Love Rearranges Our Priorities by Jeff Callaway

 

Love Rearranges Our Priorities

by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

Day 20 of my 33-Day Consecration to the Eucharist slammed into me like a runaway semi on a Texas backroad. The title was straightforward: Love Rearranges Our Priorities. But those five words unpacked a lifetime of hard lessons, echoing through the hollow chambers of my soul where regret and redemption wrestle like old rivals.

This journey started with a simple gift—a book handed to me by a wise lady from Mary Queen of Heaven Catholic Church in Malakoff, Texas, a small-town beacon of faith where the sacraments flow like the Trinity River after a storm. She's my Catholic guru, the kind of soul who sees straight through the facade and points you toward the light. The book, "33 Days to Eucharistic Glory" by Matthew Kelly, isn't just ink on paper; it's a roadmap to deeper devotion, leading me to consecrate myself fully on September 14th, in perfect harmony with the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. A day when the Church lifts high the instrument of our salvation, reminding us that true love demands sacrifice.

The excerpt from Day 20 hit hard: “Love rearranges our priorities. And our priorities reveal who and what we love. This consecration is also an invitation to love the Eucharist more deeply, more completely, than ever before. And the result of this journey will be shifting priorities. The Eucharistic Presence of God rearranges our priorities. As a disciple of Jesus, one aspect of the Eucharistic Glory we are invited to experience is sitting at His feet and allowing Him to guide and direct our lives.” The virtue of the day? Love. The plan? List the 3-5 most important people in your life and note one way to love them well today. Simple on the surface, but it cuts like a switchblade through the illusions we cling to.

I've lived this rearrangement, brothers and sisters. Back in my wild days, when I was knee-deep in drugs, summoning spirits that belonged in the pit, and sinning with a reckless abandon that'd make the devil himself envious, I had "friends" crawling out of the woodwork. They weren't companions; they were accomplices in the slow suicide of the soul. Lovers who whispered forever in the haze of midnight highs, only to vanish like smoke when the dawn broke. I thought those bonds were unbreakable, forged in the fire of shared rebellion. But life has a way of scattering us like dust in the wind, and thank God for that mercy.

Take my old classmates from school—folks I haven't laid eyes on in over three decades. We shared desks, dreams, and dumb decisions back then, laughing through the awkward years like we owned the world. Now? They're ghosts in faded yearbooks, paths diverged so far that even a reunion couldn't bridge the gap. Some chased careers, families, the American dream; others, like me once, chased shadows. Love—true love—demands we leave those echoes behind if they're not walking toward the light. It's not cruelty; it's clarity. The heart can't serve two masters, as the Good Book warns.

And speaking of Scripture, look at the disciples. Peter, James, John—they dropped their nets, left their boats bobbing empty on the Galilee, and followed Jesus without a backward glance. Love rearranged their priorities in an instant, turning fishermen into fishers of men. Or Ruth, clinging to Naomi with that fierce loyalty: "Where you go, I will go." Love upended her life, trading familiarity for faith. These aren't just stories; they're blueprints for how divine love flips the script on our earthly agendas.

Psychologically, it's no mystery either. When you fall headlong into love—romantic, platonic, or divine—your brain lights up like a Fourth of July fireworks show. Dopamine surges, priorities shift; suddenly, that person or passion becomes the axis around which your world spins. You rearrange schedules, ditch old habits, even alter your identity to make room for this new fire. In faith, it's amplified a thousandfold. God's love isn't a fleeting crush; it's an eternal blaze that burns away the dross, leaving only what's pure.

I remember the turning point vividly: my vision of Mary and Jesus, a heavenly intervention that yanked me from the abyss. Mary, the Queen of Heaven, gentle yet unyielding, pointing me toward her Son. Jesus, with eyes like infinite mercy, forgiving sins I'd buried under layers of denial. That encounter shattered my old world. Suddenly, the drug dens, the illicit thrills, the toxic ties—they all repulsed me. An aversion settled in, deep and holy, like oil separating from water. I couldn't stomach the self-destruction anymore, not in myself or those still chained to it.

Those old "forever" friends? The ones still peddling poison, strangling the life God gifted them after decades of denial? I pray for them from afar, but I can't ride shotgun on their road to ruin. Love for God demands justice—for my soul and theirs. It's not abandonment; it's awakening. As the book says, love reveals our true allegiances, and mine shifted to the Eucharist, to sitting at Jesus' feet like Mary of Bethany, letting Him direct the show.

In relationships, it's the same raw truth. Fall in love with a new partner, and watch how priorities pivot. Late nights with buddies fade; time carves itself out for dates, dreams shared under starlit skies. But if that love pulls you from God, it's a counterfeit. True love—agape love—aligns with the divine, prioritizing faith over fleeting feelings. In my past, lovers came and went, each one a lesson in what love isn't: possessive, destructive, temporary. Now, with Christ at the center, any human bond must bow to that eternal one.

Growing up isn't just adding years; it's shedding skins. Becoming a new creature through Jesus' grace means molting the old man, leaving behind the husks of sin. I've felt it physically, spiritually—the weight lifting, the chains breaking. God is Love, pure and unadulterated, offering it freely. But to receive it fully, we must rearrange: clear the clutter, silence the noise, focus the fire. Anything less is half-hearted heresy.

Sometimes, in the quiet hours, it feels solitary. Just me, my guardian angel whispering warnings, the Holy Trinity orchestrating the symphony, and the heavenly host—Mary, the saints, angels arrayed in glory—cheering from the stands. No earthly entourage needed. That's the beauty of it: the world's trinkets pale next to eternal companionship. Fake friends? Drugs? Sin? They were mirages in the desert; now I drink from the living water.

The world sneers at this shift, calls it fanaticism or folly. "You're missing out," they say, toasting their empty cups. But I've tasted both—the bitterness of vice and the sweetness of virtue—and I'll take sainthood's steep path any day. To aim for heaven means ditching the anchors: worldly stuff that weighs down the soul. Justice demands it; love enables it.

Day 20's challenge lingers: Make that list. For me, it's God first, always. Then family, the faithful few who've walked this road with me. Ways to love them? Prayer, presence, protection from the pitfalls I once fell into. It's practical poetry—angst turned action, wit wielded for righteousness.

This consecration isn't a checklist; it's a revolution of the heart. Love rearranges, reveals, redeems. If your priorities scream anything but God, it's time for a holy upheaval. Leave the past in the rearview, eyes fixed on the Cross. Eternal friendship with the Creator awaits those bold enough to let go.

In the end, it's all about proving your love through your life. Not words, but works. Not intentions, but investments. Rearrange accordingly, and watch glory unfold.

~by Jeff Callaway

Texas Outlaw Poet

© 2025 Texas Outlaw Press