coming."

Run. Forth. Let's gooooo!

We aren't supposed to sit around counting down the days. We're called to move toward Him.

The following Sunday, the Church prays that no earthly undertaking will hinder those who set out to meet God's Son.

I love that.

Advent isn't an invitation to do nothing. It's an invitation to make sure that what we're doing is actually leading us toward Christ. And as the season progresses, the Church's prayers teach us to desire Him more deeply.

I've been thinking about all of this as I've prepared my home for fall. The cleaning. The decorating. The anticipation of cooler weather. All ordinary things. And yet, when I slow down enough to be attentive, they become opportunities for gratitude. I notice the blessing of having a home to prepare. The beauty of a world that changes with the seasons. The comfort of familiar traditions. The gift of another year. And I begin to understand how the Church's rhythm can shape even the ordinary rhythms of our homes.

Dr. O'Malley discussed the importance of popular piety, the devotional practices that carry our faith beyond the walls of the church and into everyday life. The Advent wreath. The Nativity scene. The prayers we share as families. The feast days we remember around our tables. These practices don't replace the sacred liturgy. They allow its rhythms to take root in our homes.

That's one of the most beautiful things about Catholic life. The Church doesn't ask us to leave our faith behind when Mass ends. She invites us to carry it into our kitchens, our living rooms, our workplaces, and the ordinary moments of our days. The liturgical year teaches us to see our own stories within the greater story of Christ.

Even the smallest moments can become occasions for gratitude. Not because every moment is easy. But because Christ is present in the midst of it all. I won't pretend the world feels particularly peaceful right now. There is turmoil near and far. Suffering that weighs heavily on my heart. Headlines that leave me troubled. Circumstances in my own life and in the lives of people I love that I cannot simply fix. Some days, it feels as though the world is crumbling around us. And I suspect I'm not alone in that feeling.

But I've found something profoundly comforting in the rhythm of the liturgical year. It continually reminds me that the world does not have the final word. Christ does.

I cannot control the world. I cannot slow the passage of time. I cannot arrange every circumstance of my life into something peaceful and predictable. But I can choose to become attentive. I can learn to receive my life as a gift, even when it looks different from what I expected. I can remember that the same God who sustains the tree beside the water is the One who sustains me. And I can trust that the Church's sacred rhythms will continue to lead me back to Him, season after season.

Don't miss the beauty of becoming ready.

Don't become so consumed with arriving that you miss the invitation. Don't become so preoccupied with what comes next that you forget to notice the grace available today.

My fall decorations are in place. The temperatures are finally preparing to drop. My new missal is waiting to be opened. And my heart? It's still a work in progress. I think that's the point. I'm learning to prepare without rushing. To wait without becoming impatient. To find wonder in ordinary moments and peace in the sacred rhythms of the Church.

Preparation isn't simply what happens before the beautiful thing arrives. The preparation is where we begin to recognize the beauty of Christ already with us. And I don't want to miss it.

Liturgically speaking, of course.