"Gratitude"

This piece is dedicated to the 2024-2025 House community. The mark you made on my life will not be erased any time soon. 

A red awning sits above a metal staircase that leads to a building well over 100 years old. Through a wooden door with windows, stairs spiral up four stories; a large cross sits on the wall of the first flight. To the left is a wide open room with couches, tables, board games on shelves, a keyboard piano, and even an old church pew. The walls boast paintings, pictures, signs, and crosses, all of a religious nature. Either of the two doors on one wall open to more furniture, alongside a massive TV, and a large white, circular table primed for a family-style meal. The adjacent kitchen is complete with a stove, oven, refrigerator, dishwasher, sink, drying rack, ice machine, coffee maker, and even an espresso machine. A chalkboard above the sink reminds the home of the ever-important dishes schedule. There’s a strip of space next to the kitchen filled with shelves and large refrigerators for storage. The red awning reads, in large, bold letters,  THE HOUSE. The House makes up one wing of Catholic University’s Caldwell Hall, and, after over fifty years of housing a new intentional community of students each year, I was one of the last twelve people to call it home. 

We didn’t come together randomly. Each one of us twelve was selected, after an application process, to serve as Resident Ministers through CUA’s Office of Campus Ministry, fostering intentional Catholic community within the university student body and in the specific residence halls we were assigned to. Besides the twelve of us in The House, there were seventeen other Ministers, though they lived in the dorms they were assigned to. Tension quickly arose in my heart through this setup: twelve people, all aligned towards the same mission and sharing the same ideals, were given an exclusive, shared space. Many nights, it was easier to stay in that bubble than to make the trek out to Walton Hall, where I ministered, even if that was my job. There was little question as to why The House had, fairly or not, carried a reputation for cliquiness which had annoyed me in the years prior to being assigned there. I was caught between guilt as I began to feel myself falling into that same trap, and a wonder and awe in seeing the beauty of intentional community firsthand. I would never truly get peace in that matter. 

One day, I came home, furious with one of the many frustrating scenarios born from living in community, and seeking sympathy. As I rambled grievance after grievance, Casey stopped me and said, “You’re telling me all of this, but have you told Him?” and pointed to the crucifix hanging in our room. He got me. I hung my head and walked myself over to the chapel. Our alcove was an escape from the trying world and a battleground for virtue. I knew that, no matter what happened during the day, I could come back to Caldwell 202 and get a second opinion on anything I may have faced throughout the day. Casey pushed me in ways that brought out the best in myself, and I tried to do the same for him. 

On December 4th, 2024, all 29 Resident Ministers received an email informing us that the program would be discontinued the following year. While we grieved the death of a program that brought immense good, the twelve of us also had innumerable conversations on how the will of God was working through this choice in ways we couldn’t begin to understand yet. A number of us pivoted to the Resident Assistant position instead, and I now live in a drastically different environment, doing a job somewhat similar to what I did last year, but different enough to feel like a foreigner at times. I’ll often prop the door to my suite open when I’m home to encourage my residents to create an open community, but I’m still learning not to expect what I got used to last year. 

There’s immense gratitude for the days I got to spend in The House, but walking through the space today can feel eerie and gutting. Me and Casey’s small but sacred double is now a storage room. I go in there and look out the window, seeing the same view I saw all year, but when I turn around, I no longer see beds, closets, Casey’s baseball helmet, American flag, or “Cody Rodeo” sign. Boxes of bright red kneeling pads just don’t have the same charm. At the same time, my angst over the cliquey aspect of the community has been put to rest. No longer would a passerby have to look into the windows and see joy and warmth that felt exclusive, as I had in years prior. Still, our residents would have to say goodbye to the Marian Scavenger Hunts, House Halloween Parties, and impromptu game nights with their ministers. There’s no way to reason out whether it was worth it. 

It’s a typical weekday night, and I’m walking back to The House from Walton Hall. It’s around 10:50 pm, I just led a few residents in night prayer, and it’s a brisk forty-something degrees out. Although I spent the walk back fantasizing about a warm bed and being asleep by 11, opening the door hits me with a relieving flood of warmth, and a lively conversation happening in our living room. Laughter, deep spiritual conversations, cheap, friendly insults, dad jokes, and probably some “Shallow” by Lady Gaga cut through the quiet that would prevail in any other residence hall. There are dirty dishes in the sink left over from someone’s baking project that the dishes team for the night (possibly mine) neglected. I know I’ll regret it the next morning, but what the heck, Casey’s still up anyway, so I join the group and instantaneously lose track of time. 

There’s a quiet anger for the fact that I was shown such a beautiful way of life just to have to wake up and return to real life - a voice immediately condemned by a reminder to be grateful that I had it at all. So I mourn, and I laugh, and I praise God for this year-long pit stop that He offered me along the weary journey.