Eucharistic adoration is undoubtedly my favorite devotion. It’s the one thing that can refresh, calm, and renew me when all else fails––which is interesting given that I grew up in a parish that did not even have a monstrance. Lucky for teenage Olivia though, the Archdiocese of Boston and its youth revival movement are never without this Eucharistic devotion.
Since March, I’ve gone to adoration more than ever before. Once the Archdiocese allowed public Masses again, our parish quickly built a raised and canopied altar on the back lawn. We started having a 7 p.m. daily Mass outside, followed by an hour of praise & worship adoration, then an hour of silent adoration. It was a gift.
A small orphanage in Haiti named Kay Mari (Mary’s Home) stole a piece of my heart when I was in high school. I could go on for ages about the beauty and the love of Jesus that I experienced, and because of this, I had my sights set to go back again this past spring. Needless to say, that trip did not happen.
As one of my commitments to the parish as an adult leader for this trip though, I had to complete sixty Holy Hours in front of the exposed Eucharist in the five months leading up to the trip. I thought it was a crazy expectation of a college student, and I left much of it until the end. Soon after the trip was canceled though, the world went into lockdown. Then, I found myself on the church’s back lawn every evening, watching the sun go down and the stars come out behind the illuminated monstrance.
I was working at a maritime camp and taking several summer courses as I was making a leap to transfer to Lynch and join the five-year Masters in Social Work program as an incoming junior. Along with being exhausted from wrangling kayaking seven-year olds all day, I was overwhelmed by the state of our world. I was also working multiple jobs, dealing with chronic illness, running a podcast, and whatever else was going on. It was a struggle to drag myself to that lawn some nights, and once I was there, I often had a wandering, distracted mind.
Being distracted in prayer is not something unknown to the saints. I try to follow the tack of St. Therese of Lisieux and just quietly refocus my mind onto Him without becoming frustrated with myself, because that in itself is taking away attention from prayer yet again. It has always been a rhythm for me that my mind takes however long it needs to be noisy and unfocused, and then there is a point of clarity where I settle into the adoration period and whisper, “Hello, Jesus. I’m ready to listen now.”
One evening in July, sitting on the grass and watching the stars above, I was greeted with a welcomed forgotten memory.
It was my first time in Haiti, and I was about 16. We were taking an afternoon break back at the orphanage before doing more home visits or going to the school. I remember being covered in dust and was appreciating staying seated in the shade to play games with one of the wheelchair-bound kids, Andre.
Naica, a spunky little one, came bounding over to me. My Creole was essentially nonexistent, and I followed along with whatever she was asking me to do. She led me over to a very tiny bicycle with wonky wheels and the spokes poking out, that I’m pretty sure would not have pedaled without assistance. Following her little Creole commands, I ran around, hunched over, pushing her on the uneven ground riding this little dilapidated bike.
As we were doing laps of the yard and my fellow missionaries were laughing, she––in the way that only a 7-year-old girl can––demanded we go into the chapel, on her bike. I put up a fight that was certainly hindered by my inability to construct an acceptable argument for her. Finally, she wore me down, and off I went pushing her little bike up the ramp into the tiny chapel.
What happened next melted my heart. When we got into the cool stone building, she threw her hand up in the air (and off the wobbly handlebars), and shouted “Bonjour, Jezi!” “Hello, Jesus.” She was satisfied after saying her hello and permitted me to wheel her back outside.
Hello Jesus, indeed. Little Naica’s moment of joyful greeting to our Eucharistic Lord has brought me years of lessons. How excited should we be when we approach Him? How often do we linger outside because we don’t want to disgrace His presence with our wonky bicycle? And how often do we refuse to say hello because we’re resisting what comes after the greeting?
So now, my eyes wander aimlessly until the moment when they lock with His, I breathe deeply, and whisper, “Bonjour, Jezi.” Hello, my Lord. Here I am, with my rusty bike, dusty feet, and an open heart.
Previously the Campus News Editor and Catholicism 101 Editor, Olivia dabbles in The Torch’s writing and photography. She is a senior studying theology and applied psychology and human development with a minor in journalism. She is unashamedly passionate about youth ministry, Haiti, all things charismatic, the Oxford comma, and CatholicTV––where she can often be found as an on-camera news reporter or host of the To the Heights podcast.
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