text: transition | Madeline Bialecki
  Holy Saturday is a day of quiet anticipation, a kind of limbo, when we are suspended between death and life.
  It is a day that invites me to remember times when I have lived in that liminal space between death and life. Those are usually times when I have failed at something and have taken a step back to regroup—or have been so devastated by disappointment that I am incapable of moving forward and need to pause to pull myself together.
  The Holy Saturday experience is a model for living in trust, believing that all those pauses in my life—those times of disappointment and loss—are really stepping stones to something new and different.
  Richard Rohr, in Everything Belongs, uses the image of Jonah inside the whale to describe that pause.
  We must go inside the belly of the whale for a while. Then and only then will we be spit upon a new shore and understand our call.
  Rohr's words remind me to ponder those times of transition, when I was suspended between death and new life, and how they turned out to be springboards for a deeper understanding of my call.
  The story of Jonah has always been a favorite because I relate to his attempts to escape his call, thinking he could outrun God. I, too, tried to outrun God. But even as a young woman, I imagined Jonah shaking his head at me and saying, "Learn from me. You can't outrun God."
  Surrender is the word I associate with Jonah, but I was taught never give up. Like Jonah, giving in to God was a hard lesson for me to learn.
  Over the years, though, I have had quite a few experiences of being inside the belly of the whale, suspended between what was and what will be— opportunities to throw my hands up in surrender and admit that God holds all the cards, to accept life as it is instead of how I wanted it to be.
  Actually, I am in one of those times right now. The nonprofit where I work recently merged with a larger organization and we are assuming a new name and new identity. What has been will be no more—and what will be has yet to be revealed.
  Letting go of what was can be a challenge, especially for those who have a long history with our organization and feel invested in what we have built. Disappointment at losing what was and fear of the unknown future can create anxiety.
  Accepting change and adjusting our expectations is a process that takes time.
  Holy Saturday extends the invitation to enter into that process of transformation from death to new life—looking back with gratitude for what has been, letting go of expectations connected with the past, accepting what is and looking forward to what will be.
  I pray for the grace to let go of the past so that I can welcome new life.
  This entry was posted in Faith Journey, Life Lessons and tagged acceptance, death, faith, God, grace, grief, Holy Saturday, hope, loss, prayer, spirituality, transformation, transition, trust on April 20, 2019 by Madeline Bialecki.
  My mother grew up on a farm in northern Michigan. I still have one aunt and several cousins who live near the farm, and last weekend my mom and I went up north to visit my Aunt Mary. During my childhood, we regularly traveled to the farm to help out. Even as a young child, I was assigned chores; gathering eggs was my favorite.
  There is no work to do on the farm now—no animals to tend and the fields are rented out for farming.
  During this trip, a cousin and his wife stopped by one evening, and one day we visited the cemetery where my dad and many relatives are buried. Mostly, though, my mom, my aunt and I spent the time catching up.
  My aunt asked if I was happy that I had moved home. I said yes! No hesitation. I told her I have no regrets about moving back and that I love regular get-togethers with my siblings, being here for every family occasion and my random encounters with my cousins. The transition was difficult, I told her, but so worth it. A few days after that trip, a friend and I were talking about belonging. He is in transition and pondering where he wants to live—a place where he has a sense of belonging is important to him.
  I shared how grateful I am to be home and how living here has made me more aware that this is where I belong.
  "Did you feel a sense of not belonging during the years you lived away?" he asked.
  I did not. When I lived away from family, I felt a strong connection with friends who share my beliefs and values.
  My sense of belonging to my family, though, is by birth, and since I cannot be un-born, I always feel connected to my family.
  In the same way that my birth made me a part my family, being baptized into my church secured my belonging there.
  Birth and baptism created irrevocable bonds, and I have never questioned those bonds. In the sense that I can't be unborn or unbaptized, I have always had a "they can't kick me out" attitude.
  The deepest of all connections for me, though, is my God connection. Even before birth and baptism, I belonged to God, and belonging to God has sustained me through many difficulties. As I reflected on where I belong, I realized that those who share my beliefs and values get me in a way my family sometimes doesn't; and that because of our shared culture and history, my family gets me in a way my friends sometimes don't.
  I am blessed to come from a God who sustains me, belong to a family that loves and accepts me and have friends who support and encourage me.
  Driving up north and turning off the highway and onto the dirt road to my grandparents' farm was a reminder of how fortunate I am to know where I belong.
  This entry was posted in Faith Journey, Life Lessons and tagged acceptance, belonging, church, faith, family, friends, God, hope, security, transition, vulnerability on July 7, 2018 by Madeline Bialecki.
  I suppose most people can remember one particular day when something happened that caused a major life change. That day for me was five years ago today—July 8, 2011. My friend Jim had a seizure while sitting at his desk, hit his head when he fell, and was unconscious when found several hours later. A CT scan at the hospital, checking for a concussion, instead found cancer in three lobes of his brain; and not just any cancer, but a very, very aggressive, non-curable cancer. I knew nothing would ever be the same.
  Jim had always believed that our life experiences brought lessons—and really difficult experiences brought really important lessons. During his cancer journey, he continually asked God, "What is the invitation in this?" and "What am I meant to learn from this?" His lessons ranged from letting go of important parts of his identify to allowing himself to be physically cared for to deepening his belief that he was in God's hands. Jim became much more trusting while he was sick (although I think he maintained a certain level of skepticism when it was time for the daily injections I had to give him).
  Every day we laughed and every day we were grateful. Even on bad days, when everything that could go wrong did—like the day Jim needed emergency surgery just three days after being released from the hospital or when he developed a blood clot the day before we were going to the ocean—even on those days, we found humor and gratitude.
  In the face of a non-curable, aggressive cancer, it was actually fairly easy for me to admit I had no control. If a neurosurgeon, radiologist and oncologist could not get rid of the brain cancer, what could I do? Instead, I asked God, "What is the invitation in this for me?"
  And God responded, "This is what you are to do: you are to love Jim unconditionally, forgive him without limit, and let him go." They were words from a prayer I had prayed every day for ten years, and God was pointing out to me that this was my chance to practice what I had been praying —every day for almost nine months. I wanted to be more loving and forgiving and less controlling and here was a great opportunity.
  While he was sick, we talked about my moving back to Michigan to be near my family, and when my sisters came to visit, he gave me to them. Two days later, he died a very peaceful death, at home with his dog by his side.
  On that day of Jim's diagnosis five years ago, I could not know the difficulties, heartbreak and sorrow that was to come. Nor could I know the gifts, joys and blessings.
  When I look back at July 8, 2011, and everything that has happened since, I am both amazed and deeply grateful. Life has changed, and it is good.
  This entry was posted in Faith Journey, Life Lessons and tagged blessings, cancer, death, faith, GBM, God, gratitude, hope, Joy, loss, transition on July 8, 2016 by Madeline Bialecki.
  The gift of my journal
  Even though it has been more than two years since I moved to Michigan, I can sometimes still feel as though I am in transition and not completely settled in. It may be because the move piled grief on top of grief or because there has been transition within transition since the move—or both.
  In my prayer, I have been asking what God has planned for me and I wonder if, for some reason, I am missing something—some new opportunity that will help me feel more settled. What I know for sure is that my life here does not look like my life did in Pennsylvania.
  It occurs to me, though, that the primary reason for moving to Michigan was to be near my family, so it was inevitable that my new life would not look like my old one. I had no family in Pennsylvania.
  Here, though, I have both planned get-togethers with my family (holidays, birthdays, weddings, etc.) and also those wonderful, unexpected encounters that can happen because I live nearby.
  Last week, I was at the car dealership waiting for my car to get serviced when one of my nephews walked in. He, too, was having his car serviced there. It was a total surprise to see him, and the time we spent together in casual conversation was pure gift.
  Last summer, another nephew was working on a road construction project near my home and I stopped to chat with him when I happened to pass by on my bike.
  Another day last summer, when a friend was visiting from Pennsylvania, we stopped for lunch at a restaurant in Detroit and there sat one of my sisters and her husband. "That could never happen in Philadelphia," my friend said. "No," I agreed, "it could not."
  Yet here, the possibility for chance encounters exists, and each encounter delights me. Every one of these chance meetings affirms that moving here was right for me and reminds me how blessed I am to be here.
  My New Year's Eve tradition is to read my journal from the past year. This year, I was amazed at how many times my family appeared in my journal. Monthly sisters' dinners, watching my niece figure skate, kayaking with my brother and sister-in-law, attending bridal and baby showers, another niece's wedding, and many more family events fill the pages of my journal and filled my heart with gratitude as I reflected on them.
  I don't know why I could not see it before, but I am grateful for the lens that my journal offered me. Through it, I can see how my family connections and interactions have helped shape my new life and added a dimension that was unfamiliar to me. I can now see that I am actually quite settled and that I have the life I hoped for when I moved here.
  This entry was posted in Faith Journey, Transition and tagged blind spot, faith, journaling, transition on January 3, 2016 by Madeline Bialecki.