As he continues to reflect on the theme of suffering with and for others, noting how important this is to the good of humanity, Pope Benedict poses the following questions we would all do well to consider regarding our willingness to suffer:

Yet once again the question arises: are we capable of this? Is the other important enough to warrant my becoming, on his account, a person who suffers? Does truth matter to me enough to make suffering worthwhile? Is the promise of love so great that it justifies the gift of myself? (SS 39)

Theoretically speaking, we know that the answer should be ‘yes’ to all of these questions.  Yet when, in reality, we have to make the decision to suffer for another, for truth, for love, we can sometimes hesitate.  We calculate the cost of extending ourselves, we consider the possible pain we might experience, the rejection that we might experience, the disappointment we might experience.  The fear of how our offering ourselves might be received sometimes results in our turning back in on ourselves and deciding not to subject ourselves to possible suffering after all.

To help us in addressing those fears, the Holy Father directs our attention to Jesus Christ, who in becoming one of us, entered into the experience of suffering and in so doing, offers us hope and encouragement.  The pope explains:

Man is worth so much to God that He himself became man in order to suffer with man in an utterly real way—in flesh and blood—as is revealed to us in the account of Jesus’s Passion. Hence in all human suffering we are joined by one who experiences and carries that suffering with us; hence con-solatio is present in all suffering, the consolation of God’s compassionate love—and so the star of hope rises. (ibid.)

As I wrote about in my previous article, knowing that somebody is with us in our suffering gives us courage, for the pain of isolation is one of the greatest pains in suffering.  Though the physical pain may not be removed, the emotional pain is often lessened significantly we someone is there by our side.

It is helpful to recall the Lord’s presence with us in any form of suffering we encounter, whether it be our own suffering, or the suffering we bear with and for others when we choose to love them.  This is one of the reasons why I always keep a small crucifix in my pocket.  When I begin to feel the pangs of suffering, I can just reach into my pocket and feel that crucifix and be reminded that He is with me in this suffering, that I am not alone.  It also serves as a reminder that when I choose to enter into the suffering of another person, whether it be visiting a sick person in the hospital, listening to them as they share their sorrow for sin in the confessional, or when delivering a hard truth that my not be received so willingly, I am reminded that the Lord is extending His arms to embrace both of us – the one suffering, and me as I share in their suffering.

The pope concludes his reflection in this section by mentioning the example of the saints who in so many ways embraced suffering – sometimes heroically, even to the point of death – and now enjoy the peace of eternal life in Heave, the fulfilment of the hope that kept them from fleeing from suffering, but leaning into it with love for God and for others.  May their witness encourage us to do likewise, and so become witnesses ourselves to a world that is in desperate need of such witnesses.

I have always loved to read, and back when I was in high school, I loved to read very large books. I think I enjoyed the challenge that a thick tome presented, and also a story that didn’t just end right away. I would read fantasy, science fiction, historical fiction, adventure, fairy tales, and even saint stories. Reading was how I found my Confirmation saint, St. Thomas Aquinas. Reading was how I grew to love writing and it has been a great conversation starter over the years. Reading has also been one of the primary ways God has chosen to work in my life. By the grace of God, a book fell into my hands when I was seventeen that not only satisfied me for its size but also changed the way I thought about God. 

This book was the spiritual diary of St. Faustina Kowalska – a big red book I found one day as I was looking for something to read. Looking back, I don’t exactly know why I enjoyed it at that age. Still, the way that St. Faustina wrote about her experience of the Mass, her time before the tabernacle, her discernment of her vocation, and especially her experience of confession made me re-think all of those things myself. I think it was one of the first times I really understood how these sacraments and parts of a life of prayer can be a real and tangible means of actually drawing closer to God. 

I also needed her message of mercy. As St. Faustina writes in one of the most often quoted passages of the diary, Jesus says to her, “proclaim that mercy is the greatest attribute of God. All the works of my hands are crowned with mercy” (300). I needed to hear that God would love me and any sinner no matter what I ever did, and that the door to his mercy was wide open in the sacrament of reconciliation. I needed to hear how real his presence in the Eucharist was and how his presence in the host at Mass is a gift from his merciful heart. He is there and he pours out love from there, from his wounded heart.

I bring this up today because if today, October 5, weren’t a Sunday, it would be the feast day of St. Faustina. Her message of mercy was nothing new, but it was God’s timely reminder to the world to turn back to him. While we’re on earth there is always time to turn back to him. Plus, once we have received his mercy, our task becomes that of helping others draw near to God’s mercy also. 

I think most Catholics have had the thought after Confession – “If the world ends now, that would be ok” – said with a grin. We recognize that the more time we have here on earth, the more time there is to mess up! But, seen in another light, the more time we have on earth, the more time we have to seek God’s mercy. Time is one of God’s greatest gifts. As St. Augustine comments on a passage from Psalm 60, he counsels us, “Don’t try to chop down the bridge of mercy after you have crossed over yourself. Let it remain in place forever” (Expositions of the Psalms, 60.6) This “bridge” is the time we have left on earth. 

While we have the time, we can enter the door of the confessional, we can receive that mercy, God’s greatest attribute. We turn to St. Faustina today and ask her intercession to help us never fear the “size” of our sins or the love of God. Pray for us today, St. Faustina, and pray for all those in need of God’s mercy!

In last week’s article, we explored the importance of not turning away from suffering, as we are so tempted to do.  Rather, by turning into our suffering, it can become a means by which we mature “through it and find meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love.” (SS 37) In the next paragraph, Pope Benedict explains how accepting our own suffering not only helps us get through suffering, but it also equips us to assist others in their suffering.  On this point, the Holy Father notes the impact that accepting personal suffering can have on the society in which we live:

A society unable to accept its suffering members and incapable of helping to share their suffering and to bear it inwardly through “com-passion” is a cruel and inhuman society. Yet society cannot accept its suffering members and support them in their trials unless individuals are capable of doing so themselves; moreover, the individual cannot accept another’s suffering unless he personally is able to find meaning in suffering, a path of purification and growth in maturity, a journey of hope. (SS 38)

One who is unwilling to endure suffering themselves will be less likely to help others when they are suffering.  But there are times when somebody close to us begins to suffer that we put aside our fear of suffering and enter into their suffering.  Though we may not be experiencing the same suffering, nevertheless we suffer with the other person, and the Lord uses that experience of suffering in another to strengthen and purify us, even as we support the one who is suffering.  Even if we cannot take away the suffering of another, our presence removes the particularly painful experience that so often accompanies suffering, loneliness and isolation.

I have a vivid memory of this from my childhood after I had a rather major surgery.  I woke up very briefly in recovery, feeling a lot of pain and feeling scared.  I did not even open my eyes, but I sensed somebody was there in the room.  When the voice spoke, it was that of my mother, and though I still felt so uncomfortable, I fell back asleep in peace, knowing that she was there with me and that I was not alone.  The following morning, I awoke early in the ICU, but nobody was there.  I do not exactly remember how I felt physically, but there was an overwhelming sense of fear of being alone.  The nurse assured me that my parents were on their way, and when they did arrive, I was able to be at peace again.  Throughout my childhood, whenever I had to stay home due to being sick, which was always miserable, my mom was always there.  Though she could not suffer what I was suffering, she was suffering with me and for me as only a mother can and her presence always made the experience much more bearable.

In that regard, we recently celebrated the Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows.  This feast recalls the beautiful truth that as Jesus was dying, Mary stood by the Cross.  Her standing signifies a posture of readiness to do whatever she could to help encourage her Son in His final hours.  From the Cross, Jesus entrusted His mother to us when He said to her about St. John, and by extension, all of us: “Behold, your son.” (Jn 19:26) Mary always stands close to us in our suffering, ready to offer her motherly encouragement, reminding us that we are never alone in our suffering.  May that truth bring us true consolation, and may we imitate her example of standing ready to assist anybody who the Lord invites us to assist in their suffering.

A question St. Augustine asks frequently throughout his many commentaries on the Psalms is, “Who is speaking here?” He reads the Psalms as prayers composed by a human author called the “psalmist,” and yet, they are also inspired by the Holy Spirit and destined to be prayed by many more people than just that psalmist, even one particular person known at first only to God. Insofar as they are inspired, the words of the Psalms come from the heart of God and are a true communication of the divine Word. This Word became flesh (John 1:14) in Jesus Christ, and therefore, the primary answer St. Augustine gives to his question, “Who is speaking here?” is Jesus Christ, the Lord. He is speaking here.

Though Jesus is the one St. Augustine understands to be speaking in the Psalms, Jesus is not speaking alone. He speaks in, with, and through his body, the Church. St. Paul gives the seed of this teaching when he writes, “He [Christ] is the head of the body, the Church” (Colossians 1:18), and “Now you are the body of Christ, and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27). This teaching of St. Paul is something that St. Augustine reflected on very deeply. The image and reality of the Church as the body of Christ became the root of St. Augustine’s understanding of the speaker in the Psalms. 

As he preaches on Psalm 61(60), especially the opening line, “O God, hear my plea, give heed to my prayer,” St. Augustine asks that very question: “Who is saying this? It sounds like a single person. But look at the next phrase, and you will see whether it can be only one: From the ends of the earth I have called to you, as my heart was wrung with pain. It cannot be one alone, then; yet it is one, because Christ is one, and all of us are his members” (Expositions of the Psalms 60.2, Translated by Maria Boulding). One person says this, and that one person is Christ, the head of the body. But, more than one person says it, and says it from the ends of the earth, because Jesus has joined a body (the Church) to himself.

St. Augustine calls this head and body unity the totus Christus, “the whole Christ.” Jesus is, in himself, a true person, and a divine person at that. He doesn’t need any additional body attached to him to make him complete and perfect. BUT, in a wonderful plan of salvation, he chooses to join human beings to himself in a mystical and sacramental union so that we become truly members (limbs) of his mystical body. We therefore share his divine life – the Father looks upon us as children, the life of the Holy Spirit dwells in our souls, and we are heirs to his Kingdom. We also, then, speak and act as Christ in our prayer and in our lives. A simple analogy is this: When my hand moves, I move; when a member of the body of Christ acts, Christ acts. 

It is, therefore, not a stretch for St. Augustine to be able to say that Christ is the one speaking in the Psalms, always. Sometimes Christ the head alone speaks, sometimes a member of the body alone, but more often than not, he can say that Christ, head and members, speak as one. The whole Christ speaks. This teaching gives a whole new meaning to those words of the Mass, that we pray through Him, with Him, and in Him, to God the almighty Father. 

Thanks be to God for this saving grace! 

A few years ago, I heard a story about how bison on the Great Plains react to storms.  Unlike cattle who tend to turn away from the storm in hopes of avoiding it, bison turn into the storm and face it head on, literally.  The claim is that by doing so, they minimize the impact the storm will have on them and they get through it faster.  For those animals that turn away from a storm in hoping to avoid it, the storm often catches up to them and they spend more time in the storm.  I do not really have a way of verifying this as a fact, though I have heard it in different presentations, but even if it cannot be proven as fact, the principle applies and it provides a helpful lesson for how we face storms in our lives as Christians.  

In the next paragraph of Spe salvi, Pope Benedict reflects on how tempting it is for us to run from suffering when it comes, to do everything that we can do avoid it in our lives.  By doing so, however, we find ourselves often worse off than if we had not turned into the suffering.  The Holy Father explains:

It is when we attempt to avoid suffering by withdrawing from anything that might involve hurt, when we try to spare ourselves the effort and pain of pursuing truth, love, and goodness, that we drift into a life of emptiness, in which there may be almost no pain, but the dark sensation of meaninglessness and abandonment is all the greater. (SS 37)

Instead, like bison about to encounter a storm, we should not flee in fear, but turn into the suffering:

It is not by sidestepping or fleeing from suffering that we are healed, but rather by our capacity for accepting it, maturing through it and finding meaning through union with Christ, who suffered with infinite love. (ibid.)

As a way of demonstrating this, the pope quotes a rather lengthy account from the Vietnamese martyr Paul Le-Bao-Tinh († 1857) who suffered imprisonment and torture in a condition the martyr described as “a true image of everlasting Hell.” It is well worth going to this paragraph and reading it to see the remarkable effect of turning into suffering with faith in Jesus Christ.

I will quote what Pope Benedict writes as he reflects on this inspiring quote, words which I find extremely fruitful for our reflection when faced with suffering:

This is indeed a letter from Hell, but it also reveals the truth of the Psalm text: “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I sink to the nether world, you are present there … If I say, ‘Surely the darkness shall hide me, and night shall be my light’ —for you darkness itself is not dark, and night shines as the day; darkness and light are the same” (Ps 139 [138]:8-12; cf. also Ps 23 [22]:4). Christ descended into “Hell” and is therefore close to those cast into it, transforming their darkness into light. (ibid.)

By God’s Providence, I was recently praying with Psalm 139 and was struck by that same line, alternately translated as: “even darkness is not dark for you and the night is as clear as the day.” (Ps. 139:12) This is one of the great gifts of the Psalms, as they provide ready responses to pretty much every human emotion that we face.  Therefore, when we are confronted with the storm of suffering in our lives, we can turn toward it, and call upon the Lord, reciting those words, and asking Him to be our light to guide us through the darkness and pass safely to the other side with the gracious assistance of His protecting grace.

I find it difficult to choose one of the Psalms as a “favorite” – mostly because I have found so many of them to be undeniably powerful and meaningful at different times in my life. If I did have to choose, however, one that would be very near the top of my list is Psalm 45 – a song about the marriage of the King. I love it because of its bold and tender imagery. The first half of the Psalm is bold in its description of a very powerful king, who, if he is not God himself, is at least very God-like. The second half, on the other hand, tenderly describes how the young maiden chosen to be the spouse of the king prepares herself to “enter the palace of the king” (15).

Unsurprisingly, as St. Augustine interprets this marriage-themed Psalm, he reads it in light of the marriage that God desires to have with humanity. All through the Old Testament are hints, prophecies, and outright statements of the nearly unbelievable truth that God desires such a close and intimate relationship with his people that we would call it a “marriage.” For example, we read in Isaiah, “As a young man marries a virgin, your Builder shall marry you; and as a bridegroom rejoices in his bride so shall your God rejoice in you” (62:4-5). This prophecy is fulfilled most completely in Jesus, who comes to make us one with him. The Church becomes his body and we can be said, mystically, to have a “one-flesh” union with him: He is our head, we are his members.

In the tender second half of Psalm 45, the young woman is told that the King desires her beauty. St. Augustine comments on this verse: 

“For the king has desired your beauty. … But who is this king? He is your God. See now how right it is for you to abandon that other father, and that other nation that was yours, and come to this King who is your God. He is your God and your King, your King and your Bridegroom. The King you are marrying is God; he provides you with your portion, by him you are adorned, by him redeemed, by him healed. Whatever you have in you that can please him, you have as his gift” (Expositions of the Psalms, 44.26. Translated by Maria Boulding).

So, in a very beautiful way, for St. Augustine and for so many Christians who read and pray this Psalm in a Christian light, the King is God – Jesus Christ our Lord. And you and I as members of the body of Christ are the bride, because the Church is the bride of Christ. Jesus desires your beauty, and that beauty is what he has created in you by redeeming you and washing you clean from your sins. Your clean soul is a beautiful soul, a fitting place for God to dwell. 

I would highly encourage you to pray Psalm 45 with this reality in mind. Although the original human author would not have been thinking of Jesus as the King, the Holy Spirit certainly had our Lord in mind when he inspired this Psalm. Similarly, the human author of the Psalm would not have known the bride to be the Church, but the Holy Spirit knew. We can, therefore, recognize that the King in the Psalm can be read as Christ himself and the bride is the Church. You are the beloved one of God, you are beautifully clothed in gold when you are sacramentally washed by his blood. When you reach heaven, you will enter his palace to live with him forever.

O Jesus, beloved of my soul, draw me close to you. You desire my beauty – make me beautiful by freeing me from my sins! Amen.

Closely tied to learning hope though action is learning it through suffering, reflects Pope Benedict in the next paragraph of Spe Salvi.  Suffering is an inevitable part of our human condition, and if we are certain to face it, we can trust that God desires to teach us some important lessons from our experience of enduring suffering.  It is this topic which will occupy our reflections for the next few weeks.

The Holy Father comments on how it is important for us as Christians to engage in actions directed toward reducing suffering in the world:

Certainly we must do whatever we can to reduce suffering: to avoid as far as possible the suffering of the innocent; to soothe pain; to give assistance in overcoming mental suffering. These are obligations both in justice and in love, and they are included among the fundamental requirements of the Christian life and every truly human life. (SS 36)

Though we do all that we can to reduce suffering around us, the pope reminds us that eliminating it altogether is something that is outside of our power:

This is simply because we are unable to shake off our finitude and because none of us is capable of eliminating the power of evil, of sin which, as we plainly see, is a constant source of suffering. Only God is able to do this: only a God who personally enters history by making himself man and suffering within history. (ibid.)

With the Incarnation, the seemingly hopeless situation of suffering has a new light to shine on it, giving new hope that there is an answer to the problem of suffering.  But the Holy Father cautions us that this is hope, not yet fulfillment.  The very presence of this hope, however dim it may seem at times, gives us the courage to persevere in doing good and trusting that the Lord continues to work toward bringing fulfillment to that hope in the fulness of time.

With the growth of various forms of social media over the past several decades, the world has become more aware of the various forms of suffering that exist in the world around us.  It can be incredibly disheartening to see these things, and not a few people have questioned their faith in God, wondering: “How can a good and loving God permit such atrocities?”  In fact, many have come to the conclusion that since suffering only seems to increase, the only logical explanation is that God must not be real, or that He simply does not care.  

Instead of turning away from God in the face of the mystery of suffering, our faith invites us to turn toward God, knowing that even if a “reason” is not provided, the only satisfactory (and true) answer is to be found by turning to God.  As Pope St. John Paul II wrote so beautifully in his document on suffering:

Love is also the fullest source of the answer to the question of the meaning of suffering. This answer has been given by God to man in the Cross of Jesus Christ. (Salvifici Doloris, 13)

This is one of the reasons why I find it helpful to have a crucifix nearby at all times, so that when we feel the weight of suffering, personally or in humanity, we can look to that image with faith and “see” the answer, even as we struggle to understand the mystery.

As St. Augustine comments on the Psalms, he will often bring up connected scripture passages and explain them as well. Because of this, though the sermons are called “Expositions of the Psalms,” they could also be seen as great commentaries on a wide swath of scripture outside of the Psalms. He speaks to the meaning of the words in the Psalms, but so often uses his sermon as a means to teach whatever else happens to be on his mind. 

We would call this a tangent nowadays, but for St. Augustine it was an effective rhetorical teaching device. People expected him to preach for a long time, and so filling that time by teaching on more than just the “assigned” psalm gave him a lot of leeway to flesh out the deeper meanings of the lines in the psalms and their connection to the rest of scripture. 

In his commentary on Psalm 37, he engages in this sort of “tangent” to speak of St. Paul’s famous injunction, “Pray without ceasing.” St. Augustine recognizes that we can’t constantly be saying and thinking words to God. He recognized that people sang psalms while they worked and tried to pray often, but “without ceasing” seemed to be (and is!) humanly impossible – if, that is, you are thinking of prayer simply as speaking words to God. 

But St. Augustine would have agreed with St. John Damascene who defined prayer as “the raising of one’s mind and heart to God.” (CCC 2559). St. Augustine focused on the desire of the heart in addition to the words spoken. Yes, we need to speak words to God – we need to make a sacrifice of time to pray with words. But, we can’t do that without ceasing. What we can do without ceasing is to desire God and his peace. 

St. Augustine writes:

“Let your desire too be before [God], and there your Father, who sees in secret, will reward you. This very desire is your prayer, and if your desire is continuous, your prayer is continuous. The apostle meant what he said, Pray without ceasing (1 Thes 5:17).” 

For Augustine, this “desire” is nearly synonymous with “charity.” We desire what we love and vice versa. While charity may spring forth in holy activity, it comes out of a desire of the heart. 

He thus continues, “The chilling of charity is the silence of the heart; the blazing of charity is the heart’s clamor. If your charity abides all the time, you are crying out all the time; if you are crying out all the time, you are desiring all the time; and if you are desiring, you are remembering rest” (Expositions of the Psalms, 37.14. Translated by Maria Boulding).

In this vein, the charity that dwells in our heart by grace, and overflows into actions of love of God and neighbor, is a real desire for the life of God. As we desire that heavenly life, and journey toward it in Christian discipleship, we are interiorly praying with a prayer of desire. This interior desire sets aflame the words of prayer that we pray and makes our acts of charity be in accord with God’s holy will. 

Father, send us your Holy Spirit. Draw us close to your Son. Give light to our minds and lead us in your paths. Help us desire what you desire, and above all, to desire you. Come, Holy Spirit, set us on fire with your love – set us on fire with desire for God!

The next setting for learning hope that Pope Benedict proposes is action.  He explains how we strive endlessly (implying action) to realize our lesser and greater hopes in life.  We have something that we want to achieve, such as training for a race.  In order to realize our hope of participating in and completing that event, we put in the necessary practice to reach that goal.  Those who have the hope of becoming doctors one day need to put in a lot of work studying, which though daunting at times, is sustained by the hope of completing the requirements to become a doctor.

As good as those various hopes for this life are, we can never lose sight of the great hope of eternal life, which is ultimately the object of the Christian virtue of hope.  By keeping that hope always before us, we will not be discouraged when we encounter failures or setbacks in achieving our earthly hopes.  How sad it is when somebody puts all their hope in some earthly achievement or goal, and when they do not accomplish it, they say in despair: “My life is over!” But when we are rooted in that hope which does not disappoint, no earthly disappointment can stop our forward progress or rob us of meaning in our lives.

Beyond our own personal hopes, we can also get caught up in hope for better circumstances in which we live more broadly, such as those promised by political leaders or other voices which promise something better than what we currently have.  On this point, the Holy Father writes:

If we cannot hope for more than is effectively attainable at any given time, or more than is promised by political or economic authorities, our lives will soon be without hope. It is important to know that I can always continue to hope, even if in my own life, or the historical period in which I am living, there seems to be nothing left to hope for. Only the great certitude of hope that my own life and history in general, despite all failures, are held firm by the indestructible power of Love, and that this gives them their meaning and importance, only this kind of hope can then give the courage to act and to persevere. (SS 35)

He then notes that as we continue to persevere in our actions of doing good, we often fail to see any tangible difference being made in the world around us.  Nevertheless, hope helps us to believe that by opening ourselves to God through these actions, we are making a contribution to the salvation of the world that is not insignificant.  Such was the attitude of the saints, and such should be our attitude as well.

In this regard, I like to think about the story of the multiplication of loaves in John’s Gospel.  When confronted with the seemingly impossible task of feeding the large crowd, St. Andrew said the following to Jesus: “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish; but what good are these for so many?” (John 6:9) Using normal calculations, he was correct.  But by adding God to the equation, what seemed so little and insufficient was multiplied so that the entire crowd was fed.  The next time we consider a small, good deed and wonder: “what good is this for such a big problem?”, present it to the Lord in faith that He will apply His multiplying grace to do far more than we ask or imagine, serving to strengthen our hope and that of those around us.

When you imagine Heaven – something nearly impossible to rightly imagine – I would wager that what trips you up most and possibly leads you to think that Heaven is boring is the fact that “forever” seems like way too long to do anything, even the best of things. I mean, at some point, won’t forever just get boring?

Well, if time works the same way in Heaven that it does on Earth, the answer to that question would be “Yes.” But God exists in eternity without getting bored and Heaven will not get boring, ever. The problem with our imagination of Heaven lies in our absolute inability to imagine time working in any different way than it does now. We have no context for “eternity” – God’s “eternity.”

In the scriptures, we hear the timelessness of God expressed in different ways – “eternal,” “years and years,” a “day,” etc. We have to use these human time categories to describe it, and that is ok. We don’t have words or concepts for anything else.

St. Augustine speaks about this in his commentary on Psalm 60. He reflects on the use of “day” to refer to God’s time in eternity – God’s “day.” 

St. Augustine explains, “The word today indicates a single day; but this is not the kind of day which is squeezed between yesterday and tomorrow; it does not begin where yesterday ended, nor does it end when tomorrow dawns. After all, God’s time is also referred to as “years” in another psalm…. So years, and days, and a single day, all mean the same thing. You can use whichever phrase you like about eternity. And the reason why you can choose freely which way to express it is that whatever you say will fall short of the reality. Yet you must say something, to give yourself a basis on which to think about what cannot be put into words” (Saint Augustine, Expositions of the Psalms 51–72, Translated by Maria Boulding, 199).

In other words, we have to use our human concepts of time to speak about eternity. At the same time, we have to recognize that our human words fall short, and the reality is and will be so much greater and better. We will never get bored because we will be in the eternal now of God’s day. “Long” and “short” may not even make sense in heaven, but we’ll have to wait until then to find out!

Until that day, we experience a small foretaste of that heavenly now in our prayer, at the Mass, and in beautiful experiences of love. These moments can feel timeless, peaceful, and heavenly. May the Lord teach us through our earthly experiences of eternity to never stop desiring the rest he has in store for us. As St. Augustine also would say, our hearts will be restless until they rest in God. Peace!