Unmistakable Sign
Wednesday, June 29, 2022
It’s finally here, my long-awaited trip to Steubenville, Ohio, home of the Franciscan University and apparently something like the New Jerusalem for Catholics. I’m psyched and anxious at the same time. What will it be like? Is Jesus really prompting me to move there, or what’s the purpose of this trip? I intentionally made no plans, other than to look at some homes, like my Airbnb host P. the Realtor suggested.
So typical for me to want to know before the trip what the trip will be like. The need to control every aspect of my life is still strong (though thanks to the regular praying of the Surrender Novena, I’m getting better at letting go).
I’m reminded of Father J.’s memorable homily where he said, “To make it as plain as possible, all Jesus wants from you is to share your life with him. He just wants to be with you.”
That struck me so deeply. He just wants to be with me. That’s all. Such a sweet and lovely desire. Such a simple thing to ask for. And yet most of us can’t bring ourselves to invite him along when we go about our day.
So Jesus, here’s my invitation. Be with me throughout my time in Steubenville. Take my hand and lead me every step of the way. I’ll try to listen to your gentle voice in my heart and do what you tell me. As St. Padre Pio prayed, Stay with me, Lord, for You are my light, and without You, I am in darkness. Stay with me, Lord, to show me Your will. Stay with me, Lord, so that I hear Your voice and follow You. Stay with me, Lord, for I desire to love You very much and always be in Your company.
***
The Eagle has landed. As I make my way from the airport to Steubenville in my little rental car, passing through three states within thirty minutes, the suspense is peaking. What will it be like?
All the greater is my disappointment when I finally get a first look. I’m entering town through Sunset Boulevard, which looks like one long, awful strip mall. One Arby’s, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Taco Bell, Domino’s, and KFC after another, interspersed with gas stations, a grocery store, TJMaxx, Lowe’s, and ugly water towers towering over everything. Coming from a quaint, lush-green state where billboards are forbidden for aesthetic reasons and whose tiny capital prides itself in not having a McDonald’s, I’m shocked and dismayed.
You’ve got to be kidding me, Jesus. You don’t actually want me to move here? We need to talk.
I’m cruising through town in desperate search of a Catholic church, but can’t find one. I thought this was Catholic Boomtown, and now I can’t find one bloody church? After twenty minutes, I’ve had it.
“I. Need. A. Catholic. Church. NOW!” I yell inside the car. On the word “NOW,” I pass the Blessed Sacrament Church and swoop into the parking lot. Thank you, Jesus, and thanks that it’s open. I need some answers… right now.
I sit in silence with the tabernacle for half an hour, but the Lord isn’t very forthcoming today. Not receiving much in the way of a response. The only word I get is “Patience.” Fine, all right, I’ll try to be patient. Time to go and view some houses.
I arrive early to stake out the middle-class neighborhoods where the two homes are located and am relieved to see that they’re green and pretty. Especially one of them has the small-village setting that I was always craving in Vermont where homes are too far away from each other to have a real neighborhood. I see laughing children ride their bikes and skateboards in the middle of the tree-lined street. The homes are well maintained and all have lovely little front yards. Some look like they might have sprung from a fairytale. Maybe, maybe, I could live here, Jesus, if that’s what you really want me to do. Thy will be done, as always.
But if you want me to move to Steubenville, you’ll need to give me some kind of unmistakable sign. And don’t be subtle; you know I don’t do subtle. If you want me to get the message, you need to hit me over the head. (As if I had to mention this—you know me so well.) Like, let me meet one of the Catholic “celebrities” who live and play there—Matt Fradd maybe, or Scott Hahn, or Fr. Donald Calloway.
I know, I know, it’s preposterous and a lot to ask for, but if it happens, I’ll know for sure. Two more days.