Let Us Begin
Lions, Journalism, Silence, & Rebranding
Up until this point in time, this site has been a place for me to post short stories, reflections, and personal written pieces.
I plan to continue with the same content but using a different structure, formatting posts more as newsletters written on multiple topics and interests.
Today’s edition:
The Look of a Lion
To The One
We Have Done Nothing
A Little Pencil
The Look of a Lion
Last year, I read all of CS Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia books. For something written so long ago, it holds up quite well. The stories are concise but compelling, transporting the reader to a magical place where everything seems brighter, fresher, and somehow more real than the real world itself.
Reading the books also felt like stepping back into childhood. Sun-soaked days spent in unnamed and forgotten meadows. Chilly evenings sitting under soft moonlight.
Despite being written for children, The Chronicles of Narnia have a special power in speaking to the child within everyone. Whether they’re reading it at 22 or 72.
I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.
(C.S Lewis to his godchild, Lucy)
One of the first movies I watched after moving to Canada was The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe (2005). It was around Christmas when I saw an image from the film which would stick with me for a very long time.
Aslan. The King of Beasts. The son of the Emperor-Over-The-Sea. The High King above all High Kings in Narnia.
In this particular still from the movie, Aslan has just agreed to offer up his life to save Edmund after betraying his siblings. The White Witch calls for the boy’s death, a just and rightful one, but unknown to Edmund’s siblings and the Narnians, Aslan chooses to take his place instead.
While they cheer and celebrate, Aslan ponders what lies ahead. In his eyes shimmer the reflections of love which conceal a serene acceptance of what is to come: the suffering, the pain, the glory.
Fast forward two decades to May 8. Gathered in St. Peter’s Square are hundreds of thousands of people flocking to white smoke which signals a new pope has been chosen to lead the Catholic Church.
The world holds their breath.
All eyes are on the loggia.
Finally, a cardinal steps out and announces the famous words: “Habemus Papam! We have a Pope!”
“Eminentissimum ac reverendissimum dominum, dominum Robertum Franciscum sanctæ Romanæ ecclesiæ cardinalem Prevost.
Qui sibi nomen imposuit Leonem Decimum Quartum.”
Cardinal Robert Francis Prevost. Pope Leo XIV.
I searched him up. Born in Chicago, completed missionary work in Peru, an Augustinian, and now the first North American Pope. An American Pope?
The two words didn’t seem to go together. For a moment, I doubted. I didn’t know who this man was. All I could think about was the place he represented, the stereotypes, the arrogance and aggression against the backdrop of a history asserting dominance through violence.
Then Pope Leo XIV stepped out onto the loggia.
In his gaze, I saw the look of a lion.
It was watching the weight of a cross made up of 1.4 billion souls laid on the shoulders of a man.
I saw the immensity of the moment reflected in his eyes, the humility and openness to his Lord who asks, “Do you love me?”
Suddenly I was watching The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe again. Two lions sharing one look.
I was only 4 years old when Pope Benedict XVI was elected, 12 when Pope Francis took his place. Now nearing 24, I’m grateful to be alive during such a new and hopeful time in our Church.
Of course, this period in history isn’t without its own problems and crises but what’s new?
The only constant is Christ.
Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.
(Hebrews 13:8)
To The One
When I graduated from high school, I wanted to be a journalist. A few things which contributed to this dream:
English 11
Reading The Book Thief by Marcus Zusak
Writing an essay about Macbeth
Performing an original slam poem
Literature 12
Reading and writing about Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Silent reading time at the beginning of classes
^ Napping discreetly during this time
I actually looked forward to writing essays, preparing outlines, finding quotes, composing the citations page, and even receiving feedback. Whether it was 19/20 or 15/20 or no mark at all, I kept writing.
In addition to those assignments, I wrote and posted reflections on my blog almost every day during those last few months of Grade 12. Each experience during that transitory season of life seemed so large. I spilt these thoughts and feelings onto my keyboard, emptying my heart and mind to fill up a page.
Writing was my passion.
But there comes a point on every long journey when arriving at a certain view becomes ‘good enough.’
Maybe it was the online classes, or the more time I started spending watching movies and playing video games, but the words stopped flowing.
I went on more walks in my neighbourhood just to walk, not to get inspired but simply to get away. I spent evenings playing basketball with my friends at the nearby elementary school. We played until the sun went down.
I read as many books as I did when I was younger. All the time on my hands, escaping into imaginary worlds and make-believe stories.
Whether it’s because I was experiencing a creative block or simply had nothing interesting to write about, the words which were once a rushing river had all of a sudden dried out.
The only pieces I wrote were for school and service. Essays on British literature, short stories about ghosts and loss, reflections on beauty and how God revealed Himself through it. But the days of writing for myself, holding onto that dream of turning my words into a career, were memories from a time now passed.
By grace, I made it through four years of studying literature. I had just enough thoughts and ideas for the many essays, projects, and pieces I was tasked to write.
In February 2023, I started attending daily Mass. Afterwards, my friends and I would go for coffee, engage in conversations about faith, service, work, and life in its entirety. During one of these coffee chats, my friend asked me a question.
“Why don’t you write something for the BC Catholic?”
At that time, our parish was preparing for the annual Confirmation retreat held later in the spring. It was during this same retreat where I experienced my initial conversion, the realization that I was called to a deeper relationship with Jesus.
Though the retreat only lasted two days, it changed my life forever. I started knowing then what I realize now everyday: I was made for more.
“Is it really that easy?” I asked. “What would I even write about?”
My friend said it was up to me.
And so in the midst of that season, one spent worshipping God in the Mass and sharing in His communion with my friends, I returned to the words. I pulled myself back to that weekend which happened almost a decade prior, and remembered just how good He had been through it all, from the experience itself to the recollection of it years later.
The dream which God had planted in my heart during high school had borne its fruit.
Even though I may have forgotten it for a time, He never did. And that’s just who He is: the One who holds everything in His infinite and perfect time. When our hearts run out of room for the dreams we once dreamt, the inspirations we once had, the goals we once strived to reach, His heart expands to encompass them all.
When I saw my dreams coming to an end, He saw the steps of a new beginning. When I walked to simply wander, He was directing me to where I needed to be. When I gathered up thoughts which never turned into words, He was fashioning in my heart the right story to tell at the right time.
“You have given all to me.
To you, Lord, I return it.”
Everything I have has been given. The dreams, the memories, the stories, the words.
What I realize now is not so much of how I can give these things to the world but rather return them to the One from whom all good things come. All glory and honour belongs to Him.
We Have Done Nothing
That’s it. This is the whole section.
Just kidding.
Last week, I picked up the book Spaces for Silence by Mother Mary Francis. It contains essays about advancing in the spiritual life, particularly through the power of contemplation found only in silence.
The title of the essay pictured above struck me the most. Ironically enough, it also happened to be the last entry in the entire book. I felt as if Mother Margaret Mary was telling me to my face, “So you’ve read this. Now what?”
It’s one thing to read about silence and another thing to be silent.
In that silence, I’m forced to face myself. I encounter my wounds, relive lingering images in my mind, and give space for the desires God has placed in me to grow.
The difficult thing is remaining in that silence, staying there until His work is done; the work of meeting us where we are, and loving the child He created.
When I go to Him with a head full of thoughts, a heart full of desires, and a being full of the world, He empties it all out. He removes so I may receive. And there is the paradox: that in being left with nothing, He has given me everything which is Himself.
“Up until this time, my brothers,” our seraphic Father liked to repeat, “we have done nothing. Now let us begin.”
(127)
A Little Pencil
The title of my very first blog was Onwards and Upwards. Inspired by a line from How I Met Your Mother, I can safely say I’ve outgrown that identity though it still remains an important part of my writing journey.
During this phase of my life, I feel called to share my words not just to get them out there and let my friends know that I’m still writing, but most importantly to use this platform as a way to proclaim the Gospel: there’s a God who loves you and wants to get to know you.
I hope my words work to direct you and anyone who reads to that More I encountered all those years ago and have been reminded of every day since then.
The inspiration behind the name A Little Pencil comes from the following quote by St. Teresa of Calcutta.
"I’m a little pencil in the hands of a writing God, who is sending a love letter to the world.
Deo Gratias!
finally. LET US BEGIN 🔥