Catherine, twice over's Journal

farewell
After giving the matter some thought, I've made the decision to close this journal down. I will not be deleting the journal, but I will no longer be making entries in it.

I'm not going to stop writing about my spiritual experiences; rather, I'm going to put them back in

ladyfirebird where they were in the first place. I want my faith to be so integrated into my life that one cannot draw a line between my faith and myself, and having a separate journal runs counter to that goal.

There was a Church father -- I believe it was St. Augustine -- who once said, "how I pray is breathe." That's the way I want to be. That's the way life should be, in my not-so-humble opinion. Faith should be so integral that one should not need to stop and think before making a decision.

With God's grace, I hope someday to achieve that goal.

Thank you for reading!

I began reading Crossing the Threshold of Hope last night. The book is the transcript of what would have been a videotaped question-and-answer interview between an Italian journalist and Pope John Paul II. The interview never happened, but the Pope eventually wrote out answers to the questions and forwarded them to the journalist, who opted to publish the documents using the title the Pope had written on the outside of the folder.

In response to the journalist's first question, which concerned the role of the Pope and whether or not John Paul II had ever had arid spells in his faith, the Pope responded:

My explanation begins by clarifying words and concepts. Your question is infused with both a lively faith and a certain anxiety. I state right from the outset: "Be not afraid!" This is the same exhortation that resounded at the beginning of my ministry in the See of Saint Peter.

( Read more... )

Eternal God,
You are my creator,
and I am the work of your hands.
In the blood of your Son you have created me anew;
Remade by him, I am your beloved.
Eternal God, limitless and deeper than the sea,
what more can you give me than yourself?
An ever-burning fire, you are never consumed.
In your heat, you burn away my soul's self-love.
You are the fire that takes away all cold.
Your light enables me to know all truth.
Your light is above all light,
enlightening my mind,
making the light of faith clear,
perfecting it so that I may see my own soul alive,
and in this light I receive you-the true light.

-- St. Catherine of Siena

Yesterday all my pent-up anger boiled over and exploded; fortunately, the worst of it was a LiveJournal post and a lot of tears in private. In a way, it's good that it did explode because I was able identify who was angering me and bring things into focus and perspective. It may be bad, though, because I realized that one of the people I'm angriest with is God.

Given that, I made the decision not to go to Mass yesterday because it strikes me as more than a little hypocritical to participate in an act of worship with so much anger in my heart. I also decided I very likely would not go to the special Lenten Mass series tonight.

Oddly, though, the little beliefs and practices, the everyday things, remained. I couldn't bring myself to break my Lenten fast and instead had tea with dinner last night. When G came over after dinner, I was reading a biography of my own St. Catherine. This morning when I was putting on my jewelry I reached, almost without thinking, for the sterling silver four-way medal.

It seems some part of my faith is stronger than my anger. I know my belief in God is. Realizing this, I got to where I was going a few minutes early this morning and touched the four-way medal, asking God to please send me some sort of sign, anything, that things are going to get better. Part of me sneered at myself for maintaining any sort of religious participation. But most of me is desperately hopeful.

I hope I find my sign. My eyes are definitely open today.

Since N.C. State is on Spring Break, my usual Wednesday night Mass at the Doggett Center was cancelled. Instead, I went with G to the weekly Taizé service at the Episcopal Campus Ministry.

Because I was giving him a hand with something else, I had actually gone over and met G at work a good hour before we had to leave to go to the service. After helping him, I found myself with about thirty-five minutes to kill, so I decided to work on the "God as Teacher" project and did some web research. While running Google searches, I came across the text to Psalm 25:4-7, which references God as a compassionate guide and teacher, and made a note of it for later use.

I had been a little wound up -- the reasons are for another entry -- and on the way over to the service mentioned that I wasn't sure it was a good idea for me to go. But five minutes before a service is generally a bad time to decide against it, so I went anyway.

This was my first experience with a Taizé service, but I had read some of G's material before so I was not surprised by the format, which includes both psalms and readings. The surprise came when the leader read the psalm for the evening. It was part of Psalm 25, including verses 4-7. The reading was from Acts (I think) and had to do with seeking God even in the face of emotional adversity. And during the silent prayer portion of the service, my mind cleared in a way it hasn't in some time. I had a few new thoughts/realizations which are going to take a while to assimilate, but which I think are true ones.

After the service, I got back in the car and told G that I'd been reading that exact psalm just before we'd gone over there. He looked at me with a half-smile on his face. "I think you were supposed to be there."

I think I was too. I'm just not sure why yet.

Scripture referenced: ( Psalm 25:4-7 )

teacher

A cursory look on the web and a glance through some of the books I have indicates that finding and compiling references to God -- in any of His Persons -- as Teacher will not be a relatively simple research project. While there are apparently many icon representations of the teaching aspect (particularly of Christ; most people are familiar with the Pantocrator image) there is very little written on this function, especially in a manner independent of the other roles of Our Lord.

I wonder why this is.

This afternoon I've been recalling various teachers I've had and remembering that I always had a feeling of self-contempt toward my reaction to some of the best: I was like an anxious puppy, wanting to please them and do the best I could. Usually, the feeling would wear off, but for a few it never did. It wasn't necessarily because I didn't please them; often, I did. It was because I wanted their approval -- and therein lay the seeds of any contempt I may have had for my reaction.

But I wonder, what's so terrible about an anxious-puppy reaction toward the Great Teacher? In this case, the reward won't simply be a good grade on a class. It will be far, far greater.

I discovered yesterday that the trick to fasting is to keep yourself almost over-hydrated. I didn't think I was going to be able to manage the fast, but in the end I did. And I'm glad I did; reciting a quick prayer every time my stomach rumbled kept reminding me just why I was fasting anyway.

In fact, something kind of odd happened last night. My stomach really started growling and some shakes showed up around 5:45. It was less than an hour before the 6:30 Mass, so I couldn't eat then due to the Eucharistic fast, but I decided that if I got worse, after Mass I'd go on and break the fast. I went to Mass and took the Eucharist and my system abruptly settled down; I was fine for the rest of the evening. Funny how that seemed to work.

Lent is a time of penitence, but the theme for last night's services (and some pre-service reading I did) was more about simplification, of stripping away the old, external decay in order to reveal the more substantial inner self, where God resides. The emphasis was on Lent as a time of preparation. I was reminded of yesterday's observation that I seem to be becoming ashes.

Ashes are a result of fire, and perhaps my ashes are the indication of a purifying fire. Maybe I'm supposed to become this way, and it certainly is good to enter Lent with a sense of need, a desire to want to become closer to the Lord. Ashes are also one of the best fertilizers around...and it may be that my ashes are the kind that will foster a new and vital growth.

It's a hopeful thought, and one I think I'll cling to for a while.

Today is Ash Wednesday, and during that period between sleeping and waking this morning I reflected on my recent spiritual aridity -- I haven't wanted to journal, I haven't wanted to write, I haven't wanted to pray, I haven't wanted to worship, I haven't wanted to do any of the things I did to nourish the spiritual side of myself. And it's showing; my old nemesis of depression is gaining strength.

More than anything, I mused, I am becoming ashes.

I'm giving up two things for Lent this year -- chocolate and soda. I'm also working on cleaning up my language, which is something I should do anyway (so it's not a true fast) but still represents a penitential activity. And it occurred to me this morning that if I could try to add a daily prayer, even a brief rote recital, to my routine, I might at least find the map out of this desert.

So I began the Our Father and I didn't even make it through the first phrase before it occurred to me that I have no paradigm by which I can relate to God. Father doesn't work for me because I lost my own so early; I do not understand (in an emotional way) the idea of an adult relationship with one's father. Companion doesn't work because I don't trust my companions that implicitly -- even G -- due to some other life experiences. The only one that seemed to be possible is Teacher.

This could be a possible project for me: to find references and works about God and Christ as Teacher, not Father. And if I can't find any, maybe I should write some; it's always easier for me to write when I have something to write about. And being creative always helps me get in touch with my Creator -- which is another way of relating.

Perhaps this Lent can be a time of renewal. I certainly hope so.

Let us not grow tired of doing good, for in due time we shall reap our harvest, if we do not give up.

I've run across this verse twice already today, and it seems awfully pertinent. This has not been a good week for me. I'm fighting depression again and after an incident this morning came very close to quitting my job. It all is just starting to get to be too much for me. For that moment, I didn't care that I'm starting to be able to work toward a goal, didn't care that this job is a good job, didn't care about anything but just getting out.

Fortunately, one of my co-workers talked me out of it. But it scares me to realize just how close to crisis I really am.

I've been a little slack in my prayers lately -- I'm still saying a few but I haven't formally sat down and written in my prayer journal the way I used to. I wonder if repeatedly running across this verse today is a bit of a message. First, to hang in there -- better things are coming -- and second, that I'm not alone.

I don't know. But it strikes me that perhaps part of the depression is caused by not paying as much attention to the spiritual in my life.

Scripture Referenced: Galatians 6:9

Yesterday I got home to discover that the holy cards I ordered at the first of this month had arrived. The plan is to get some wooden plaques (probably from a craft store) and then spend some time in my mother's art room mounting and sealing them to make icons. While I'm excited at the idea of being able to try my hand at something like this -- I've done decoupage before but it has been several years -- it also strikes me that this could be a special way of offering prayers. I think I like the idea of being able to simultaneously be creative and prayerful. That's kind of neat.

All wisdom comes from the LORD and with him it remains forever.

Recent issues with my roommate and others have caused me to ponder the difference between facts and knowledge, knowledge and understanding, understanding and wisdom. The issue of knowledge has always been a little bit touchy for me because I have a major inferiority complex issue over the fact that I don't have a college degree. I frequently feel very stupid and defensive around people who do -- even though I'm well aware that intelligence and education have nothing to do with each other, even though I am extremely intelligent by the standards of every test imaginable, even though people tell me I am smart.

Resolving this dichotomy (and obvious logic error) in my own thinking is sometimes a theme in my prayer life. I try to remind myself, over and over, that in the eyes of the Lord there is no smart or dumb. At the same time, I know my intelligence is a gift from Him and sometimes feel like my failure to attain a degree is a misuse of His gift. The corollary to that is the fact that I do use my intelligence, every day, in many ways where a degree doesn't matter.

Recently I ran across a psalm (I do not remember which one but will edit this post later to include it) which caused me to wonder if seeking knowledge wasn't an inappropriate use of my time. Perhaps it's wisdom I should be seeking -- not knowledge. The two are not the same, but clearly, one is much greater in the eyes of the Lord than the other.

It's something to think about.

Scripture referenced: Sirach 1:1 and an as-yet-uncited psalm

I had a therapist appointment this morning and took my personal journal with me, in response to another question and some homework from the previous session. One particular (unrelated) passage in my journal, which dealt with the reasons I value my faith, caught my therapist's eye and she asked me if I had "too much faith."

My response was a blank look. She clarified by asking, "you're not thinking of becoming a nun, are you?"

I shook my head no, but the exchange still bothers me. It's true that I'm not thinking of becoming a nun, but it's not true that the thought hasn't crossed my mind recently -- and seriously enough to have me investigating (and ultimately rejecting) the possibility. What's so terrible about the idea of becoming a nun? And while I agree that faith can be used inappropriately as a mental "crutch," is there really such a thing as "too much faith"?

The questions have been swirling through my mind this afternoon. At what point does faith stop being a good thing and start becoming toxic to the believer? How does one draw the line between working toward a faith-filled and focused lifestyle, and slipping into a manifestation of mental illness? It has been my experience that mental health patients are among the most faithful of believers; is this a good or bad sign?

So this afternoon I hit the Daily Readings Page and the two scriptures for today seemed to speak very clearly to me: announce your faith; don't hide it under a bushel basket. Surely God wouldn't send me such a message if my faith in Him were a detriment to me. Instead, it seems a message to relax and celebrate my beliefs. I use the word celebrate deliberately -- after all, faith is a joy, not a burden!

I'm going to have to conclude that my therapist was on the wrong track. She's made other positive comments about my beliefs and the strength of them, so perhaps she was only trying to make sure I hadn't gone over the edge. It's something I'd wondered about -- after all, I'm still relatively new to believing -- and now it seems I've found my answer.

Scriptures referenced: ( Hebrews 10:19-25 ) and ( Mark 4:21-25 )

Charity is the form, mover, mother and root of all the virtues.

-- Saint Thomas Aquinas (whose memorial is today)

If our work is performed primarily to get something, envy and greed fuel it. If our work is an opportunity to give and serve, the monsters of greed and envy lose their power.

-- "Today's Meditation" from AmericanCatholic.org

Some of my recent thoughts have reflected on the idea of turning my entire life into a gift; this is a follow-up to the recent thread about calling and vocation. Oddly, these two quotes which I ran across today seem to suggest that this idea is a good one.

The problem, I think, is making sure that gifts are given in a true spirit of charity. Sometimes it's hard for me to determine what gift is best to give, and sometimes it's hard to give a gift I don't particularly want to give. There was a homily several months ago about making sure your gift is what the other person needs and not what you want to give, and that echoes today.

It's also hard to find opportunities to give, I think. This morning, when I woke up, I asked, what gifts can I give today? It's a difficult question to answer.

Because I'm in the contemporary/folk choir, I usually actually attend Mass on Saturday evenings instead of Sunday mornings. This past Saturday was the first time I'd sung with them in six months or so, and it certainly felt wonderful to be back. The communion song was, "The Summons" and one line from the song has kept running through my mind this week:

Will you risk the hostile stare should your life attract or scare?

Right now, for other reasons, I'm going through a lot of introspection about my life in an effort to do some goal-setting. This, of course, is leading to some pretty powerful questions about what I want and need in life and whether my desires fit God's plans. It seems ironic that this line keeps running through my mind as I do all this introspection.

I have risked -- and received -- a hostile stare before, though admittedly never more than that. And I'm wondering, as I find that I have stronger beliefs and convictions than I'd thought, that I might not eventually risk another hostile stare or even worse.

This question from "The Summons" is certainly a challenging one. It also makes me wonder about my life attracting or scaring, and reminds me that life never exists in a vacuum no matter how much I want it to.

So one of this week's introspective questions is, what does my life say to others? What do I want it to say to others?

( Song Lyrics )

Last night, on what felt like a whim, I volunteered to proclaim the first reading (Hebrews 2:14-18) and psalm (Psalm 105:1-2,3-4,6-7,8-9) at the Wednesday night Mass. I've always enjoyed reading Hebrews, and two of the verses from the reading jumped out at me.

Surely he did not help angels but rather the descendants of Abraham

In other words, Jesus didn't come to save those who didn't need it, but rather those who did. At the same time, the "descendants of Abraham" is a reference to the Jewish people, who by inference could have legitimately believed that they were among those who didn't need salvation. I don't think of this as an indictment of how sinful man is, however. I think it's a comment that those who follow the Way still need salvation very much, and that it is very much an available thing.

If anything, I found this verse a comfort on a personal level. Jesus didn't come to help the "perfect" people but rather imperfect me. And that's helpful to know when I look at myself and how badly I screw up on a regular basis.

Because he himself was tested through what he suffered, he is able to help those who are being tested.

One problem I have with people who seem very self-righteous is that they've never experienced the dark side of life. Now, don't get me wrong, I have friends that have been lucky, but in general they recognize how lucky they are. I wasn't 100% lucky; I do know what it is not to have a roof over your head and to wonder where your next meal is coming from. (At the same time, I've been luckier than many.) But I do tend to take it pretty badly when someone looks down on someone else because of the way they live -- I've been there, and I know how voluntary it really is under most circumstances.

As a result of my prejudice against the self-righteous I often do not feel that they can offer any sage advice about problems I may have. It's wrong but my attitude is often, they don't know what real hardship is. How can they possibly help me? I work on this attitude all the time but it's still there, lurking. Fortunately, as I've said, many of the people in my life don't pretend to understand what I've been through and don't pretend to offer "advice" that is fundamentally useless anyway.

This verse comforts me by reminding me that Jesus does know what hardship is, even if some of the people around me don't. Like I said, I've been luckier than most; but He wasn't. After all, I've never been put to death for my beliefs.

I think both these verses are very helpful toward a personal relationship with Christ.

I do apologize for the odd tone of this; I'm writing it on a public computer in a library. I may end up revising it later.

Scriptures referenced: Hebrews 2:16 and 2:18.

The topic of vocation came back up again this week at Mass: in addition to being the Baptism of the Lord this past weekend, it's the beginning of National Vocations Week in the United States. We're also scheduled to talk about sacraments of vocation (matrimony and holy orders) this week at RCIA.

One thing that struck me this weekend was the fact that Jesus Himself was thirty before he got his call to the ministry (at His baptism). Even though in retrospect it was clear that He was always destined to some great thing, it wasn't until he was, by the standards of the time, old enough to be a grandfather that His purpose came clear. There are stories of his birth and childhood, of course, but of His adulthood prior to His baptism it is only known that he apprenticed to Joseph and did, in fact, work as a carpenter.

This casts my own impatience about vocation into a new light. I'm not even thirty myself yet, and by today's standards that is old enough to be a parent but definitely not a grandparent. Many people are now well over thirty when they become parents; in today's society, it is commonplace. So I'm looking for my own vocation a lot earlier than even Christ Himself did.

I wonder, why was it not until He was thirty that he began His ministry? What was God the Father waiting for? And what could He be waiting for with me? Is it possible that it's simply not time for me to learn my own purpose yet?

Some who follow my other journal are aware that I battle with a diagnosed mental illness. The exact details aren't important but lately I've wondered if part of the reason I'm still waiting, is because I need time to deal with some recent new realities involving my illness. There are a lot of things I'm realizing I'm not yet ready for -- even though they're things that often occur at a much younger age -- because I haven't dealt with this one issue that most people, thankfully, never encounter very intimately.

Could it be that finding my purpose is one of those things?

I have an arguably unique skillset, and I've often wondered why I was given the particular skills and abilities I was. Recently, I've even idly considered a career change toward a more "helping" profession, although I know that I'm uniquely suited for working in the field I do [1]. There have been more than a few prayers for guidance, seeking an answer to those timeless questions, what am I doing here? What purpose am I intended to serve?

My first job out of high school [2] was working as a front office clerk for a migrant health clinic; the environment was 100% bilingual and I was frequently tapped to translate for doctors who were volunteering their time to treat migrant workers. I stopped doing this kind of work in early 1994, and my Spanish skills have deteriorated to the point of limited conversational ability only. I've always regretted not having somewhere to practice and had planned on brushing my skills back up "someday."

Lately it seems like I've been encountering more and more situations where Spanish would be an asset. And today, I found out about a community Spanish facilitator certificate program (it's 18 semester hours, though I'd probably have to take 6 additional) that is offered through one of the local community colleges. Perhaps Someone is telling me it's time to brush my Spanish back up and use it.

It strikes me that, if I were to complete this program, I'd be well-positioned to be someone who helps non-English-speaking persons complete the myriad forms, paperwork, and administrivia required for functioning in our American society. I've already taught two volunteer seminars on completion of a state application; I could easily begin teaching seminars on applications and job-seeking skills in general.

Could it be that He intends for me to become an advocate and helper for this particular branch of society?

Guide me, O Lord, and help me to know your will for this life.

[1] I'm coming up on my seventh anniversary (in April) working in governmental human resources. Right now, I'm working with recruitment, compensation and benefits, but in the past I have also worked with employee relations, safety/health/workers' compensation, and payroll. I've also got solid exposure to most other human resources functions and am currently cross-training in performance management. The majority of my experience has been with educational agencies.

[2] I graduated from high school in June 1992; I took Spanish all four years and took the AP Spanish exam. I was working at the clinic the day my mother called me and told me my scores had arrived. I went home at lunch time, opened them, and got a nasty surprise. After lunch I went back to the clinic and had a conversation with the (Salvadoran) clinic director, in Spanish, telling him I'd only gotten a 1. He didn't believe it. I ended up having to bring the scores in the next day to show to him.

It's traditional at the RCIA class to read the gospel for the preceding Sunday and discuss it, so this week we read the Epiphany story from Matthew. The RCIA leader noted, among other things, that she was struck by the stark contrast in the narrative: the sumptuousness of Herod's palace versus the simplicity of the house where Joseph and Mary lived. Yet the magi, who themselves were no doubt used to a rich lifestyle, were overjoyed at the house yet suspicious in the palace.

This is an interesting thing to consider. Obviously, the magi were prepared to recognize the Messiah no matter where He might have been. Instead of sneering at the baby born in a stable to a teenage mother (a mother whose behavior had been...suspect; after all, she'd been pregnant before she was in her husband's household) they rejoiced and recognized their king. How many people would have expected such an important person to have been born to such mean circumstances?

It leads me to wonder, how many people can recognize God Himself -- in the form of any Person of the Trinity -- all the time? I know I can't. I remember reading an op-ed article in a newspaper quite recently about how the writer objected to a particular visual representation of Jesus as a homeless person of color. The writer utterly rejected the idea that Jesus might be present in such a situation.

I pride myself on not trying to restrict God that way, but I shouldn't. After all, I'm not God, and I have other ways I try to restrict Him. This leads back to the sacred space idea I was discussing in my last entry. Some places are more sacred than others, but I have a tremendous problem saying that a place isn't sacred, or, more properly, that a place can't be sacred. It's like saying a person can't be sacred. But is it possible for one person to be more sacred than others? Or is a saint simply a person who recognizes the sacred within themselves and in the world, and proceeds to act upon it?

Scripture referenced: ( Matthew 2:1-12 )

My recent move to a considerably larger place meant that I could pull my furniture out of storage. One of the items I have is an antique (it was purchased new in 1947 or 1948) sewing machine that was a gift from my grandfather to my grandmother. It's the kind that folds into a cabinet and becomes a side table. It works, but I have another sewing machine that has more options which is the one I will probably use for sewing. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the machine, but as I was packing up my candlesticks and creche at the old place, the idea of a prayer corner popped into my head.

I set it up the day after the move, with the few bits and pieces of "religious stuff" that I have -- candles, a Bible, three small icons, rosaries, a couple of holy cards, etc. (The creche was there for about a day but as yesterday was Epiphany it came down.) It's situated where I will see it every time I pass in and out of my bedroom, and I already am finding myself glad that the reminder is there.

I've never been a visually oriented person -- I'm primarily a kinetic learner, which is why I tend to take copious notes (the actual process of writing is what helps me learn and remember). But I'm finding that the visual reminder of things sacred, right there in my bedroom, helps me re-center myself when I need it. The kinetic learner in me also benefits from being able to touch and use things instead of having them packed away where they are difficult to access.

A friend of mine talks about "sacred space" whenever the subject of prayer corners, icons, etc., comes up. I've never disagreed with him but I personally have thought that the whole world should be considered a "sacred space" -- after all, the whole world is God's creation -- and, while I appreciate the value of church buildings and similar locations, also make a point of looking for Him outside such places. But now that I've set up a little "sacred space" in my own home, I'm beginning to appreciate the value of such things a little bit more.

Last night I went to the second Advent Vespers service at Cathedral, and once again Father Jerry had prepared a homily that carried a rather specific message. It began with a story about the reading of the genealogy of Jesus (from Matthew) and the reaction of people in the congregation, and went on to talk about the significance of this rather dry passage.

Toward the middle of the homily my fingers began itching. I rummaged through my purse for a pen and wrote "CO-CREATION" in large letters on the program, which I kept. Father Jerry was mentioning a point that I've read about before, in the book Believing Catholic by Archbishop Daniel Pilarcyzk: that creation is an ongoing process, one that is directed by God but in which humans and humanity play the most significant part.

I like the idea that we as humans -- and in this context the meaning is, "sinful, fallible, ordinary people" -- are co-creators with God. It ties neatly in with the concept of free will. At the same time, it makes me realize the extraordinary responsibility I carry as a person created by God as one of His co-creators. What am I creating with my life? Are the facts of my life working toward His ultimate plan or am I trying to work at a cross-purpose? It certainly made me stop and think several times throughout the remainder of the evening, especially as parts of it proved to be rather stressful and upsetting. It's making me stop and think today.

There was also a point made about the fact that often, we don't quite know how our lives fit into His plan. Many of the ancestors of Jesus had no idea, even at the time of their death, what the ultimate meaning of their life might be. In a way I find that comforting and in a way I find that very scary. It's comforting because I know that it's a sign that, if I let Him (see my last entry), God will take care of me and my life will, in fact, mean something. It's scary because it means I may not ever see what that meaning is within the bounds of my own lifetime.

Advent is a time of waiting and being watchful, and there are times when I feel like that's an apt description of my own life. I've spent entire years "on hold" and could very easily still be there if I hadn't decided to come "off hold" on my own and live my life anyway, despite the fact that I'm still working and waiting for some things that are very important -- a degree, a family. That I might forever being working and waiting is a concept that brings me very close to despair. That I might never know what the full fruit of my labor is is something that pushes me beyond despair.

I wonder, how can I learn to let go and accept that God has a plan in mind, even if I may never know what it is?

Scripture referenced: Matthew 1:1-17.

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