to the men who punched me in the stomach last weekend

My parents have always taught me to treat others fairly. Skin color, religion, sex - nothing should create a barrier for charity.

Sidenote: this is not to be confused when I'm talking with a non-Catholic and I mention contraception/the Communion of Saints/Sacraments and then stumble over my words because I realize I'm talking to a non-Catholic and oh my gosh, does she even know what this means or do I look like an idiot, but wait, I can't stumble or she'll notice I'm stumbling and get her feelings hurt. So let's just change the subject to....dang, what should I change the subject to? I can't think of anything. Stop, just stop. Just.Shut.Up.Melanie.

We assist at Holy Mass at the beautiful, looming Cathedral in downtown Austin. Anyone who's ever graced a dirty sidewalk of downtown can tell you that there are a lot of homeless people there. A lot. And they make me nervous because I'm walking with two little girls and they are mumbling to empty corners or smoking or  asking me for money and are, well, homeless. I do tend to take a wide circle around doorways and stairs where they usually hang out because my oldest, the Super Sniffer, inevitably asks why that man smells bad and is sleeping at our church door. It makes for an awful situation all around.

So, I take a wide circle. I act as the devout Jews did in Luke 10, with the dying man lying aside the road. I carry with me food, if it's not Sunday (because I'm frenetic trying to get to Sunday Mass, I don't know), in case the homeless person enters my giant personal bubble, so I have something to give him. But otherwise, I put a little spark in my step and hold tight to the hands of my girls, and wide-circle it.

Pretty rotten of me, right?

I'm not advocating for those with young children or those barely surpassing the size of the Munchkin race to fling themselves into the throes of helping the homeless on the front lines. There are plenty of safer options while leaving the person-to-person help to the bigger, stronger, braver sex. While not every or even most homeless people are dangerous, using common sense is just smart.

But what I am advocating is to recognize that these people are people with dignity. They have souls that Our Lord loves and cherishes.

And I'm saying this mostly to myself because I tend to, I don't know, struggle with anxiety, that every person is going to attack me and my children as we just stroll along the sidewalk to Mass in broad daylight. (I know.)

All this to say that I have a story. And it hit me hard.

I try to go to Confession every week. Our parish offers it on Sundays before and during Mass, so it's not hard to go at all. And it's easy to get to know the weekly-ers while standing at the back of the church for half an hour every Sunday.

A few weeks ago, a man caught my eye. He looked like he was ex-military: military haircut, dressed sharply, and stood straight and still in line for Confession (that's pretty much my ex-military litmus test). But he carried with him a huuuuuuge backpack and a jug of water. I commented to Joseph after the second week of seeing him stand in line for Confession that he intrigued me. I mentioned that I felt very compelled to pray for him because I wondered if he was a homeless vet.

Fast forward two weeks. An usher friend of ours who is ex-military (the haircut and his stories are a dead giveaway) said that he had been intrigued by this gentleman and asked him after Mass about his story. He told our usher friend that he is homeless. Our friend said he gawked in surprise. He told the man that he feels awful and didn't see that coming at all. The homeless man said that he finds comfort in church and cleans up as best as he can when he comes to see Him.

As far as I know, that was the extent of their conversation (besides the "how can we help" conversation).

That punched me in the gut, y'all.

I get so caught up in focusing on the difficult time our Mass is at (3:30pm) and how our kids are tired and hungry and cranky that I forget that we are looking upon the Creator and Saviour of the universe in the Most Holy Sacrament.

Why am I not crawling on my knees to the altar? Instead I'm standing in the back of the church (albeit, in line for Confession because graces and help and I'm a miserable sinner, duh) letting my mind wander to the story of the guy with the backpack. Or I'm sitting up front with two little girls preparing for their First Holy Communions and stressing that I'm not doing enough and they just don't get it.

(Hello, log in my own eye. Didn't notice you.)

This man is homeless. He has no home. He lives on the dirty sidewalks and begs for his meals. People step over him and ignore him and make wide circles around him.

He dresses up as best as he can to visit Our Lord.

This man gets it.

This story came paired with another on that Sunday (the Feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross).

Joseph is so good at evangelizing (he doesn't wide-circle anyone). He will sit with those not of the Faith and talk and talk for hours (for years, it's true). One of his dearest friends is a Protestant who is searching for the fullness of Truth. He and Joseph have gone back and forth for four years about religion. And Joseph has never budged: he's maintained Truth and that the Catholic Faith has the fullness of it.

We've gone to our separate cities since the beginning of these conversations, but the conversations still happen, via phone and email. And recently, our friend quietly and humbly admitted that if he thinks that the Catholic Church has the fullness of Truth, and he's not so sure it doesn't, that's where he and his wife need to be.  And then even more recently, we found out that this friend and his wife have been not just once, but three times to the Catholic parish Joseph recommended to them in their city.

We found this out on the Feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross. Joseph called his friend just to chat and his friend said he couldn't talk, but before he got off the phone, he just had to tell Joseph that he is in awe that we have the True Cross. Joseph chuckled and said that yes, as Catholics, we definitely recognize the Resurrection as the height of our beloved story of salvation, but we always keep in mind the Passion that Christ suffered for --

No, Joseph. Y'all have the True Cross.

He went on to explain that Catholic parish that they went to that morning celebrated the Feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross by having a procession that honored the a piece of the Holy Cross that the parish has.

Our friend was in awe of this.

This, too, punched me in the gut.

Our friend and his wife are Protestant (though searching) and they saw and felt the power of the True Cross. Though they didn't mention it, I wonder if they saw and felt the power of the True Presence, as well. They've been to this Catholic church at least three times without us there. Something...Someone is drawing them ever closer.

And yet we have people, myself included, in the Faith who take for granted that we can receive the Body and Blood everyday. We can go into Adoration and talk face-to-Face with Our Lord. We can step in line weekly for Confession and have our souls cleaned and the graces to keep it that way.

I see and feel the beauty of the Sacraments and sacramentals and powerful prayers, but I don't always appreciate them the way they deserve and NEED to be appreciated.

These are the steps to holiness and salvation and they are not to be ignored.

GK Chesterton wrote that, "A dead thing can go with the stream,  but only a living thing can go against it."

These two men cautioned and inspired me: cautioned me against growing complacent while going through the motions of being Catholic, but forgetting the point of it, and inspired me to truly have a love affair with Our Lord and His beautiful, beautiful Church.

Let's get cliche for a moment: love isn't a noun, it's a verb - a constant choice. A living thing. In order to fight against the culture of hate and death and narcicism and apathy, we must be alive with this virtue. Our love affair with Christ and His Church must continually grow until we can't hide it inside of us and it touches everyone we meet.

And so to the men who punched me in the stomach a week ago - thank you. Thank you so much.