February 29 was Leap Day — that funny little phenomenon we observe once every four years in an effort to keep life as we know it in sync.
To be fair, skipping Leap Day would not halt the planetary axial spin, but it would wreak havoc eventually.
In 100 years, calendars would be 24 days off, and in 700 years, Northern Hemisphere summers would begin in December. (Direct any dispute of the fun facts to Google and Cal Tech; I’m a mere messenger).
Moves and changes
I’ve been known to carpe this diem by taking a day off from Lent; what a stroke of luck that Confession opportunities abound in this diocese.
Last year, however, I observed the Leap Day step-sister of February 28 in a more profound manner: I moved to Madison to be closer to extended family and make a fresh start.
I have certainly made bigger moves in my life: Minneapolis, Ohio, and 17 years near NYC in north central New Jersey.
Moreover, this move wasn’t a dive into hostile territory: I grew up just 90 miles to the southwest in the tiny burg of Kieler, and am a Dark Age graduate of UW-Madison (BBA ‘83).
But I contend that college life is not really living here; it’s not doctors or a dentist or your parish or your child’s grammar school.
It’s Rocky Rococo’s at bar time, and the Bucky Wagon blaring “On Wisconsin” past your Chad Hall dorm room on Saturday morning . . . all fun, but well in the rear-view mirror of my life.
What was so big about this move, you ask? I made it completely on my own.
I made it without every detail in place, without an elaborate plan.
I made it 3.5 years after my husband’s death and our daughter’s emancipation into Life Beyond Mom and Dad.
I left the jury-rigged scaffold of support that helped me ditch the straight jacket of grief. I took on the paralysis of Life-as-a-Lone-Soldier-at-62 sans my comfort zone.
For some people, that’s adventure; for me, it’s pure kryptonite.
While I had contemplated this move for months, I made it at that particular time and in that particular way on a pure leap of faith.
I felt called to do it, and it was the first time in my life I had ever felt Him personally calling me to do anything.
It might even be fair to say that it was the first time in my life that I felt Him paying much attention to me at all.
For 48 years, my life had been long on hopelessness, and short on spiritual comfort.
While I would never presume to place myself in the company of the major saints (or even the minor ones), you could call it my own Dark Night of the Soul.
Where are you?
My guess is there’s at least one subscriber nodding right now, softly mumbling, “preachin’ to the choir . . . ”.
My further guess is that, like me, you know in your well-trained Catholic heart that you are uniquely important to Abba, Son, and Holy Spirit . . . you were brought into being for a purpose that is yours alone.
But there is a big difference between knowing it intellectually and genuinely feeling it in your heart, especially when adversity renders that purpose completely elusive to you.
If you can relate, perhaps my story of finding a way out of this dark place into even a brief patch of sunlight will be engaging.
It’s all Grace, of course: A pure gift totally unearned.
Yet, upon reflection, I can now see how certain things helped me garner more of that Grace and better avail myself of it.
Don’t be duped into thinking this year has been some sort of joyride.
It blindsided me with happiness that crashed and burned into heartbreak. It tested my trust as one major detail remains unanswered.
It kidney-punched me with cancer, as I write in recovery-mode from a double mastectomy; two more surgeries pave the road ahead.
Yet, even with the speed bumps, I’ve been able to see His hand all along the highway, though the doubting psyche often works hard to draw me back in — kind of like a Hoover on my heels.
I’m not a theologian. I’m not a spiritual advisor. I’m not even a catechist.
I’m a mom, a widow, a cradle Catholic who’s trying to navigate these messy times like everyone else.
My rock-solid Job side still needs work. My halo is so poorly formed it can’t begin to cast a shadow.
Some friends say I’m holy; others say I’m real.
Full disclosure: Not one of them has yet said that I’m “real holy”.
If my trek down this spiritual road can lift the heart of even one person, I’m willing to share. To be sure, I’ll deepen my own faith in the process.
I pray the Holy Spirit grants me the perfect words, and keeps me genuine and ever-uplifting in my tale of the personal leap year — that somehow became an anointed one.
Maria Burns is a lifelong Catholic and writer who lives in Madison.