Don't Call It Travel Writing

Write Answers Only - Part 4

This is part 4 of a limited series I’m running called “Write Answers Only” in which I reflect on hinge moments in my vocation as a writer—and offer them to you for your own vocational journey.

Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash

Few people understood the pairing: Creative writing and international studies? It sounded like a career path and a fallback plan, something professional and something personal.

But even as an undergraduate student, I never saw these seemingly disparate fields of study as anything other than an integrated vocation.

I wanted to tell stories, I explained. I wanted to tell stories that mattered. And I wanted to tell stories against the biggest backdrop there was: the world.

Still.

My creative writing major was composed of English literature courses—fairy tales, epic heroes, Chaucer—and craft courses. My international studies courses were exactly that: international in theme and content, spanning policy, development and ethics. There was never an intentional crossover of my interests, just this desire—this inner drive—to do both, to straddle the line between storytelling and global justice, between writing and travel, between plumbing the depths of humanity’s narratives and bridging the many gaps that separate members of our global family.

In reflecting on my vocational journey, this infusion of global justice into my writing formation was important. I was never on a journalism track; I was never trying to shine the light on secrets hidden throughout the world. I was always thinking in terms of fiction writing, of building worlds that created awe and wonder, in depicting characters that had real struggles and real joys.

And I wonder, then, if God did not insert Godself into my writing in this organic, seamless way. Want to tell big stories? This isn’t just a world of meaningless suffering; this is God’s world and we’re called to make it holy. We’re called to build and dream and share in that awe and wonder.

When I took a job at Catholic Relief Services, tasked with increasing responsibility over the CRS Rice Bowl Lenten program, I was struck: Here I was, writing, listening to, gathering and sharing stories of God’s people at work in God’s world. The biggest stories. Stories that matter.

They were small stories, sure—literally only a few hundred words, and just a handful a year. But that disparate pairing of academic interests suddenly made perfect sense. Indeed, that pairing wasn’t so odd after all; it was essential. It was God planting a desire within me—long before I knew about Catholic Relief Services or the particularities of possible job descriptions—to see it bear good fruit.

I wonder: What happens when we ignore our creative selves? When we disassociate the creative desire from whatever we deem more important, more professional? Do we do God a disservice? Do we do our own vocation a disservice?

That desire to tell stories that evoke wonder and awe at the power and possibility pulsing within God’s world is still there, still within me. It might be in you, too. And it’s important. It’s been on my mind lately, and I imagine you can guess why. Perhaps you’ve seen the headlines, those that describe the gutting of international funding and the subsequent hamstringing of so many essential organizations like Catholic Relief Services that are doing literal Gospel work.

Stories are important. They’re how we hold on to one another, how we understand one another, how we deepen our relationships and build our empathic muscles. Stories are bridges upon which we walk to meet another.

But how do we gather and share these stories if we’re not working alongside one another? If we’re not accompanying one another through hardship and struggle? How do we deepen our understanding of God at work in the world if we turn our backs on the world itself, on the very people who—like each of us—carry the Christ-light each day?

Jesus goes to others in their suffering and in their joy. He asks no questions. He simply extends a hand to heal, to comfort, to share. We are told to do likewise. And listen—it’s hard. We don’t get it right every time. But we keep at it—or, we should. We keep reaching out to folks near and far. And we let them reach back to us, to touch us through their stories. Together, we go to God.

That’s the Christian life. That’s the heart of the spiritual journey. Going to others, encountering God therein. When that spiritual movement is hindered, when we find ourselves blocked or prevented from reaching out to another in need, something has gone awry. Ours is a God of unity, a God who calls all of us together, who abhors the fracturing of the human family and instead spares no effort to go and find even a singularly lost sheep.

I invite you to read National Catholic Reporter’s coverage of this. And reach out to Congress to encourage them to protect funding that enables organizations like CRS to literally saves lives each and every day.

I also wrote a reflection on the Good Samaritan and the importance of innkeepers like CRS for America Magazine. I offer it to you for your own prayer.

And another thing:

• Speaking of telling stories against the backdrop of the world, did you know

  Shannon K. Evans
  & I have a children’s book coming out? It’s a fun little tour through Marian apparitions. Check it out!

• And speaking of books that are coming out… Don’t forget to reserve a copy of my next one: “Finding Peace Here and Now: How Ignatian Spirituality Leads Us to Healing and Wholeness!”