the Red Sock Diaries

Basics

2012-02-05T14:44:00.001-05:00

It’s been a challenging couple of weeks for my brain. The political world has squarely taken aim at some of my fundamental beliefs about human life, and has declared null and void the right of Catholic institutions to adhere to those beliefs as a matter of conscience. It’s gotten personal.

Naturally, the ensuing discussions have displayed the full spectrum of political and spiritual convictions, leaving my head spinning on more than one occasion. In the course of one exchange, a friend was ardently defending Planned Parenthood. I was completely shocked by some opinions she holds, even though we’ve known each other for 20+ years. What really sent me reeling, though, was the assertion that she, a Methodist, should not be expected to “feel the same as [another denomination] just because [she’s] a Christian. …[W]e share the same BASIC beliefs.” I was completely stunned. If you, as a Christian, believe that a child has no right to be born because it is unwanted, and an organization like Planned Parenthood has a right to exist on the dime of taxpayers in this nation, then what basic belief do we share? **Later discussion clarified her position: she is PERSONALLY against abortion, but doesn’t feel that she can tell another what is right for her. She considers Planned Parenthood to be something of a necessary evil because of the non-abortion services they provide.

Christianity is not an acknowlegement of a set of historical facts about a guy named Jesus. Christianity calls us to look at that set of historical facts and see in them an interaction between creator and creation, bridegroom and bride, redeemer and redeemed, and be consumed in love. It calls us to open our eyes and see what God sees, and love as God loves. So what are the basics? And how does faith have any relevance in secular politics? Be still, my aching spirit....

God desired Humanity. (Gen. 1:27) Humanity sinned, and destroyed the innocence that God had given. God, in response, protected humanity by closing the way to the tree of life. In His mercy, He would not allow us to live forever, separated from Him. (Gen. 3:22-24) God set before Adam and Eve the forbidden tree (warning them that if they ate of it, they would die), and the tree of life. Interestingly enough, in Deuteronomy 30:15, He is still offering the same choice. In 1 John 5:12, the choice is the same. He desires us, and wants us to desire Him. How humbling a truth! Behold, what manner of Love...! The Psalmist, in pre-scientific wisdom declared the truth: we are wonderfully made, known as we are knit together in our mothers’ wombs (Ps. 139:13-16, et al.). From the time of Moses, the law protected the unborn, with penalties for even an accidental injury to an unborn child (Exodus 21:22). From the time we are conceived until the time of our last breaths, our Heavenly Father desires us. He calls us by name (John 10:3). We are His people; the flock He shepherds (Ps. 100:3). We are members of His body (1 Cor.12:27), His radiant Bride (Rev.19:7, 21:2). It is such very basic - God desires us and loves us unto death (Phil. 2:7-11) - but infinite, unfathomable truth. No human life, from its scientific beginning (conception) to its last breath in this world, is exempt from this love. Who are we, mere men, to determine that a life is unwanted? inconvenient? too burdensome? Who are we to say that it is mercy to “free” a tiny human from a life of poverty or disability? Who are we to decide that the course of a woman’s life is more important than that of her child? That one has more right to exist than the other? Who among us could stand before the Author of Life and tell Him that a life that He desired into being was not welcome? Oh, be still, my aching spirit!

The founding principles of this nation included a set of basic rights, afforded to us by our creator. Among them were the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. These rights were not to be compromised by any law, and the rights of one were not to be held superior to the rights of another. Somewhere along the course of our history, the Declaration has been deemed inapplicable to those who had no voice of their own. In 1973, it was the unborn. The right of Jane Roe to live her life without a child in tow was deemed superior to the right of that child to ever draw breath. Since that time, others have decided that their right to be childless (and grandchildless) superseded the right of a child to be born. Or that one child in a womb had a “better chance” than another, and therefore should be allowed to continue to develop while a brother or sister was, quite literally, ripped from his or her side. Or that a child in the womb was imperfect, and therefore should be “mercifully spared” this cruel world, a life of disability, or the indignity of burdening a family. Since 1973, it has happened 52 million times.

In 2005, it was Terri Schiavo. She became the public face of countless private battles. Her life was ended by a court order, not a divine one. Her heart was beating on its own, she breathed completely without assistance, and because she could not speak for herself in a way that was deemed “meaningful,” she was left to starve, dying of dehydration over the course of 13 days. The aged, the infirm, the handicapped, are all vulnerable to such de-valuation in our current culture. In other places, in other times, great crimes have been committed against humanity because of this same decision in its basic form: I have the authority to decide that you must cease to exist, not because of harm you have done, but because of who or what you are, or because you are not useful to me in achieving my personal goals. Be still, my aching spirit.

These examples fly in the face of our founding principles, but they also find conflict in the legal halls where they claim asylum. If a pregnant woman is killed, the responsible party is held to account for the loss of two lives. If that same woman walks into a medical facility to terminate that pregnancy, she is “within her rights,” up until the time that the child’s head leaves the womb. If she should die as a result, there will be no charges filed. Two lives lost, just a part of the “accepted risks” of a “surgical procedure.” If the child should be born alive, it will be denied care or comfort. It will be abandoned to die alone and in pain, because we are a civilized nation that “respects the reproductive choices of women.” Be still, my aching spirit.

I believe in freedom. I believe what I believe, and I believe that you are free to believe what you believe. I want all others to have that same freedom, to the fullest extent possible. If those beliefs constitute a complete, vehement rejection of all that I hold dear, then so be it. Until our convictions lead us to undermine the rights of ANY citizen - the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness - we are free. The moment the government protects the rights of any group over those of another, the seed of tyranny is sown. Unchecked, it will be the death of liberty in any nation. Oh, be still, my aching spirit.

Untitled

2012-01-24T10:51:00.000-05:00

There is an appointed time for everything,

and a time for every affair under the heavens.

...a time to be silent, and a time to speak.

I have been stewing on this post for a few days now. It has kept me awake, it has swirled through my dreams, and it has commanded my waking hours, demanding to be written but refusing to be titled. And so I write, with racing thoughts and brimming heart, my soul at once broken and steeled with resolve.

There have been several events over the past few days that have stirred the proverbial pot from which this post comes. My husband's grandmother was called to her eternal reward last week. As with any passing, memories come alive and I contemplate the impact that person has had in my life, immediate and long-term, direct and indirect. It also leads me into gardens of remembrance of others who have gone before me, whose lives have left indelible impressions on me, on the woman I am and have been, and on the world around me. I think of life and death, and the journey from our first stirrings in this world until our last breaths, and I am quieted and humbled by what C.S. Lewis called the "intolerable compliment."

Last Friday, by Presidential order, a full frontal attack was launched against the Catholic Church and the right of Catholic institutions and Catholic employers to omit contraceptive and abortifacient drugs and procedures from their health care plans. (You can read more about the order HERE.) I have been wary of government intervention in the private affairs of citizens, but never before have I felt myself (or a group with which I identify myself) singled out and targeted because of a moral conviction. To say that I am shaken is an understatement.

Yesterday, our nation marked a tragic landmark in our history. Thirty-nine years ago, the Roe vs. Wade decision by the Supreme Court struck down state laws in all 50 states, creating a Federal mandate for abortion-on-demand in this nation. Since that time, nearly 40 million innocent children in our country have been denied the right to life, in spite of the founding principle of the right to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." I have friends who spent the day in Washington D.C. at the March for Life. They were in my prayers, and I was with them in spirit.

My heart has been full, my spirit has been unsettled, and my mind has been a whirlwind these last few days. I could spend pages pouring them out. Just a few recurring thoughts will suffice, though; take them as you will and act as you are called.

There is a quote from Martin Niemoller, a German pastor in the 1930's that keeps coming to mind, and I wonder how it might read for our nation in this moment in time:

First they came for the communists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews,
and I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew.
Then they came for the Catholics,
and I didn't speak out because I was Protestant.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left to speak out for me.

Perhaps Niemoller would say today, as an American:
First they came for the unborn, and I didn't speak out because it was none of my business.
Then they came for the old and the sick, and I didn't speak out because I was young and healthy.
Then they came for the inconvenient, the weak, and the burdensome, and I didn't speak out because I was self-sufficient.
Then they came for those of Faith, and I didn't speak out because it wasn't my place to decide right from wrong.
And then they came for me, and there was no on left to speak out.

God help us.

I'll leave you with the passages of scripture that have surged through my thoughts over and over again this weekend, and a simple request: Pray.

Psalms 12
Ezekiel 22

"God has paid us the intolerable compliment of loving us, in the deepest, most tragic, most inexorable sense." - C. S. Lewis

Familliar Path, New Perspective

2011-11-27T23:45:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year! Yeah, I know. But it's the first week of Advent, which marks the beginning of the Liturgical Year. This year, we Catholics began using a new translation of the Mass...a bit of an adventure to be sure. It is a beautiful translation, though, and I'm looking forward to growing comfortable with it in the coming months.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit what I'm about to share, but I'm too excited to keep it to myself. I purchased a new Bible a few weeks ago. It's my first Catholic Edition Bible. I have continued to use my trusty NIV, even though I have been Catholic for nearly 16 years. I am using this Advent as a jumping-off point to re-discover scripture. It's been several years since my last "read-through" of the Bible. I've grown, and God has led me down some paths that I never imagined even existed. I've read, seen, heard, and experienced a lot during these years, and it has changed me. My companion resources are different now, and the actual translation is new for me, too. I can't wait to see what treasures I will uncover this time through!

So, in the spirit of expectation and new beginnings that Advent holds, I wish you a blessed Advent. Prepare ye the way of the Lord!

No Storm Can Shake My Inmost Calm

2011-10-30T16:19:00.003-04:00

A week ago today, I began to face the possibility, now realized, that my seventh child would not be born into this world. As anyone might expect, I was scared. I prayed. I begged God to keep his hand on my little one -- to keep him safe. I began to dread confirmation of what, somewhere in my heart, I already knew: the life I had carried inside me was gone. But even as scared as I was of what was to come, there was a stillness inside of me. I knew that regardless of the medical outcome of the pregnancy, my little one was in God's hands, as was I. In the stillness, gratitude became my strength.

I am so grateful for my family. I have a wonderful husband who loves and provides for me and for our children. I have six beautiful, healthy sons who make me crazy, and bring me such joy. I have an extended family that has always encouraged, supported, and loved me, even when I have worked at being unlovable.

I am so grateful for all the women in my life who have had miscarriages, and have been so generous with their support. They have not tried to explain, distract, or comfort. They have simply acknowledged, and let their own silent triumph be my encouragement.

I am so grateful for kind words from sincere hearts.

I am so grateful that medically, this loss was a simple one: early, uncomplicated, and without cause to fear future complications.

I am so grateful that in all the ways this could have been worse, it wasn't.

I am so grateful that the sun is shining today.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging
Since Christ is Lord of Heav'n and earth
How can I keep from singing?

I am so grateful.

Into Thy Hands...

2011-10-29T04:16:00.000-04:00

I think I knew that something was awry. I haven't "felt" pregnant for a while. If what I felt in the early weeks of my other pregnancies was anticipation and joy, then is this not feeling...dread? Emptiness? And then when my body began to show the signs of what my heart already knew, there was no single event -- an infamous day from which I can move forward. There was a twinge. A sensation. And then days upon days in which every time I move, my body reminds me of the child I will never hold. There are familiar pains, but they have been soothed before by an infant nuzzled to my breast. With passing hours, my eyes see evidence not of a child brought to birth, but of what remains of the child I will never hold, slipping away, lifeless. How cruel, it seems, that they should look so much the same.

Truth remains, regardless of time or circumstance. And this is truth: Life is never an accident. No matter how brief, no matter if it is lived in full view or passes unseen by any eye of this world, it remains a testimony of love and of divine life. No life is without purpose. No human circumstance is beyond redemptive grace. No suffering is without value when surrendered to suffering hands.

I murmur these to myself, gritting my teeth as the piercing pain in my body rises to keep pace with the one in my soul, aching for the child I will never hold.

Let reason speak truth to silence the senseless ravings of grief. Let faith bind me fast to firm truth, lest I be engulfed by the sweeping tide of loss. Let wisdom bring vision to clear my eyes of minute, agonizing detail and soften it to a single remembered moment of my time on this earth, when a child I will never hold burst into life from love, and was caught away into eternity, held here always, if only in memory, by the love that gave him life.

The Long Answer

2011-09-14T01:01:00.000-04:00

The question has been asked: "What's with the mantilla?" I've offered short answers, but here's the long one, at long last.

The notion of covering my head in worship settings has been with me since I was in Jr. High School. That was when I first encountered St. Paul's letters on my own -- apart from the topical use of them in sermons and Bible studies I had attended to that point. I remember being particularly interested in his "propriety in worship" teachings. Someone had remarked once to me that the church I attended at the time reminded her of "kids playing church," and it had bothered me. I felt a need to understand why we did things the way we did, and to understand why it didn't seem "real" to some. I won't say it was an obsession, but it was certainly the beginning of a long journey to understand my faith and the way I practiced it, and the way I wanted to practice it. Maybe it was my age, maybe it was the voice of the Holy Spirit already pulling me toward Catholicism, (probably both), but where I noticed things that the Bible directed that were not in practice in my church, I really dug to figure out why.

First Corinthians 11 was one of "those passages." But any woman who prays or prophesies with her head unveiled brings shame upon her head, for it is one and the same thing as if she had had her head shaved. For if a woman does not have her head veiled, she may as well have her hair cut off. But if it is shameful for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, then she should wear a veil...if a woman has long hair it is her glory, because long hair has been given [her] for a covering." I had never even SEEN a woman with her head covered in church. Imagine the fuss this discovery set off in my mind! German Baptists, Mennonites, and Amish women (who traditionally cover their heads all the time) were a rare sight where I grew up. There were plenty of unaffiliated Pentecostals around who all wore long hair, but none who covered. I wrestled with the point with all the wisdom I could muster at 13, and decided that WE didn't cover at church (or anywhere else) because we weren't "long-hair" Pentecostals. I made an uneasy peace with the explanation that Paul's words were a product of their time and culture and that they didn't really apply in our society.

Now, fast forward about 20 years. I hadn't set foot in a protestant service in 12 years or more, but that whole long hair/covered head thing was still with me. I even had a little secret wish in the back of my mind when I saw women with their heads covered in church: that I had always worn a veil so that I wouldn't have to figure out a way to start, or to explain myself if I did. I saw those women as "grandfathered (grandmothered?) in" to the veil-wearing club before Vatican II changed the whole world. Then one night, I was in the adoration chapel. It was late (my hour was 1-2 am), and I was alone with Jesus. It was winter, so the basement chapel was quite chilly. I had a wrap over my shoulders to keep me warm, and I was overwhelmed by the urge to cover my head. I pulled my wrap over my head, and something changed in me. I wrote to a Mennonite friend about it then:

I was immediately swept with a sense of rightness, and that passage of scripture came back into my mind. I was raised by some bull-headed, girl-power, no-man's-gonna-rule-me women, and so finding my right place in marriage and in faith has always had a taste of that rebellion in it. That night at the chapel, though, it was gone. I felt as much like a woman as I ever have. Not in a girly-girl kind of way, but in a truly, Godly-ordered kind of way. It was right and seemly, and I haven't cut my hair since. What's the point, after all, if it is covered? It has ceased to be a point of vanity because it is always up when I leave the house.

It took a few more years after that night, but I now cover my head at Mass and in the presence of the Most Blessed Sacrament. It is my testimony to what I believe about the True Presence, and about a woman's proper response to that presence. That bit of cloth is the difference between me coming boldly before the throne of grace and coming brazenly. I still struggle with being the woman I am to be before God, and I was worried about what others might say about my motivation in wearing a veil. Here's the thing, though: we do not wait to do things until we have mastered them; we master them by doing. From the time we are children until we leave this world, we practice to get things right, and then keep practicing to make them perfect and to sustain what we have achieved. I wear a veil, fully aware of what it symbolizes: humility, submission, reverence, and being set apart in a uniquely feminine way. I pray that by God's grace I will come more fully into those virtues, better living as Christ has called me to live.

Remembering...

2011-09-11T12:40:00.000-04:00

September 11, 2001. Ten years later, the images and sounds of that day, and the fear that I felt, and the sense that my world had changed forever are still with me. I knew before that day that there were people in the world who despised America and our way of life. I knew that in other places, I could be imprisoned, tortured, or killed for even whispering opinions I held about freedom, faith, and a myriad of other "normal" aspects of my life as I knew it. But never before that day did I feel unsafe. Before that day, "those people" were faces and names far away, in countries I never expected to visit. They could hate me from their world while I was safe in mine. My parents' Vietnam, my grandparents' World War II -- these had affected them in fundamental ways. The wars had affected their everyday lives and remained with them, but the bloodshed was far away, and the Americans lost, by and large,were lost in conflict. September 11, 2001, the bloodshed was here. Americans were lost not with guns in their hands, but with briefcases and serving trays and merchandise from their stores. They were ordinary people, leading ordinary lives, who had no reason to think that that day would be their last. So many had their lives taken that day, and so many more gave theirs away. We will never know all of the stories. We will never know just how many lives were saved because a police officer or firefighter stood in harm's way and gave others time to flee. We will never know just how many ordinary men and women ushered others to safety as their last actions on this earth. We will never know, at least not fully, the impact of that day on those who were there, on all of us who remember, or on the generations that follow us.

And so today, ten years later, we remember. We pray for the dead and for those they left behind. We pray for those who found joy in sorrow, and those who still suffer in bitterness. We pray for those who did what they could to protect then, and those who are doing what they can to protect us now. I am so grateful that, for all the possibilities that entered my awareness that day ten years ago, for all the vulnerabilities, for all the things I took for granted that could be used to harm me or my family, I am safe. There are men and women every day, here in our country and abroad, who are working to protect and defend us, our way of life, our ideals, and our freedom to live and speak as we choose, without the constant threat of harm from those who would take our freedom and our lives simply because we are not like them and do not live as they live or believe as they believe. I pray that we never, ever forget that freedom isn't free.

We cannot really ever give a voice to the unspeakable. I will chose silence today, as I am sure many others will, in remembering....

Song of Joy

2011-08-16T08:50:00.000-04:00

Our summer vacation is winding down. This time next week, I will be preparing to send four of my six little darlings (and their daddy) back to school for another year. Bedtimes will be decided by the clock, not by the sun. There won't be any more "late movies" where they all fall asleep and get left on the couches until morning. They will all have to actually wear shirts for at least a big part of every day. Yes, the day-to-day will change, but what a great "last hurrah" we had Sunday evening!

We were just getting ready to send the boys up to bed Sunday night, and DH was flipping through the Classical Channel on the Roku and found a recording of Beethoven's 9th symphony with Kurt Masur conducting the French National Orchestra. He told the boys that if they would sit still, he'd let them watch it. (!?!) Of course they agreed (they'd have agreed to watch the NYSE ticker if it meant they could stay up). And so it began....

It is helpful to offer at this point that I really like Beethoven, but DH is a passionate Beethoven devote'. He can trace the lineage of his piano teachers back to Beethoven, and has always felt a unique kinship with him. He plays Beethoven like no one else. No one.

The first, second, and third movements of the symphony were nice. The littlest kids were asleep, and the older ones were enjoying the music. Just before the beginning of the fourth movement, the wind picked up and it started to rain...it was a glorious summer rainstorm, with no thunder or lightening. It was a perfect backdrop to what is certainly among the finest musical finales ever written or performed. Beethoven was completely deaf when he composed what would be his final symphony. He had become a very reclusive, and was known for his explosive temper. His life was marked by health problems, personal struggle, and what, to most musicians, would be a devastating sensory loss. And yet, a poem he had carried in his notes since he was a young man finally bloomed in glorious expression, premiered less than 3 years before his death. I offer the text below, with a link to the video (just the last 10 minutes or so). Taking it in again, surrounded by our boys and warm summer rain, DH and I were wrapped in joy ourselves, so grateful for all we have been given.

Song of Joy

Joy, beautiful spark of divinity
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire into your sanctuary.
Your magic reunites What custom strictly divided.
All men become brothers where your wing tarries.


	Whoever has had the great fortune To be a friend's friend, Whoever has won a devoted wife, Join in our jubilation! Indeed, whoever can call even one soul, His own on this earth! And whoever was never able to, must creep Tearfully away from this band!
	Joy all creatures drink At the breasts of nature; All good, all bad Follow her trail of roses. Kisses she gave us, and wine, A friend, proved in death; Pleasure was given to the worm, And the cherub stands before God. Before God!
	Glad, as His suns fly Through the Heaven's glorious design, Run, brothers, your path, Joyful, as a hero to victory.
	Be embraced, millions! This kiss for the whole world! Brothers, above the starry canopy Must a loving Father dwell. Do you bow down, millions? Do you sense the Creator, world? Seek Him beyond the starry canopy! Beyond the stars must He dwell.

Jarring Juxtaposition

2011-06-13T19:11:00.000-04:00

I love Facebook. I love that I can keep in touch with friends and family in one place, no matter when or where I knew them first. I love seeing the snapshot of their worlds spinning by and sharing little snips of my own life with them, and seeing so many different people, personalities, and lifestyles intertwining. This weekend, that interplay assaulted my happy little world with alarming poignancy, and threw a sobering lesson about gratitude in my face.

A friend from college posted the news about her nine-month-old son having a severe brain injury. I still don't know what happened; it hardly seemed appropriate to ask. I scanned back through the posts, searching for explanations, but there are only little updates. He was gone - they brought him back. May not make it through the night. Still here...no change. The longer he is unconscious, the less it is likely that he will wake up. Prognosis isn't good; we're leaving him in God's hands. We won't pursue any further intervention. We've decided to let him go...his breathing tube will come out sometime Wednesday. I watched these updates trickle out slowly against the backdrop of other friends' weddings, sports events, news commentary, work news, pregnancy updates...their lives. Their lives continued on while another family's came to a screeching halt. The sameness of their days was dizzying next to the picture of lives that are forever different. Then came the photos.

My friend posted pictures of her sweet little boy, alone, with his Mama, his Daddy, all three together, and with his grandparents. They were beautiful. In those images was the peace of a little one in the arms of those who love him, and the aching shadow of farewell. As I held my own little one last night, snuggling him to sleep, I realized that I was holding him in just the same way as my friend was holding her son. But I had no reason to believe that my baby boy wouldn't wake this morning, reaching out to be cuddled in the morning quiet. I had no reason dread his leaving my arms, because I had no reason to think it would be the last time. I wept with an unutterable mixture of grief and gratitude. I've spent nights in the hospital with sick babies, anxiously watching their breathing, fixing my eyes on the blinking monitors above their heads...but I've never had reason to fear their lives. They have never been beyond 'routine' medical care. They've never been unconscious...only asleep. The magnitude of that blessing is blinding just now. Even the bickering and whining has a sweetness in it today. For all their 'problems,' my boys are healthy and normal. I think my friend would remind me to embrace that, because it could change in a heartbeat.

I write this on a Monday evening. Unless God chooses to reveal Himself in a miracle, in 48 hours or so my friend will have kissed her little boy's warm, downy forehead for the last time. I will hold her and her family in my prayers as they travel a painful road that I cannot even fathom. I will praise God for the blessings of six strong, bright, healthy sons, and I will hold them a little longer and a little tighter when I kiss them goodnight. For today, He has not called me to trust Him in the midst of agonizing loss. I pray that if ever He does, I will be prepared to be faithful. What else can I possibly do?

A Woman's Heart

2011-05-13T22:37:00.000-04:00

I have such wonderful friends. Really. They share the best of themselves with the world, and they inspire me to grow in new ways and be a better person. I can never overstate the value of the people that I am so blessed to call my friends, or how grateful I am that the Lord has placed them in my life. And with that, I'd like to share a quote that a friend shared recently, and a bit of the journey that it has launched.

"A woman's heart should be so hidden in God that a man has to seek Him just to find her." -Max Lucado

There's so much truth in that one little sentence! There's conviction, challenge, encouragement, inspiration - all in one tidy statement from...a man. It got me thinking (further) about what men really want in their wives. There have been some discussions about gender roles in my house recently; about why men and women are different, what that means for them as individuals and as couples, and how those roles reflect Christ and His Bride. This issue is one that I have had to look at pretty seriously over the years. Growing up around lots of independent single women and with very few glimpses of healthy marriage skewed my expectations of myself and of my husband, and of the marital covenant that we entered into.

As life would have it, another beautiful piece of writing made its way across my computer screen. When Queens Ride By is a short story by Agnes Sligh Turnbull. As I read it, I saw myself. I saw a wife and mother wanting to serve her family, but feeling, in despair, that she had lost her way and was inextricably bound to exhaustion and failure despite all the best intentions. I thought of the days when I wake striving for a Proverbs 31 day, only to be in tears, overwhelmed and desperate by lunchtime. I thought of how often I miss the mark, how often I am drowning in frustration and a lack of direction, how often I feel like I'm trying to do what needs done - greasing the squeaky wheel, but in the end the wagon falls apart anyway. I don't want to be the wife who brings dishonor to her husband and her household. I love my family, and I want to be the woman. Not just the one who wears skirts on occasion and has long hair and a high voice, but a true woman, with a woman's heart -- hidden in God, true helpmate and crown of honor to her husband, love poured out, 'unique embodiment of the sacred.'. I want to live in the strengths and gifts of womanhood, not insert myself into the strengths and gifts of my husband. You can't be a helpmate when you're a stumbling block. What a hard lesson for me to learn, and how fortunate that my husband is a patient, dedicated man!

I am woman. Please, Lord, help me learn not to roar.

Music est totus

2011-04-22T11:46:00.001-04:00

It's Good Friday. I've been trying to think of something to offer in contemplating Holy Week, but my mind keeps turning back to music. The Eucharistic hymns of St. Thomas Aquinas...the passion hymns from centuries of Christian devotion...these are swirling in my mind and spilling from my lips this week. So I'll leave you the "playlist" for my week in hopes that you will find a place to contemplate the Passion and death of the Lord, and truly celebrate His resurrection.

What Wondrous Love is This
O Sacred Head Surrounded
Were You There
Pange Lingua
Verbum Supernum
Ave Verum Corpus

Suddenly Anonymous

2011-04-05T23:30:00.000-04:00

If I were suddenly anonymous, what would I do? When I started to stew on this post a couple of weeks ago, I made some notes in my little notebook. Then I started to string them together a bit. Then I went back to them a few days later and realized that this was starting to read a bit like the Red Hatter's credo..."When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple..." That really wasn't my intention, and it made me laugh, but on further consideration, I realized that the theme of the "red hat" poem and of my own thoughts for this post were not altogether different. They're both about a woman growing into herself...shedding concerns about appearances and social propriety in favor of the liberty that comes with truth. They're about a woman discovering what's most important, discovering what defines her, and letting the chips fall where they may for the rest. I am not old (unless you ask my children), I don't have much purple in my wardrobe, and I look ridiculous in hats. I do, however, have red socks...

I don't really get much time alone. In a busy household, there's always something going on close by, even if I'm not directly involved in it. Because of the constant noise and activity, I find my mind meandering at strange times - in the shower, at the grocery store, folding laundry - and moments of insight pop up wen they might be least expected. On a recent intellectual stroll, I started to imagine how I might be different if I were to be suddenly anonymous. After all, when you're anonymous, there are no expectations. There is no novelty in new behaviors, attire, habits, etc., because there is no history of anything else. So, then, what would I do? How would I be different than I am every day of my life now? And perhaps more importantly, if there would be some significant difference, what's holding me back now?

The first thing on my 'anonymous list' would be a covered head in church. I already do this when I travel, but there are valid reasons to refrain in my own parish for now. This has been an area of conviction for me for years, and I am growing into it slowly but surely.

Next up, I’d like to think I’d hold my tongue more if I were anonymous. I’m very quick to open my mouth, even when wisdom would advise silence. Smart girl that nobody knows keeps her mouth shut unless her input is solicited!

This item may seem to contradict the previous one, but it’s just the other side of the coin. When wisdom says speak, I’d like to think that I could speak more freely and opt for directness over diplomacy. If I were anonymous. Hand-in-hand with this directness, I’d like to exercise more freedom in the words I choose about my faith and religion. Somewhere between the “Praise the Lord, I think I broke my foot” of my childhood and disdain for “wearing my religion on my sleeve” is an honest, free expression of the faith I try to live. I’m learning to breathe freely in this area again, but right or wrong, I’m hesitant to be different to those I’m with every day. I don’t want the open discussion about what is, for me, a very private journey. It’s hard to talk about it while I’m in the midst of it.

There are other things that have floated on and off of this list in the last few weeks. Some are whimsical, some very serious, some passing and some convicting. All of them, however, have challenged me to seek God, seek His call in my life, and seek His direction to answer it here, where I am known. Anonymity has its fleeting freedoms, but freedom sought and embraced in the midst of the familiar is true, lasting liberty.

Addressing my tendency to procrastinate...

2011-03-09T00:00:00.001-05:00

...wasn't on my list of New Year's resolutions, and it's a darn good thing. I'd really feel bad about the timing of this post. It was meant to be a New Year's post. Then I figured that as long as I posted it before the end of January, it would be okay. But, well, life happens. And Lent is a great time for new beginnings and resolutions too, right?

It's no secret that I spend a lot of my days feeling overwhelmed and completely at a loss. There are so many things to do, limited time in which to do them, and a myriad of distractions that follow me. Such is life with small children...and large children...and husbands.... I feel pulled in so many directions, and none of them feel like a direction per se, but more like a tangent circle in which to chase my tail. And then I wonder why I'm exhausted, frustrated, and lack a sense of order in my world. In contemplating all the noble, idealistic, and heroic changes I was going to make in the new year that would make my house clean, my children behave, and keep me running on schedule with sufficient time to do all the things I want to do, I got bogged down. I got discouraged. Let's face it; there is no magic wand to wave, and that's what I was really dreaming about. Then I thought, "maybe I should resolve to make peace with the fact that I'm a lousy housekeeper, that I have a short temper, and that my household is in constant chaos. After all, we're not on the 6 o'clock news, no one's in jail, no one's flunking out of school...that's enough, right?" But it isn't enough. No matter how you look at it, to let that be enough is not a resolution but a resignation. It is giving up. And who makes a resolution to be a cop-out? Better yet, who would post such a thing publicly and pretend to be proud of it? Certainly not I. And so here we are, at Ash Wednesday, and my New Year's post is just appearing.

You might wonder what changed. What made me feel that I had something worth sharing? What resolution did I finally make that I could live with and work toward in the coming year? I realized that my point of origin for my actions is, most of the time, wrong. I take action because of fear, anger, or frustration. I rush around to get kids ready, to get meals on the table, and to keep at least some appearance of order. I want things to look, at least publicly, like I'm not desperately struggling just to keep a modicum of functionality in my home and family life. My point of origin needs a fundamental change, and that's a resolution I can make, work at, and feel good about sharing.

I resolve this year to make LOVE my point of origin for action and speech. I will care for my family not because they are clamoring to have their needs met, but because I love them. I will care for my home not because I have an image to maintain, but because I love my family and I desire order in our lives so that we can move through our lives more peacefully. I will discipline my children not because they embarrass me or make me angry, but because I love them and I am called to bring them up in the love and fear of the Lord. I will choose gentleness, I will choose calm, I will choose silence. I will get this wrong - probably a lot. But I will choose humility and begin again. I will choose love above all, for in love is the beginning, the sustenance, the redemption, and the end of all things.

And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.
--1 Corinthians 13:13

...but only say the word...

2010-11-20T23:49:00.000-05:00

Often, the familiar things in our lives become - well, normal. They fade into the background and are the predictable, "beige" backdrop for the varied goings-on that each day reveals. Every once in a while, though, some part of the mundane will burst to the forefront, dazzling us with fresh insight, new discovery, or broader understanding.

I was at Mass on Friday with the school kids. Consecration was finished, the Agnus Dei had been sung, and Father lifted the host: "This is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Happy are those who are called to His supper." We responded in one voice: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." And there it was. Words spoken time and again, suddenly alive with new meaning. "Say the word, and I shall be healed"...this is true. I speak it in faith before approaching the altar to receive Holy Communion. So then, the converse must be true as well. "...and if you do NOT say the word, I can not be healed...." My soul cannot be made whole but that He ordains it so. None of the things that fill my day, whether they are noble or servile, bold or subtle, faithful or false, whether I am proud of them or ashamed, no word or deed will heal me. The Latin word we translate as "healed" is sanabitur - sound, healthy, sensible, sober, or sane. It is the word from which we take "sanitary" and related words. This simple response in Mass is a reminder that our wholeness - our redemption - is only possible because He has spoken the word. I imagine that the "word" is not unlike what was spoken to those who came to Jesus for healing: "Your faith has healed you."

What a way to walk into my day! The idea that nothing I will do or say will trump God's grace...that He has spoken the word, healed me, and permitted me to approach the altar and receive Him! What can I do but offer all else that I have in faith? Even my failures are redeemable if I repent. It is at once humbling and empowering. I pray that my memory of this is long, and that I can be obedient to the word...that I can always approach Him in faith, offer all that I have, and be healed by the complete outpouring of His redeeming love.

Reflection on suffering, where words fail

2010-11-11T23:40:00.000-05:00

Maybe rash isn't the right word, but it is perhaps the right image. Very frequently in the last couple of weeks, I find myself saying that I will keep people who are near and dear to my heart in my prayers because of medical issues. I am honored and blessed to know them all, and to bear them up in prayer is a joyful burden. It is a burden to see pain and sickness, but these dear people teach me so much in their suffering - about joy, about dignity, about generosity, about self sacrifice, about faith, and about perseverance. Though in most of these lives, their suffering is a private matter, for two in particular, their suffering is a very public matter indeed. It is for this reason alone that I feel that I can share my reflections in this forum. I do so with the utmost respect and humility; I am so utterly touched and humbled by them, and by the obvious light of Christ in them.

There are two elder priests in our community. One is relieved of administrative duties due to ongoing illness, but remains active in ministry and as an advisor to the current pastor. The other is nearing his 93rd birthday, and while officially 'retired', he appears to have misunderstood the meaning of the word. They are very different men, and they are very different priests. Somehow, though, the reality of Mass is more visible when they are struggling physically. At Mass we bear witness to a re-presentation of the sacrifice of Calvary, and enter into that mystery. Eternity breaches time, and we are brought into the Holy of Holies. The priest celebrates the sacrifice in persona Christi - in the person of Christ. To me, a suffering Christ - a slain lamb - is made infinitely more visible in his suffering servant. A loving Christ, who wholly sacrificed himself, is made infinitely more visible in these dear men, who sacrifice themselves, against worldly wisdom, to bring Christ to us in the Eucharist. What blissful agony in their eyes as they raise Him up! Ecce agnus dei, qui tollis peccata mundi! And as their words implore us to behold the Lamb of God, their lives demonstrate Him most eloquently.

It is the same for so many others I am blessed to know. They clearly demonstrate the image of St. Paul. He was given "a thorn in [his] flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment [him]." There are debates about what Paul's "thorn" may have been. A particular sinful habit, a physical ailment...I've even heard it suggested that it was an actual demon. I don't care. Far less important than the literal nature of Paul's "thorn" is the purpose it served. Whether physical, behavioral, or spiritual, St. Paul's "thorn" was an instrument of humility. It helped him keep perspective, reminding him that God's grace was sufficient for him, and that God's strength was made perfect in his (Paul's) weakness. The Vulgate reads "infirmitate" - infirmity. I pray God's healing in the lives of those I love, but I have come to recognize that sometimes, the answer is "no." Sometimes, His purpose demands that we be broken or weak so that He can be visible in us. It is difficult to grasp what eternal meaning lies in temporal suffering, but I believe in my very core that this is true: His Grace is Sufficient. And sometimes, the most impaired bodies house the most unencumbered souls.

Holding My Breath

2010-10-24T11:59:00.002-04:00

In the course of his homily this weekend, our dear little Sicilian priest made reference to the Holy Spirit inspiring us to pray. The point he made was that Jesus was a man of prayer, and we are called to be prayerful, as well, after his example. I am a much better reader than listener, just as I am a better writer than speaker. Father's point was well made, and well taken, but it sent my mind wandering because of his use of the word "inspiration."

I have been toying with the concept of inspiration in my mind for a long time. I have been particularly drawn to the fact that the same word is used medically to refer to indrawn breath. The parallel is intriguing, isn't it? The Holy Spirit, the breath of God, gives us wisdom, understanding, fortitude, counsel, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord. That same Spirit incites faith, discernment, and manifests the charismatic and miraculous through us. It bears fruit of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Without it, we would cease to be, just as our lives end when we cease to draw breath. Without inspiration, we die.

There's another element here, too, that expands on Father's point. When we take in breath, we also have to let it out. Keep taking in breaths without exhaling, and you will eventually hyperventilate and pass out. I learned this well as a singer: even if you let out SOME of what's in your lungs, you can still get dizzy, see spots, and crash into the piano. You must exhale completely so that you can inhale new, fresh air (inspiration!) and continue. You must be obedient to the design of your respiratory system, or suffer the consequences. In the same way, we must be obedient to the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. He inspires us - to pray, to speak, to write, to be still - and we must. We can chose not to respond for a while, but eventually, the "breath" will become stale and useless, we'll lose consciousness, and it will escape. Very likely, it will escape loudly but unintelligibly. In my experience, it's far less amusing than crashing into a piano.

In singing, you correct the problem of inefficient breathing by learning to relax and breathe fully, keeping an open and unrestricted airway. It takes a lot of mental energy to do this at first; it requires intense concentration on a process that involves the mind and body on a much broader scale than just "regular" breathing. But it gets easier. Eventually, breathing this way becomes second nature. It doesn't require concentration or focus, but rather facilitates concentration and focus on other things. I suppose it stands to reason that the same is true of the Holy Spirit's inspiration, as well. When inspired to pray, we need to pray. When inspired to speak, we need to speak. When inspired to be silent (that's a gargantuan task for me!), we need to be silent. The design demands obedience in order to function. And while it may require considerable concentration and focus at first, it eventually becomes (closer to) second nature as we are transformed in His image. And friends, pray for me. I need to really be mindful and grow in this area. There are three pianos in my house.

Oh yes, I did!

2010-10-20T10:27:00.002-04:00

"No, you didn't," you might say to me, especially if you know me well. But I did. I absolutely did. I walked out of the grocery store with a full cart, turned it to the parking lot, took a running start and jumped onto the back. It wasn't completely childish; I looked for moving cars first. But for a few seconds, I was just flying - feeling the crisp October breeze in my face, feet dangling as I supported my weight with my arms on the cart handle. I did it, and it was completely exhilarating.

What strikes me as odd about my little adventure is how long it has stayed with me. I was a little giddy...a little giggly about it for several hours afterward. It still makes me grin, and close my eyes to feel the wind in my memory. It was a simple, unadulterated joy, it is now more than a week old, and it is still buoying my soul in the choppy waters of life. Life as a stay-at-home mom (there's a misnomer if ever I've heard one!) is always crazy. Run this one here or there, feed this, change that, cook this, wash that, collapse and repeat. It's easy to feel pulled under...swept away...gasping for air. I somehow forgot that simple pleasures can go a long, long way, spilling sunshine into cloudy days, and providing shelter from the squalls that pop up from time to time. Laughter can reset any mood, October sunshine can penetrate any dark corner, and even a short "flight" can renew your perspective. Next experiment: skipping!

To Find a New Way...

2010-10-06T21:59:00.003-04:00

...to do everything. Well, at least in matters of faith, it seems like everything. I find myself fumbling around of late, like a fish out of water. It seems a little strange. It could just be a bump in the road, or growing pains, or a self-examination brought on by my recent change in demographic. (I'm no longer a 'young adult'...the 18-34 bracket is a thing of the past.) And it's really not even a new problem. It's just at the front of my awareness these days, gnawing at the corners of my conscience.

I used to know how to pray. I used to make a habit of spending intimate time with the Lord. That intimacy was mind-driven. I chose to make time to read, to study, to meditate. I chose to spend that time so that I could be prepared for the rest of my life...influences, interactions, activities and the like. I was front-loaded, if you will.

But now, I find that my mind needs to follow action. Instead of actions being born out of a mind willfully focused and directed to the things of God, they are immediate responses to the events and people in my world. More often than not, I have no control over them, and tend to feel buffeted about, nervous and unsure of myself. Not a good place to be as a wife and mother. Somehow, I have to find my sanity and my devotion in the midst of activity, rather than bringing it ready-made into the tasks of my day. For me, it's like learning to live backwards.

Even in matters of personal discipline, this is true. With a husband and six busy sons, I cannot choose silence on those days when I don't feel like playing nice. I cannot choose to walk away from an argument or tense situation. There is no "stop, breathe, and pray." There is no waiting for clarity and wisdom. There are only situations that must be handled immediately; waiting can make the difference between a minor tiff and a full-blown fight. What is at first a child with a marker can be a completely re-decorated room in a very short time. And I am decidedly in over my head.

Needing to feel front-loaded with my spiritual life stems from a need for vigilance. We all need to be vigilant - to be mindful of our words and actions and keep them in check. But my natural inclination is not to be good. Temper, language, relationships...I react first, think after the fact. It's rather a dangerous temperament for a wife and mother. My world of droolers, ketchup-eaters, and back-talkers demands gentleness and wisdom, forgiveness and forbearance. But at the same time, time to weigh responses and think through the possible consequences of words and actions is an un-affordable luxury. It seems like the perfect storm...the perfect teapot for a wickedly destructive tempest.

It's tempting to chastise myself for making too much of my role here. And I would be right to do so in the "real world." But in the small society of my husband and our children, the impact of my words and actions is immeasurable. It is at once an awesome and terrifying role, with repercussions going far beyond what I can see here and now as I watch my little ones on their way to manhood. It is terrifying to imagine that what I say or don't say to one of them can impact them for the rest of their lives. What's a mother to do?

Today, I don't have any answers. Just a hasty prayer for heaven to protect us from all harm, no matter where it may come from and what form it may take. And a desperately cherished wish that a quiet, thoughtful place will come find me at the sink or under a mountain of laundry and give me courage and strength for whatever lies ahead.

Behind the 8 Ball, Under the Gun, and Other Uncomfortable Places

2010-09-23T21:29:00.002-04:00

Ah, fall. Football, soccer, back-to-school. It's all the hustle and bustle of adjusting to a new normal, however crazy it may be. The madness of having six children to occupy every day is replaced with the madness of children with things to do away from home every day. It seems like the whole world is racing past, and I, as usual, am so busy trying to keep up that I am missing it all. There is a certain desperation to my days...wake up, get out of bed, get everyone fed and dressed and out the door, then try to bring some order to the house, run whatever errands need run, and brace myself for the afternoon rush of homework, dinner, lessons and sports. Once the kids are in bed, I try to get things at least somewhat prepared for the next day before I crash, gathering a few (interrupted) hours of sleep before it all starts again.

There is certainly an element of chaos to my life. I need a degree of order to make the chaos manageable, but it seems to elude me. I can't help but be aware of truths that chastise me for the state of my world: God is a God of order, not of chaos. Very often, I realize that if I were just better prepared and better organized, these things would not affect me so dramatically. It is my shortcomings that make little things loom large. And I feel so alone in it. That voice that reminds me of divine order is answered by a heart that cannot see order, and therefore fears that the divine has drawn back, leaving me to stumble about and grasp in desperation for a bit of calm, a bit of silence, anything to keep me from being completely overrun.

I believe, in the very core of my soul, that there is always a purpose -- that there is a divine order, and that no amount of laundry, soccer, homework, and meal preparation can disrupt it. My inability to see is just that: my inability to see. My vision has become clouded and narrow. This whirlwind that tosses me from one day to the next is only a tiny speck in the grandeur of God's design. He is above it, beyond it, and despite my fears to the contrary, he is the very fiber that weaves it into being. He is here in my chaos. He is here in my blindness. I feel too swept away to reach for him, but he holds me still.

And so, for today, I pray for courage to repent of my blindness, and my smallness of heart and mind. I cast myself upon the grace that bears me up and beg for mercy, acutely aware that I deserve none, but confident that his redeeming love surpasses all. His justice is satisfied in Calvary. His righteousness spurs me on, and calls me to open my eyes, lay bare my heart, and let him heal my unbelief -- to be filled by love that does not grow weary -- love that is fed and that blossoms even as it is poured out. Not by might, not by power, but by the spirit of the Lord of all.

Now That You Mention It...

2010-07-19T09:29:00.002-04:00

I was at Mass this morning, sitting with my 4 youngest children. They were squirrelly, entertaining those around us and driving me to distraction. A lady behind me leaned forward and whispered, "I'll bet you wish you were an octopus." I hadn't thought of it before, but yes. Yes, Mrs. Groff, I would very much like to be an octopus.

When He Calls My Name

2010-04-13T23:05:00.002-04:00

"She said to them, “They have taken my Lord,
and I don’t know where they laid him.”
When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus there,
but did not know it was Jesus.
Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?
Whom are you looking for?”
She thought it was the gardener and said to him,
“Sir, if you carried him away,
tell me where you laid him,
and I will take him.”
Jesus said to her, “Mary!”
She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni,”
which means Teacher."

**Excerpted from Daily Mass Reading for April 6, 2010

I was caught by a particular detail in this reading. Mary Magdalene was the first to see Jesus after he had risen. She was obviously distraught; the loss of Jesus was undoubtedly terrifying for her. After all, it was she who had been caught in adultery and saved from public stoning by Jesus. It was she who had anointed his feet with expensive perfume and wiped them with her hair. It was she of whom he said "she loves much, for she has been forgiven much." She was walking in the redemptive power of Jesus' love, and accompanied him, with his own mother, to Calvary. And now this! His body had been stolen away, robbing her of the chance to again anoint him with the oils and spices that would commit his body to the earth for the last time! In this grief and confusion, comes the question: "Woman, why do you weep?" In desperation, she asks for the body of her Lord, not realizing who it was who had asked. And then he spoke her name. Jesus said, "Mary," and with that one word, her confusion and grief fell away. When Jesus spoke her name, Mary knew him. There was no doubt; there was no questioning. There was only recognition of her Lord.

So often, I am swept away in the confusion of my life. Chaos, to some degree or another, is the norm. I am uncertain what to do or where to go. It seems that I am pulled in so many directions at once, and I can't hear my own thoughts above the clamoring of children and chores. What made Mary different? She was truly listening. She was ready -- longing -- to see Jesus. And when he called her name, her heart was ready to hear. He calls me by name, too! (John 10:3) Make my heart ready, Lord! Give me ears to hear your voice! Wash away my unbelief!

When he calls my name, I want to hear him.

When he calls my name, I want to turn and see him.

When he calls my name, I want to recognize my Lord and my God

For there is peace, strength, and redemption -- when he calls my name.

It's a Good Day to Die

2010-04-01T23:20:00.003-04:00

Mind that indulges in worldly pleasures

I am dead to you

Body that distracts from discipline

I am dead to you

Tongue that rattles without the steady breath of wisdom

I am dead to you

Judgement that denies another's dignity

I am dead to you

Selfishness that robs gratitude

I am dead to you

Faithlessness that stifles the freedom of joy

I am dead to you

Pride that scorns humility and service

I am dead to you

Unforgiveness that fetters to pain and bitterness

I am dead to you

Anger that speaks ahead of Love

I am dead to you

I am dead

To what seeks destruction

That I may live, a new creation

Clothed in grace

Renewed in the hope of eternity

Eyes gazing ever at perfect love

His arms outstretched

In perfect sacrifice

Embracing my wretchedness

In perfect redemption

"...count yourselves dead to sin, but alive to God in Christ Jesus."

--Romans 6:11

Teach Me Love

2010-03-17T23:04:00.003-04:00

In the depths of my soul,

In the quiet of my heart,

Teach me Love.

Teach me love that cannot be shaken

Not by frustration

Not by anger

Not by exhaustion

Not by guilt

Not by ingratitude

Teach me love,

That the words on my lips,

That the work of my hands,

That the path of my feet

Will be ever clothed

With grace,

With gentleness,

With wisdom,

With truth

Teach me Love

So fully, so deeply, so purely,

That seed scattered will be reaped in joy,

Bearing Love in due season.

Teach me Love

Boundless and full,

Poured out in abundance

Teach me Love!

**With gratitude, to JL, for taking the step. I'm honored to walk with you!

Waiting....

2009-12-23T06:18:00.002-05:00

December 23...we're in the "home stretch," as it were, of Advent. Shopping is being finished, gifts are being wrapped and stashed away, kitchens are working overtime, and it's all a whirl of preparation for the celebration of Christmas. There's no shortage of expectation at our house, either. With five children, a busy church organist-husband, and my protruding middle, the sense of anticipation is extraordinary. What perhaps is lacking is quiet and reflection. Not that it's not understandable, but in this early morning quiet before dawn, I am grateful for a bit of peace and a moment to think before the day runs away with me.

It's easy, in the hubbub, to lose sight of why we're doing all of this. But the expectation is not supposed to be for opening presents, visiting family, meals and sweets, and all swept away on the 26th. It is to reflect and remember that without feast and fanfare, without trees and paper and ribbons, Eternity breached time. Wrapped in the complete dependency of a newborn infant, redemption and hope for a fallen world lay among common farm animals in the arms of a teenager. I find the wonder of that reality not in the shopping, baking, and wrapping that await me this day, but in the aching of my arms to hold my own little one. I've held my other five newborns in their first moments, and been swept away by the immense promise that wakes in their wide eyes as they gaze at me. I've been humbled and overwhelmed by the enormity of what lies there. The anticipation of the months before fades away in the anticipation of what is ahead. And there is the true challenge of Christmas.

In every new Advent, we are called to anticipate and embrace a new Incarnation. We are summoned again to the manger to behold with fresh eyes the simple, humble beauty of a newborn child and be drawn into the vastness of grace that is our salvation. Advent is to waken our longing, so that we can gaze at Christ with wonder, and be reminded to guard and cherish His presence in our lives just as we would a tiny child. My prayer is that January 25 will not find me cold - distanced from the warmth of this Christmas celebration, but still gazing into the eyes of my Redeemer, basking in the wonder of his Love and the gift of His presence in my life, and grateful that He chose to come to us so that we could come to Him.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!

What does it mean?

2009-10-16T20:26:00.003-04:00

I was asked a question this afternoon. Someone just figured out that we are expecting another child. While I was surprised that she hadn't known already, I was even more stunned at the way the conversation unfolded. She asked if it was a boy (it is), and looked sympathetic (a response that irritates me, but I'm getting used to). Then came the kicker: "So you are going to keep it?" She looked genuinely concerned for me. Worried, even. It seemed that she wanted me to say "no" so she could be relieved and tell me that she understood, and that 5 boys was certainly enough. I didn't know where to begin. I've heard a lot of ridiculous responses to my pregnancies over the last 12 years, but this one was a first. The fact that anyone would look at me and think that I could terminate a pregnancy at all, especially on the grounds of the baby's gender, is unfathomable. The fact that this little one is less than two weeks from clinical viability only makes the question that much more shocking.

Trying to clear my head and gather a response that didn't include asking if she might be out of her mind, I said "what else would I do? It's a boy! I can't change it now!" She sighed, looking resigned and so sympathetic for my plight (!??!), and repeated "you will keep it." To be fair, there is a significant language barrier in this relationship, and a cultural one, and to a lesser extent, a religious one. But I couldn't help but search my mind and my heart after she had gone, seeking to articulate what began as stunned silence and a whirlwind of thoughts too numerous and rapid to pin down.

What does this child mean? There are some answers that apply to every life begun, and some that only touch the intimate center of our lives as man and wife, and our family as a whole. In every life begun, there is hope. There is possibility. There is purpose. No matter the circumstances of any given conception, life is never an accident. It is always ordained, set forth in the image of God, unique and perfect. Even if we pervert the climate in which that life begins with impropriety, impurity, or violence, it does not pervert the miraculous integrity or worth that is God's fingerprint on humanity. We all come to exist out of nothing because the heart of our Heavenly Father desires us to be. How can we imagine that is it our right, even when it is in our power, to interfere?

What does this child mean to us? My husband and I took sacred vows 13 years ago. We entered into a covenant with one another and with God. In coming together, we pledged ourselves fully to one other and vowed to be open to the natural outcome of celebrating and renewing that covenant. This child, like his five older brothers, comes from our love. He is a precious gift. He is my husband, he is me, and he is uniquely and perfectly himself. It is a miracle and a mystery, and an unspeakable privilege to carry and nurture this life! For my other children as well, this child is a gift. They already love him. They talk to him, reach out to feel his movement, kiss my tummy good-night, and talk about what they will do when he comes. They are eager to see him, to hold him, and to play with him. He is, in their minds, already a part of their family.

Perhaps there is a blessing in the suggestion that I could end the life of the little one who is, as I type this, practicing his dance moves on my ribs. I've stopped and thought about what a blessing it is to be his mother. The woman who posed the question meant no offense, I'm sure. I don't think it occurred to her at all that offense could be taken; it was simply a practical consideration for a family that already has five children, all of them boys. If ever the opportunity presents itself, I will certainly give an answer for the hope that is within me. I will, I pray, be the one with the breathtaking and audacious question. Until that time, I will simply be grateful, anxiously awaiting the day when I will see my little son, cradle him in my arms, present him to his father and his brothers, and kiss his sweet forehead. Because I am his mother.

The Status Quo

2009-09-25T22:33:00.008-04:00

The status quo...the way things are. We go to extreme lengths to preserve it, or at least the appearance of it. What I find interesting, though, is that over periods of time, the status quo can shift pretty dramatically. Then we may find ourselves preserving an image that is no longer real because it's what a given person may expect of us. I never would have thought about this had it not been for the magical world of social networking...Facebook.

It's a funny thing about my Facebook friend list: there are people there that represent some very different phases and areas of interest in my life. High school, college, married life; marching band, choir, church; former teachers and former students; knew me when, know me now...it's almost surreal to see these different circles meet and cross in one place. People who knew me as a mixed-up, rebellious, distrustful teenager might be surprised to see a friend's comment about faith or religion. People who knew me as an unapologetic Pentecostal with no plans for married life might be utterly shocked to see me as a married, Catholic mother of six. People from college might be startled to learn that I've set aside all my career plans, and those who only know me from my writing might not recognize me in "real life." It's almost enough to inspire an identity crisis!

As I've reflected over this, one simple reality draws it all together: it's all been steps on a journey. In the course of the journey, there have been some pretty dramatic shifts in my opinions, my philosophies, my priorities.... What is sometimes frustrating is that a dramatic shift in the mind only produces incremental shifts in the behavior. It can take a long time for a seed to really take root and bear fruit. And in the meantime, I maintain the status quo...a predictable pattern for a given relationship.

I suppose it is the way of things. In any given relationship, you at least start with the common ground. And I suppose there are no apologies to be made for growth -- for moving forward in the flow of our lives. Chances are that my high school math teacher will never meet my college music history professor, and my friends from church growing up will never cross paths with my current group of mommy friends. My half sister in Florida won't meet my youth ministers and Sunday school teachers from way back when, and my writing partner from English class won't meet the crazy girl from college. That's the status quo -- the way it is. It will grow and change through the years until it hardly looks the same, but it will be the same. It will be my path, graced by friends and family, teachers and students, knew me whens and know me nows. I will pray to be content with the status quo if it is but an honest picture of the journey, if not the destination.

Refresher Course on Grace

2009-09-17T12:35:00.002-04:00

The summer days are waning. The kids are back in school, DH has returned to a “normal” work schedule, as crazy as that is, and I’m settling into life at home with just my littlest boy during the day. This summer, like all others, came with its familiar challenges. Financial matters are trickier in the summer, and life with all of us here brings more bickering, more chores to be done, and fewer willing hands (“but it’s summer vacation, Mom!”). I’ve also found that I am unsettled – there are principles I absolutely desire to live, but they are at odds with my tendency to be distracted and to avoid facing difficult situations. It puts me in mind of a cat chasing its tail – not actually achieving the goal, but creating a bigger mess in the chase.

When I stop to evaluate these times in my life, a common theme always emerges. My prayer life has become less consistent, and the stress I’m feeling comes from believing that I need to fix, juggle, figure out, and manage everything. There’s always the sense that the disorder in our home can only be put right if I can suddenly don my magic "SuperMom" cape and be what I have never managed to be: able to rise early and stay up late, single-minded and ever diligent in keeping peace and order, able to easily step aside to tend to children and visitors, always temperate and modest, always keeping my attitudes in check, always keeping the deadly poison from the “restless evil” in my mouth…. Funny. That magic bullet hasn’t yet struck.

Somewhere in the harried madness of life, there’s a lesson that I have to revisit over and over: His grace is sufficient. It takes courage and strength to face my fear and my weakness and let God be God. It requires a daily choice – daily submission to grace – choosing my bridegroom and the choosing the willing surrender of the bride. I need to take time to reconnect with the truest longings of my heart rather than the loudest clamorings of my world. I need to take a refresher course on grace from the author of grace. And then we’ll do it again tomorrow….

Blessed Encouragement in Due Season

2009-06-22T13:44:00.002-04:00

I can't take credit for this post, as it appeared in my inbox recently. I can, however share it, because I was so blessed by it. As moms, we get caught up in the minute-to-minute realities of life with kids, and it's easy to lose sight of what we're working so frantically for. So read, enjoy, and be encouraged!

The Invisible Mother.....

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids would walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken somewhere. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?!' Obviously not.

No one can see if I'm on the phone or cooking or sweeping the floor or even standing on my head in the corner because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible; the Invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: "Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?"

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car ride to somewhere 'Right around 5:30 please.'

One night a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.'

In the days ahead I would read, no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:

1 – No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.

2 – These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.

3 – They made great sacrifices and expected no credit whatsoever.

4 – The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.'

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life; in fact, it is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my daughter to tell the friend she's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. Instead, I just want her to want to come home. If she says anything at all to her friend I would like it to be 'You're gonna love it here.'

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot see if we're doing it right. And one day it is very possible that the world will marvel not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

Tearful Day

2009-05-12T22:30:00.002-04:00

Mother's Day

Call me a sap, a sentimental fool, an emotional what-have-you -- but I've spent most of today in tears or on the verge of tears. It's Mother's Day, after all, and and I was greeted this morning by sweet kisses from my monkey boy, hugs from the others (sniffle!), and off to mass I went. The book I referenced in the last post is still on my reading list, and I am learning to see a very human Jesus, and recognizing in newer, broader ways just how miraculous the incarnation is. All that new, fresh awareness bouncing around in my head is particularly overwhelming at mass, when the reality of that incarnation is staring me in the face. (Tears again.) Not only that, but our esteemed music director chose to use the Regina Coeli chant and an Ave Maria based on on the 13th century chant of the same text. (Sniffle, gulp!)

A quick trip home, get the boys all spit-shined and polished, then off to mass again. Three sweet boys in the pew with me, and my two fine young men serving at the altar. What proud Mama wouldn't cry? Just a little?

After church and a wardrobe change for everyone, we all piled in the van again to go to my nephew's first communion party. There was no shortage of tears in the reminiscences scattered through the day -- my mother-in-law and my grandmother are both three years gone this year. We stopped at the cemetery on the way home to leave a rose for Mom. There were tears all around, and more tears at bedtime from our two oldest, who have the most vivid memories of Grandma Mary.

Off to the chapel at midnight, and there were tears to offer there, as well. Tears of thanksgiving, joy, penitence. Tears of grief and petition, some for me, some for others. Then into bed with one more tear as I sigh, content, that my dear husband sleeps beside me, my sweet boys dream in their own beds, and my Father has ordered it, just so, in his abundant mercy.

Happy Easter!

2009-04-14T05:28:00.002-04:00

I love Easter, and I love that as Catholics, we celebrate the Easter season, not just the day. We'll be alleluia-ing like crazy until Pentecost. Gotta love that....

There's a new feature on the blog...I added a "what I'm reading" spot. The current link is a book I picked up in response to the "Consider the Source" post from a couple of weeks ago. I'm loving it, but it's a challenging read. If I can get through a whole chapter at a sitting, then I'm doing well. Usually it's just a couple of pages. So very much to think about!

So what are you reading now?

While we wait...

2009-04-11T00:00:00.000-04:00

This is from an ancient homily on Holy Saturday, and is part of the office of readings for the day. The Liturgy of the Hours is a distinctly Catholic thing, but this reading speaks to all of us who wait, poised to celebrate the Resurrection tomorrow morning. I was so moved by it that I wanted to share it, and hope that you are blessed by it as well.

Something strange is happening -- there is a great silence on Earth today, a great silence and stillness. The whole earth keeps silence because the King is asleep. The earth trembled and is still because God has fallen asleep in the flesh and he has raised up all who have slept ever since the world began. God has died in the flesh and hell trembles with fear. He has gone to search for our first parent, as for a lost sheep. Greatly desiring to visit those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, he has gone to free from sorrow the captives Adam and Eve, he who is both God and the son of Eve. The Lord approached them bearing the cross, the weapon that had won him the victory. At the sight of him, Adam, the first man he had created, struck his breast in terror and cried out to everyone: "My Lord be with you all." Christ answered him: "And with your spirit." He took him by the hand and raised him up, saying: "Awake, O sleeper, and rise from the dead, and Christ will give you light."

I am your God, who for your sake has become your son. Out of love for you and for your descendants I now by my own authority command all who are held in darkness to be enlightened, all who are sleeping to arise. I order you, O sleeper, to awake. I did not create you to be held a prisoner in hell. Rise from the dead, for I am the life of the dead. Rise up, work of my hands, you who were created in my image. Rise, let us leave this place, for you are in me and I am in you; together we form only one person and we cannot be separated.

For your sake I, your God, became your son; I, the Lord, took the form of a slave; I, whose home in above the heavens, descended to the earth and beneath the earth. For your sake, for the sake of man, I became like a man without help, free among the dead. For the sake of you, who left a garden, I was betrayed to the Jews in a garden, and I was crucified in a garden.

See on my face the spittle I received in order to restore to you the life I once breathed into you. See there the marks of the blows I received in order to refashion your warped nature in my image. On my back see the marks of the scourging I endured to remove the burden of of sin that weighs upon your back. See my hands, nailed firmly to a tree, for you who once wickedly stretched out your hand to a tree.

I slept on the cross and a sword pierced my side for you who slept in paradise and brought forth Eve from your side. My side has healed the pain in yours. My sleep will rouse you from your sleep in hell. The sword that pierced me has sheathed the sword that was turned against you.

Rise, let us leave this place. The enemy led you out of the earthly paradise. I will not restore you to that paradise, but I will enthrone you in heaven. I forbade you the tree that was only a symbol of life, but see, I who am life itself am now one with you. I appointed cherubim to guard you as slaves are guarded, but now I make them worship you as God. The throne formed by cherubim awaits you, its bearers swift and eager. The bridal chamber is adorned, the banquet is ready, the eternal dwelling places are prepared, the treasure houses of all good things lie open. The kingdom of heaven has been prepared for you from all eternity.

Consider the Source

2009-04-03T09:35:00.004-04:00

I've been accused of not existing outside my own mind. That's a stinging observation, to be sure, but Grandma always said "consider the source." Considering the source, this deserved some serious reflection (proving the point, perhaps?). The more I've reflected, the more I've had to admit that it just might be correct.

I've never been the physical type. I'm not athletic or particularly adventurous. My physical interaction with the world around me is limited to things that help me relate to the non-physical. I'm the spiritual, thinking, feeling, contemplating, theorizing type, and I've always considered the mystical and the eternal to be superior to the concrete and temporal. I've even caught myself (God forgive me!) resenting the immediate, here and now realities that claim my attention and my energy because they take me away from the "things that really matter." But here's the kick-in-the-teeth-reality-check of the day: Christ embraced humanity to the point of becoming human. The God of the universe deigned to encompass His deity in human flesh -- to step into the temporal, physical world and walk among us as a man. He was raised in a traditional Jewish home; isn't it reasonable to assume that he was taught Joseph's trade? He hung out with fishermen; isn't it probable that he did some net-hauling along the way? Jesus laughed, cried, worked, played, celebrated and mourned...as a man!

I don't do well with managing my time or my tasks...the time seems to get away with the tasks undone, or ten other things demand attention and my "did it" list at the end of the day looks nothing like my "to do" list did at the beginning. I get so frustrated with things that seem so easy to other moms but that I can't seem to grasp. I can read, research, write, and plan, but in the practical application, I always seem to miss the mark completely. I've never been able to marry my contemplative personality to the practical necessities of my world, no matter how hard I try. Perhaps it's time for a new approach....

If I am to truly embrace Christ, mustn't I embrace his humanity just as fervently as I embrace his deity? He is fully God and fully man, body and blood, soul and divinity. No element is extricable from the others. I have to look again at this savior of mine, and open my heart to see him more clearly.

We are on the cusp of Holy Week, and I am challenged in a new way. Fully human, the God of all creation bore the entirety of human suffering and sin, obedient even to a disgraceful and gruesome death. Can I embrace Christ in his humanity now? Can I see what was here, temporally present, and embrace it rather than looking past it to the resurrection? The battle for salvation was won on Sunday morning, but it was fought at its fiercest in the garden, before the Sanhedrin, and on the cross. Is Christ in his humanity the key to my freedom in mine? Consider the source....

The List of What Went Right

2009-03-22T12:50:00.002-04:00

The day wasn't a total loss, after all!

1. The choir sang at the mall, and no one threw rotten tomatoes.
2. We had french toast and scrambled eggs for dinner...always a good thing. And the kids cleared and rinsed their plates without a fight.
3. Mr. Redsocks had lots of here-there-and-everywhere stuff to do yesterday, and he made it home safely and without major incident.
4. I managed to get a couple of loads of laundry done so no one had to go to Mass naked this morning.
5. A skilled friend agreed to come and hang our old kitchen cabinets so we can use them until we can afford new ones.
6. My children, despite the fact that they drove me crazy, gave me hugs and kisses goodnight when I tucked them in.
7. I was kept in the hollow of my Father's hand, preserved from harm, and granted his provision for another day by his love and grace.
8. I have stuff to do today -- another chance to do better! And a reason to cut this post short and get busy, because my blessings are innumerable!

Misnomer?

2009-03-21T16:44:00.004-04:00

This blog is subtitled "what went right when things went wrong...". Today, however, I'm having a hard time finding the "what went right." I'm feeling behind the game so far that I'm not sure I'll ever get close enough to eat last place's dust. I also suspect that no amount of chocolate, ice cream, or other mind-numbing, soul-soothing delight is gonna make this one better. In fact, a "pause" button is all I can think of that would truly be helpful -- freeze everyone and everything else around, take a moment to clear my head, make a well-prioritized to-do list, and then tackle it, uninterrupted, one task at a time. So far no luck on that one, either.

Here's the part where I grit my teeth, pray for enough sanity to make it until bedtime, and head to the kitchen to start dinner. I'm definitely wearing my red socks to bed tonight, and taking time to make a list of what did indeed go right today. I'm sure there's something. It's just going too fast to see from this close....

Springtime Reminiscence

2009-03-19T20:56:00.003-04:00

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!

I read this poem years ago, sitting in the chair at my grandmother's house. (Read the whole poem HERE.) I was young enough then that I could read and understand the poem, but not truly grasp the sentiment. Now, though, I understand. My thoughts turn to my grandmother and my mother-in-law whenever I hear the opening line. They've both been gone for nearly three years, and they'd both be celebrating birthdays this week. Now I know what it is to long for the honest, simple presence of these two women in my life.

My grandmother's hand in my childhood was my touchstone of stability and order, but it was also the hand that led me into new places, new experiences, and new arenas of thought.

My mother-in-law is the image I hold as the mother I want to be. She had a way of shepherding her children with a loving touch, tempering the passions of those around her, and inspiring the best in all of us. She was quiet and simple, instinctively patient, and somehow always held things together.

At the end of my days, I am tired. I'm aware of all that I have left undone, time I might have spent better, words I wish I'd never said, ways that I've not lived up to my own expectations or to the examples set by these women I so long to emulate. I want to hear them reassure me that morning will come with new grace, and that whatever my frustration, time and love will be enough to bring it into perspective. I want to feel a comforting hand stroking my hair, hear a gentle voice bearing wisdom born of faith and experience, smell the familiar smells of each of their embraces as I bury my face and let the rest of the world slip from my awareness.

And just so, I draw my children to me. I embrace them, kiss their foreheads, stroke their hair away from their eyes, and pray that someday they will take comfort in those simple memories, just as I will tonight when I close my eyes and let my memories rock me to sleep.

Happy New Year!

2009-03-06T10:18:00.003-05:00

Yes, I know it's March. I say "Happy New Year" for two reasons. One, I haven't posted since last November (Yikes! Where did that time go?). Two, I have come to mark this time of year as a new year in a spiritual sense.

I spent last weekend away at a Mothers' retreat at a local retreat center. It is an annual event, and it takes place the first weekend of Lent every year. So we begin with Ash Wednesday, a day to fast, pray, and focus on the penitential season at hand, and almost immediately find time away to pray, go to confession, and be instructed and encouraged by other moms and some perfectly wonderful retreat directors.

Over the last 20 years or so, I have come to more and more fully realize that to truly embrace the anastasis, resurrection, of Easter, we have to more and more fully embrace the aftothysia and thanatos, self-sacrifice and death, that precedes it in lent and Holy Week. So I begin another Lent, a "New Year," resolved to grow in faith, hope, and love, embracing the passion of my Lord with renewed commitment.

"Draw me nearer, nearer blessed Lord, to the cross where thou hast died. Draw me nearer, nearer blessed Lord, to thy precious bleeding side."

Sacrifice

2008-11-15T21:40:00.003-05:00

Sacrifice is an everyday reality for me, like most moms. We sacrifice our bodies, our intellectual pursuits, our careers, our leisure time, our privacy.... All these sacrifices leave us with less of certain things, in exchange for the rewards of happy, healthy children and marriages. Would we change much? Probably not.

I have to admit, though, that I have moments of selfishness when I want to scream "MINE!" and grasp frantically to hold on to a few moments alone in the bathroom, or with a book, or a meal, or coffee, hot to the bottom of the cup.

In this selfishness is a certain amount of desperation -- of hunger. It stirs a cry of longing, and in that longing, I am focused on my lack -- lack of time, lack of resources, lack of freedom, lack of devotion and prayer. In that longing, the last thing I am thinking about is greater sacrifice!

My previous post was about the power of praise to transform circumstances. How much more sacrificial praise!

I was in the chapel recently, in the depths of one of these "cries of longing." Okay, I admit it. I was whining. But in the corner of my mind came the smallest whisper: "Sacrifice of praise". It was a phrase used so lightly in my upbringing -- it really had very little meaning for me beyond its use in a rather up-tempo praise chorus we used to sing. But there, before that altar, in the presence of Christ, I began to read aloud psalms of praise -- psalms that acknowledged God for his attributes and exhorted others to do the same. I didn't feel like praising. It was truly a sacrifice to lift my voice just then. But as I did, something amazing began to happen: a transformation of my perspective. My circumstances didn't change. My needs didn't change. My attitude, however, did. There, before that altar, I acclaimed aloud that He is holy, He is worthy, He is the joy of my salvation, He is able.

I acclaimed Christ as King, and in my acclamation I found peace. I found rest for my soul. I found myself able to return home and face the day in gratitude for the many blessings I have been given.

Bloom Where You Are!

2008-11-03T19:49:00.002-05:00

How often do you see a movie or TV show, or read something that you've seen or read countless times before, and suddenly see it in a way you never have? How often have you said "I can't believe I missed that!"? So this is how my day began...

I was reading morning prayer, and one of the selections in the psalter for today was Psalm 84. I have been through the psalter many times - it's a four week cycle. I have read the Psalms through more times than I can remember. Somehow, though, this particular passage has always just skimmed past my eyes; I never really saw it until today.

"Even the sparrow has found a home, and the swallow a nest for herself where she may have her young - a place near your altar."

Now, as a "nesting bird" of sorts, this tickled my awareness. What better place to care for my young than near the altar of the Lord? As I've considered this further, maybe I have less need to feel out-of-sorts in church with my children. This reassures me that doing "mom stuff" that addresses my children's immediate needs and helps to direct their attention to Jesus and His unique presence at Mass really is okay, after all. (You too, Mrs. J.L.!)

Ah, yes...my original point.

"Blessed are those who dwell in your house; they are ever praising you. Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have their hearts set on pilgrimage. As they pass through the Valley of Baca (translates to "weeping"), they make it a place of springs; they go from strength to strength, till each appears before God in Zion."

What admonition! What encouragement! What simple direction!

Praise is, for lack of a better term, magic. It turns the driest, bitterest valleys we pass through on this pilgrim journey into places of springs, where we may find strength and refreshment - strength that carries us until we see Him in Zion.

Afternoon delight

2008-10-27T23:40:00.003-04:00

(October 4, 2008)

Ah, children. As I write this, I am watching a mess o' kids in a McDonalds playland. The dynamics are fascinating to me. It's lunchtime on a Thursday, so the kids are all toddlers and preschoolers. A microcosm of their demographic, they're all finding their places and making their ways in the pack, as it were.

There's my preschooler, talking big and tough, challenging other kids at every turn. He's almost always outrun, outjumped, and outdone at home, where he's the fourth in line. And there's the kid who just punched him in the head for pushing him out of the way and beating him to the steering wheel.

There's my toddler, following around and petting another little guy who's about his size, but probably six months younger.

There is a veritable gaggle of little girls, squealing in ways that only little girls can, and the one who'd rather play with the boys, I think, but is instead wailing piteously. You'd be inclined to worry, but there's not a tear in her eyes and she's continuing to play on the fringe, waiting to see which grownup will come to her rescue.

There are moms who are oblivious to the activity on the playset, and there are those following their little darlings to catch them before they land on their well padded backsides.

There's the nubile walker who insists on keeping up with the big kids, and the kid who's pushing four but still running around with a pacifier and blankie.

In this world of ketchup-eaters and slide-climbers, there is no notion of crises, impending legislation, or global tension. For them, there are french fries and ice cream cones, tunnels and slides, and any slight of etiquette or aggression will be forgotten before bedtime. The kids will figure out how to be and how to go forward because there are grownups to show them the way until they can do it on their own. I wish that I could feel that sense of freedom sometimes: to live in the moment, and leave the bigger picture to the bigger people. But I am one of the "big people" now, and the task of looking forward and back to understand the significance of this moment lies with me. Lord, grant me eyes to see, ears to hear, and a childlike spirit to trust you for the rest...and eat ketchup.

I got tagged...

2008-10-27T22:15:00.003-04:00

Marva, I'm sorry you had to find out, but yes, I'm slower than molasses in January about this stuff. I had to think of quirks I was willing to air publicly, and then think of at least a couple of bloggers who'd play along. (Most of the blogs I read are of a more professional, specialized variety.)

Here's how to play.
1. Link to person who tagged you.
2. Post the rules on your blog.
3. List six unspectacular quirks you have.
4. Tag 6 bloggers by linking them.
5. Leave a comment on taggee's blog to let them know they have been tagged.

So here we go:
1. When I do dishes, I do my pots and pans first.
2. I have a "thing" for ugly socks...they're my favorites!
3. I make most of the bread we use at our house.
4. I pour the cream into my coffee cup first, then the coffee, so I don't have to dirty a spoon.
5. If I don't look like a lobster when I get out of the shower, it wasn't hot enough.
6. I get weepy with very little provocation. Hallmark commercials, movies, episodes of Full House -- you name it, it will probably make me cry if you catch me at the right moment.

JRH

The Semiotician's Lair

Still here...

2008-10-26T21:16:00.003-04:00

does this blogger ever plan to post a new article? Where are you, Ms. Redsocks?

I have to say, I was more than a little flattered to find this comment on my last post. Anonymous, thanks! And I'm sorry it's been so long. The simple fact of the matter is that this blogger is rather thoughtful, and her goal in blogging is to share her thoughts in way that inspires thought and gives a true picture of what's rattling around in this little head. Of late, there's been precious little rattling around in here that isn't bound to the crisis of the moment. The day-to-day things of my "real" world are drawing all of my attention and energy, and none of them really seem to be blogworthy. There are the routine struggles of keeping up with the general activity of our home and family. We've had viruses come through: a respiratory one, followed immediately by a tummy one (which, by the way, is going to keep at least 2 of the little darlings home from school tomorrow). For some reason or another, Mr. Redsocks' schedule seems more difficult to work around this year, so that's keeping me jumping. In short, my life is kicking my butt! So, besides "Boo-hoo, I'm tired, I'm stressed, my brain is oatmeal," what's there to say? And who'd care, anyway?

Seriously, though, I haven't been intellectually idle. I have a couple of posts begun; I just haven't been able to bring them around to where they'd make sense outside of my head. I'm still going to the chapel every week (almost...Mr. Redsocks goes sometimes, too) and finding my mind drawn to meditate where my heart is most needful. It's beginning to come clear, but it takes a while to find the quiet and actually apply the words I need to share it all. So stay tuned...I'm still here, and delighted that you are, too!

NOT one of those days

2008-10-15T04:11:00.003-04:00

You know those days when you feel the warmth of God's presence in the simplest things? When your smile is ready and your heart is full of gratitude? When little things don't seem to bother you because God is in His heaven and all is right with the world? Today is not one of those days.

Today is one of those days when I simply know he is there because he said so. Not because I can see him or hear him or feel him, but because he said so. I am tired -- demands of motherhood, an irritating cough left over from last week's sick day, and more chores than I want to admit undone and awaiting my attention -- these things are taking their toll on me.

Today is one of those days that I have to consciously remind myself of blessings in my world. Today is one of those days when I have to fight the urge to throw my hands up in frustration and let the chips fall where they may. Today is one of those days when I have to make a deliberate effort to speak with a bridled tongue. Today has begun far earlier than I intended. Today is full of chores to do, people to receive, and errands to run. Today will not end until the sun has long gone.

Today is a new day, new with promise and mercy. I choose today. I cast my choice on an ever-faithful God. I choose faith. My choices are few, but today, I choose Him.

Lord, Hear the Cry of My Heart

2008-09-05T22:05:00.002-04:00

In the morning, when I rise and reach out to you before the day's work calls
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When I rise and rush into the day with hardly a glance toward heaven
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

When grace bridles my tongue with gentle words
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When that restless evil leaves its poisonous sting
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

When humility guides my steps alongside the man I love
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When arrogance or wounded pride stirs a disrespectful spirit within me
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

When a song of praise rests on my lips
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When ingratitude turns my eyes from the abundance of your kingdom
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

When my arms are strong for my tasks and my hands are diligent
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When discouragement or indolence reduces me to idleness
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

When uprightness and integrity light my way and guide me
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!
When fear for earthly needs keep me from trusting in the God of my youth
Lord, hear the cry of my heart!

Hear the cry of my heart! O my God!
And close the chasm
Bring the cry of my heart and the work of my hands into one accord
To walk hand in hand the path of righteousness
To lead me home
To where the cry of my heart will ever be "Holy!"
And the work of my hands will be only to worship you
Hear the cry of my heart!

Ordina, deus meus, statum meum --- secundum verbum tuum.

2008-08-27T23:22:00.003-04:00

It's been a long summer. I've struggled to keep an ordered home and family life even more than usual. Fitting in trips to the beach, the park, and family celebrations on a leaner budget has tried my patience. Keeping the boys active, civil, and enlisting them to help around the house has been a chore at best. By the time the July 21 post to this blog was begun, I was wearing thin and frustrated. Some friends invited us to join them at their cabin in northern Michigan, which sparked the comment at the bottom of that post. Lake Hanley is in what is known as the "upper chain" of lakes connected to Lake Michigan. There I found much needed rest, refreshment, and renewal. You can click here to read more about our vacation.

Now the children are back in school, my husband is back to his educational responsibilities, and I return to the order that makes it all possible. I find myself relishing the pre-dawn hours, when I can be alone with my morning prayers and a cup of coffee. I'm prepared in those moments to face the day with grace befitting a godly woman. I will undoubtedly stumble before the day is done, but if I have touched the solid face of my Rock and Salvation, then I will not fall far. The lifeline will be in my hand, the cry of praise that lifts me up will be still warm on my lips. And then there's the sweet gift of memory: I can drift back into a kayak on the Green River and remember that so long as the sun rises and sets, then mercy is ever new, and my hope cannot be stilled.

Couldn't have said it better myself.

2008-08-07T22:43:00.002-04:00

"Why [am I] now developing a sense of reverence...and finding deep peacefulness in not knowing all the answers? ...I can only say that the Holy Spirit is on the move. Grace is flowing with a particular kind of abundance, calling us more strongly and guiding us more clearly toward true healing and wholeness."

-- Gerald May, Simply Sane: the Spirituality of Mental Health

Great Expectations

2008-07-21T21:01:00.003-04:00

I try to keep things light. I try to keep smiling...to be consistently optimistic, if a little darkly sarcastic in doing so. My faith makes me ready to say that I believe, that I hope, that I am confident in my God and in the saving power of His son. But honestly, I'm struggling. I feel like I am not using my gifts to their potential, like I'm not approaching my family with the gratitude that allows me to care for them as I should, like I'm floundering to make sense of my vocation and what it requires of me. And I feel like in the midst of it, God is standing by, silently watching. I feel the distance...I feel the burden of my failures...I feel that somewhere in the growing hunger in my soul, a dam has to break. I feel that this time will give way to some growth, or healing, or new understanding -- some touch of abundant grace that lies just over the horizon. And so I wait...and pray for courage and resolve to embrace the darkness, and to be vigilant in expectation of the dawn.

This post was started just before a family vacation in July. In abundant mercy and abiding faithfulness, I know my redeemer lives. As they solidify, I will post the thoughts and prayers from our time away...a chain of blessings from a chain of lakes beneath the Michigan sun.

Cleaning out the Fridge

2008-07-19T21:48:00.003-04:00

Yep, I did it. One of the hottest, most humid days so far this summer, and I cleaned out the refrigerator. It's a little embarrassing, but I can't seem to get to those out-of-the-ordinary-routine type jobs nearly as often as I should. I usually think of them when I am in the throes of some other, more immediate task, when I can't really stop and take care of other things. And so I really cleaned out the fridge -- shelves out, throw away anything remotely questionable, scrub the whole beastie inside and out. The subtitle of this blog is "a journal of God's grace in a mom's world." It could only be grace that allowed me to see myself in the sticky, cluttered mess that was my refrigerator, and lead me to better understanding as it was transformed into a clean, shiny, and fresh-smelling chill-chest (props to Alton B.!).

A refrigerator serves a specific purpose. It keeps stuff cold. That capability may be applied for a family's groceries, an office staff's lunches, beverages, or fishing bait. There's virtually no limit to the applications, but the essential function is always the same. We also serve a specific purpose. The Life of Man is to know the only true God and to know Jesus Christ whom he has sent (Jn. 17:3). We come forth by His will, and we return to Him in His time. There are innumerable variations in just how we accomplish this, but the essential function is always the same.

A refrigerator isn't nearly as effective if it's not clean. Sticky stuff on the shelves or pooled in the bottom make it less efficient. Too much stuff in the doors or stuff not put in neatly will keep it from closing correctly, or block vents it needs to move and cool the air inside it. Dust on the coils can really cause problems...it can shorten the life of the fridge, burning out the motor before its time. And in this knowledge (bandied about with the Aquinas and Chesterton I had been reading), I came to better understanding of what sin does in the life of a Christian.

When I lose my temper, speak unkindly or disrespectfully, let my thoughts wander where they shouldn't (this list could get really long), it gums up the works. It puts stuff between me and the performance of my essential function. When I neglect my spiritual needs and put other, more immediate (read "noisy") issues ahead of time to pray, time to read scripture, time to stop and see God's hand in my life, it gets my vents and coils dusty. I can't breathe; I'm likely to burn out.

Sad but true, this little metaphor goes even further. My refrigerator has humidity adjustment for each of the crisper drawers, and it has removable shelves on the door. I broke one of the shelves, because it was sticky and I couldn't remember how it was supposed to come out, and I don't have a foggy clue which vegetables like what level of humidity, so I'm not using that feature to its potential. But I'm not using all of my features to their potential, either. I get a little roughed up emotionally when I try to muscle things in the direction I think they go, rather than easing them in the direction they actually go. A little time devoted to learning something new, and I could bring a little finesse to the way I do my job.

I have to admit, I was a bit grumpy while I was cleaning the fridge, muttering about the pickle juice that had dripped down the back and the sticky iced tea that had spilled when the jar leaked. I knew darn well that the job would have been easier if I hadn't put it off. I also knew that I could have put it off longer, but that would just complicate things further, and that my much-needed (and appreciated) icebox would keep plugging faithfully, but at a diminished capacity, eventually burning out and becoming useless.

I have to admit, I'm a bit grumpy taking stock of the dust and sticky stuff I've let into my life. I know darn well that the job would be easier if I weren't so attached to my pride. I also know that I could put it off longer, but that would just complicate things further, and my commitment to my faith would keep plugging along, but at a diminished capacity, eventually burning out and rendering me useless.

Then someone put an open can of soda in my nice, clean, fridge. It spilled.

Mirror, Mirror

2008-07-12T22:25:00.003-04:00

It's no secret that God's ways are far above our understanding -- that he governs all according to his will, whether we approve or not, and regardless of whether or not we understand. And so when we have need of a given virtue, he gives us circumstances that enable us to develop it. Be it patience, courage, faith, fortitude, generosity, humility, or obedience, he provides for our every need!

I remember when my oldest son was a toddler, just developing a sense of his own will, and the realization struck me for the first time: this is not an exercise in biology and sociology. This is a vocation -- a calling -- that demands that I exercise every virtue, even those I lack. I remember being so frustrated with my little boy, thinking that if he would just listen to me and do what I said, then he would be protected by my experience and perspective. He wouldn't get hurt, he wouldn't have to sit in time-out, he wouldn't spill his juice on the rug...and on the list goes. And then, in the tender compassion of our God, dawn from on high broke upon me. How much pain, how much frustration, how much damage to the trust and affections of the people I love could I have avoided by simply listening and obeying the will of my heavenly father? To bridle my tongue, to be diligent, to be obedient, to be temperate, to be generous, or to be patient, in so many instances would have been my saving grace.

Several years and several children later, I find that my most frustrating moments with my children are those in which they do the very things I continue to struggle with. Sometimes I can justify "do as I say, not as I do," because there are certain things that fall under a mother's authority that are not appropriate for them to repeat (i.e., correcting and disciplining each other). But sometimes...

Sometimes, my children are rude and unkind. But how often do I raise my voice? How often am I abrupt with them, failing to slow down and direct them on their level with love and gentleness?

Sometimes, my children are impatient. They want what they want, and they react with a mountain when they are irritated by a molehill. But how often do I snap at one of them when he asks repeatedly for something, or asks for something that I have just given the other four? How often is a shouted-at-the-top-of-his-lungs rendition of "Slow Ride" just the final straw that gets somebody (or everybody) sent up to bed?

Sometimes, my children are sloppy with chores, or simply don't do them. But how often do I avoid responsibilities, procrastinate, or do a "quick job, for now" and fail to give my work the attention it deserves?

Sometimes, my children are critical and nitpicky with each other, quick to tattle on each other or simply retaliate for whatever slight they feel. But how often am I critical of them, or fail to praise them when they are helpful or kind or generous?

Sometimes, my children battle to avoid responsibility for their words and actions -- "He did it first!" "But he called me ..... " But how often do I scramble frantically to justify myself when I am wrong, or argue for the sake of being right?

Truth be told, I am flawed and sinful, and my children tend to mirror my behavior and attitudes, whether good or bad. So my prayer is that I have humility enough to recognize and admit when I am wrong, and to let my children see me when I seek forgiveness, reconciliation, and greater virtue. I pray that they will see, when they are older and look back, that I am not who I was when the first stick turned blue. And I pray most of all that they will grow into men whose lives are devoted to the pursuit of virtue, strength, and integrity, because they have seen in me the way they should go.

In Good Company

2008-07-03T22:42:00.006-04:00

There are so many ironies in our lives. There are the little, Murphy's law types: Mop the floor, and the children will spill the entire bottle of maple syrup on it. Dress up for a night out without the kids, and the babysitter will give the littlest ones Oreos before they give you hugs and kisses. The worst diaper blowouts will happen just as you walk out the door, especially if you're running late or if everybody's dressed up and on the way to a special event. You will see everyone you know at the grocery store, but only when you're just ducking in for milk on the way home from whatever, sweaty, unkempt, and in your crummy clothes.

But then there are those big ironies -- major paradoxes that can reach the scale of an all-out war. St. Paul (Romans 7) describes it so well: "For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. ...I find this law at work: when I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being, I delight in God's law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin...." This is the grand paradox of a believer's world -- the struggle of a lifetime, between the eternal and the temporal, the physical and the spiritual.

To be a believer -- to say "I believe" -- is to commit to the struggle. It is to willfully engage in the fight to be emancipated from slavery to the law of sin, and to enter in to slavery to the law of Christ. It is to acknowledge that there is a greater reality than this, and that it is as different from what we know as an acorn is from a mighty oak. Just like that acorn contains the fullness of the oak, the fullness of the of the kingdom of God dwells in us! Just as the tiniest roots and green stems break forth in search of light and water, we struggle to break free from the limited perspective of our temporal world, reaching out for eternal light and living water. We take courage in this: even though the tiny seedling struggles frantically to take root and spread its leaves, it settles into peaceful strength after it has gained them. It rests and bears fruit. When we have taken root, and found the strength of maturity, we too will have rest.

In maturity, there is quietness. There is still growth, but it is a steady renewal from our depths, not the frantic reaching of a seedling to find stability and sustenance. In maturity, there is strength to replace the fragile vulnerability of a new life. If we are shaken, or even broken by the storm, we recover. We continue to grow. And if we die, it is never in vain, for death bears us from our temporal world into an eternal one.

Lord willing, we all will reach for maturity in Him, and provide comfort and protection for the young believers among us who are reaching and crying out to be rooted and nourished. St. Paul, a man well aware of his weaknesses and failures, came to the end of his life with peaceful strength that allowed him to stand before the Emperor Nero and face his execution. He, a mighty oak of the faith, was cut down, but in his death fed the flames of the Holy Spirit that allowed the gospel to reach the ends of the earth. He, a self-acknowledged sinner, stood confidently before the throne of grace, certain that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ, and taught us to embrace the same confidence, no matter what thorn we wrestle with in our own lives.

"...he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."

Truly Present

2008-06-23T03:01:00.002-04:00

As I write this, I have just come home from the chapel where I have a holy hour: a time devoted to adoration of Christ in the Eucharist. I have the opportunity to reflect on how truly present he is there: body and blood, soul and divinity, the invisible and eternal made visible. And then I wonder: the Lord of heaven and earth has made himself truly present here for my sake. Do I have the courage to be truly present for His? Am I truly there, opening myself to Him to be drawn deeper into the mystery of salvation? What a challenge! For to be truly present in this mystery requires a sacrifice. Just as in ancient times, when blood sacrifice was required to enter into the presence of God, truly entering into this presence requires a sacrifice of self. It is not enough to pray for wisdom; I have to sacrifice my will to walk in the way of truth. It is not enough to ask for strength; I have to sacrifice my pride and allow his strength to be made perfect in me. It is not enough to ask for courage; I have to sacrifice my anxiety and allow the peace beyond understanding to take hold. It is not enough to acknowledge Him in joy; I have to bring forth a sacrifice of praise in all things.

And so I ask for courage and strength and wisdom to acknowledge Him wherever he is truly present. Tonight, it was in the Eucharist, but tomorrow I will have opportunity to recognize His presence in other places. Lord, grant me the grace to see! In the eyes of my family, in the work of my hands, in the words of my mouth, in the meditations of my heart -- He is there! He will be truly present, for to be otherwise would be to deny His very nature. I pray simply that I may be truly present there as well, and honor Him with the gifts He has given me.

Gratitude!

2008-06-13T09:57:00.003-04:00

It may seem such a simple thing, but it is something I have always had to work at. The Birthday Elf almost took back my third birthday because I wouldn't tell my Aunt Joy "thank you" for the present she brought. Stubborn little turkey, I was.

And so it remains! "Thank you" is common enough to my lips now-- it is common courtesy. But in the deeper places, I forget to be grateful for the imperfect. I forget the abiding truth that I know in quiet moments: gratitude can completely reshape frustration. And since life is rarely perfect (and often frustrating), I have to consciously remind myself of all the beautiful blessings in my world.

Life with a busy family sometimes feels like an exercise in futility. Do to be undone, speak to be unheard, remain steadfast and calm in the face of unrest and distraction. It goes to the heart of my greatest weaknesses. Some days I work myself ragged, some days I am guilty of being less than diligent, and somehow it always comes out the same: imperfect. I see "imperfect," equate it to "unworthy," and fall prey to discouragement. But in His mercy, the word of God bubbles to the surface of my mind: "For the creation was subjected to frustration (NAB uses "futility"), not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who created it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God." (Romans 8:20-21) His hand is here! The question is, what do I do with the frustration?

Frustration is to be stewarded, just like any other gift. It can break me or purify me. In it is opportunity to either bless or curse, to be driven by anger or driven by reason, to be paralyzed in fear or to move forward in faith, to wait in the darkness or light a torch (see Isaiah 50:10-11). Whether I chose God's way or my own, the difference is often gratitude. Gratitude allows me to submit my efforts to all-sufficient grace, and see not imperfect fruit, but fruit not yet perfected.

In the moment

2008-06-09T08:32:00.008-04:00

(May 31, 2008)

I don't generally consider myself unaware. Some people around me may disagree, but what can be perceived as a lack of awareness is more correctly divided awareness. Five children, a home music studio, and a husband constantly on the go often take me in more directions than I can begin to process efficiently. But in the midst of a bustling household, there are rare moments -- usually away from the routine and demands of home, when my awareness comes together. All of the energy that is usually directed to the most immediately pressing issues comes together with the various other trains of thought that I might be sustaining at any given moment, and they simply resolve into a single, undiverted moment of acute awareness that is marked by its complete effortlessness.

Last night was one of those moments. We were at a concert. There had been threats of severe weather all day, but it had held off to that point. I was standing on the lawn at the ampitheater, listening to the haunting blues floating out over the crowd. The sky was gray, and there were white thunderclouds silhouetted against it in the fading light. There was lightening all around us providing a spectacular light show, and the winds were whipping around us. As I stood there, eyes closed against the monitors at the top of the pavilion, I was suddenly startled at just how many things I was immediately aware of, but my attention was not on anything but the music. I was aware of the wind, of the lightening penetrating my eyelids, my hair on my bare shoulders, the vague notion of people around me talking, laughing, dancing. I was aware of the sweet, smoky aroma of clove cigarettes, the drier, ashier odor of tobacco, and the occasional earthy whisper of marijuana. It was all there, all at the forefront of my awareness, but my participation was effortless -- almost ethereal.

I was almost immediately struck by a pang of guilt. When was the last time I felt so free, so relaxed, and so completely present in the reality around me? Was it with my family? At prayer? In Mass or adoration? I froze. But then a peaceful whisper rose to my consciousness. Is God not in the grass beneath my feet? Is He not in the winds tossing my hair against my shoulders? Is He not in the lightening streaking above me, and in the looming clouds ignited by it? Is not every person around me sustained by His love alone, just as surely as I am? Am I not bobbing my head in response to the steady heartbeat of a bass drum -- a heartbeat that mimics my own?

The day will come when my children will no longer be with me at Mass every week. My waking hours will no longer be filled with their immediate needs. The day will come, I hope, when I no longer have to spend so much time and energy on the basic daily functions of our home, and perhaps I will have learned, at least a little better, to be anxious for nothing. Then perhaps I will be able to slip into effortless awareness of the perfect reality I enter at Mass. Perhaps I will be able to to immediately contemplate and realize the presence of Christ when I enter the chapel for adoration, without the time it takes to shed the distractions I bring with me now. Then, maybe, those perfect, eternal realities will be at the forefront of my awareness. Perhaps a rosary in my hand, the pages of a prayer book under my fingers, the the kiss of a lace veil against my cheek as I bow my head -- perhaps these will me what draws my senses into an effortless awareness in which I simply am. But for now, I will give thanks. He met me in the reality of that moment, and provided me grace to acknowledge him in the wind, in the lightening, in the crowd, and in the lull of a heartbeat sustained by love alone.

Holding out for 31

2008-06-07T08:27:00.001-04:00

We rate so many things numerically -- "on a scale of 1 - 10," "100% sure," "We're #1!," and we all want to achieve perfection -- to be a 10.

But I am challenged -- and resolved -- to hold out for a perfect 31.

A noble 31.
A frugal 31.
A diligent 31.
A generous 31.
A charitable 31.
A well-clothed (in strength and dignity) 31.
A wise and faithful 31.

A crown of honor to the husband I love, and a faithful steward of our children, raising them in the discipline and fear of the Lord.

This is the desire of my heart: To be a perfect 31!
But I will pray for grace to strive, and courage to accept and be at peace when I fail.

Lord give me courage to be afraid, strength to be weak, and humility to be bold before the throne of grace.

And then the red sock...

2008-06-04T22:28:00.001-04:00

Well, actually it was red sleeves on an otherwise light blue baby shirt. But the result was the same. In the 20 years or so since laundry became "my job," I have never turned a load of lights pink. Until that day. And that day, it was the final straw. And so I cried. I didn't tear up. I didn't sniff and dab at the corners of my eyes. I sobbed. I sobbed until I was almost sick. I sobbed until my throat muscles ached from exertion. I sobbed until my eyes swelled and stung from tears. I sobbed until I was utterly wrung out -- exhausted.

And then I stopped, and (in my accustomed fashion) began to hyper-analyze what exactly about a load of pink laundry (which, by the way, came clean on a second wash) could send me spiraling into hysteria. So now, almost six months later, I'm looking back -- and forward. I'm seeking God for the order so desperately lacking in my life. And maybe, as I sit here reflecting in these ridiculous hours of the morning, I can share the journey. Why was I there? Why am I here?

The sun will rise and I will face a new day. I pray I will steward it well, but also to submit my shortfall to perfectly sufficient grace.