Did you know that I get caught off guard each time someone asks if I have a brother or not. I don’t really know what to say. Some people know about you, but most don’t.

I wish I could see you. Who do you look like, mom or dad? Are you the perfect middle child, bridging the two extremes between me and monkey? What do you like? What do you see? Where are you? What’s it like to be nameless until 2006, when you would have been 21? You know that I miss you, without having ever seen you, right? You know that I love you too?

I’m sorry that you were just discarded in a biohazard bin. I gave you a name in 2006, Joseph. Maybe that can begin to make amends. It was Jennifer’s idea, and it was good, but brought the pain to a new high. It made it real, that you were no longer a mere abstract, but my brother. My little baby brother … dude, I don’t even know what that means; what it feels like or anything else at all.

Remember last year when I hit a point during Lent? I know in my head that its not my fault, that somehow my costing mom and dad over $100,000 in neonatal and preemie care, is not reason alone for you not living. I can’t be used as the excuse, nor can your disorder. You’ve probably seen how that that ‘perfect child’ ideal has backfired.

There’s many reasons why I’m not happy with my mom, but you know that you’re among the top. You are probably also aware that each 40 Days campaign I do is somehow for you; mom’s never really shown remorse.

Oh, say Hi to Jesus for me, would you? Tell Him I’m doing okay here, but He’s got to start coming through for me in some huge ways. He knows what I mean.

See you,

Your sister, Megan


Dissent Fest

The brochures and registration packets are now available in parishes throughout the Los Angeles archdiocese, for the RE Congress.

As a member of USC Our Savior Chapel’s Peer Ministry Council, I recieved the packet this evening and tried very hard not to show my distaste.

Liturgical direction is headed under Ed Archer, from St. Monica’s Parish in Santa Monica. That’s for the Youth Day. St Monica’s thinks that having a homosexual community and a dating lounge in the church’s auditorium is the greatest way of attracting young adults.

As for Mass, there are different “characters”, or flavors. There are some pretty wild themes: “Church on Way to Unity,” Hawaiian, Celtic, etc.

There’s the returning classic of Sacred Space that unwittingly promotes Centering Prayer.

High Price for Vocation

I’m approxiamately 2 weeks away from submitting my application for entrance to the Sisters of Mary, Mother of the Eucharist. I’m waiting to set up a time with my Spiritual Director to review it and get the physical exam done as well.

After that, I can send it in.

Of course, there’s a but to be expected. I know that if God can handle my salvation, He can handle $46,700 in student loans.

I know of two resources:

But are there others? Are there certain patron Saints I could appeal to?


I am David is a film that I had never heard of until last night, and I think it’s an unfortunate circumstance as it appears to be a film that many people should watch. It’s not a film that society would expect to see in its theatres next to the likes of Pitt, Diaz, or any other of the major films that are expensive, quickly made and sold.

But I’m not writing a book review here. I’m still processing and reacting to it, thinking over the lines that I heard and liked the most. They’re not pretty lines. They’re not poetic, or uttered in a field of flowers. The lines are of a little boy, growing up in a communist prisoner camp his whole life, simply saying that he’s scared, but doesn’t want to be so any more. It’s uttered in the bunker, where mattresses are a faintly remembered fantasy, clothing is gray with dirt, brown with mud and likely shed blood from being beaten. Clothes don’t fit well, they’re taken off of somebody’s who was killed by the guards.

The little boy says he doesn’t want to be scared anymore, but the adults around don’t have the same ability. They knew life before the camp, before the pain, the beatings, the blood, the fear, they knew goodness existed. This little boy didn’t know what “good” was, but he knew there was something other than evil.

Do we sense that goodness exists, expect something different, even if only we know badness? Is that a sense of the Divine, of the Holy Spirit telling us about Home? Has God planted, grafted into us a sense of Him and are we only able to know that faintly remembered fantasy if we’ve been immersed in the pain and known nothing else?

Just think about the heavy simplicity of the statement “I’m scared.” We’re okay with the words if its a kid reacting to the dark or a nightmare, but what of it when adults say it? What do those words mean when adults, grown-ups, say “I’m scared.” They don’t shout it, they don’t say it at all. They whisper it, in wavery voices, as though they’re even more scared of the idea of someone, something else knowing, that they are afraid of something. Why doesn’t saying that you’re afraid carry the same weight as saying one is scared? What’s so primal about it? What’s so fearsome about it?

Why does it echo in my head?

I’m scared. I don’t want to be scared anymore.”