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Monday, October 17, 2016
when God gives too much
I told God this morning that He has given me too much.
That it is all just too much.
And make no mistake. This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.
YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.
And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?
Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.
I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."
And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything besides "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.
But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.
I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.
Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.
I am the daughter that runs to her father quick to accuse, because deep down, she knows he is the only one who supply the comfort she needs.
I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless. She knows he can take it, and that he will never leave.
I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.
Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself.
Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."
Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need. Amen.
That it is all just too much.
And make no mistake. This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.
YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.
And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?
Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.
I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."
And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything besides "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.
But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.
I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.
Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.
I am the daughter that runs to her father quick to accuse, because deep down, she knows he is the only one who supply the comfort she needs.
I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless. She knows he can take it, and that he will never leave.
I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.
Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself.
Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."
Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need. Amen.
when God gives too much
I told God this morning that He has given me too much.
That it is all just too much.
And make no mistake. This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.
YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.
And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?
Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.
I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."
And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything because "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.
But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.
I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.
Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.
I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless.
I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.
Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself?
Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."
Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need.
That it is all just too much.
And make no mistake. This was not a prayer of praise. I was not thanking God and praising Him for the air in my lungs, the sight in my eyes, or the gifts He has given only to me. This was a prayer of pissed off and doubt.
YOU have given me too much.
As in YOU made a mistake.
YOU clearly have no idea what you are doing.
You have got the wrong person in mind for all of this stuff you have given me.
And you know what set me off into this prayer of anger?
The power went out.
As I was blow drying my hair.
Yup.
It always comes down to our hair, doesn't it ladies?
Or our thighs.
Or our husbands.
Or our children.
Or our house.
Or our crappy furniture.
Or the piles of papers to be filed.
Or the bills.
Or the calendar of appointments.
Or the kid in trouble.
Or the other kid in real trouble.
Or the loneliness.
Or the hollowness.
The emptiness.
The drowning
The draught.
The noise.
The clock.
The time.
The fear.
The hard truth you can not stand to acknowledge.
The desire to not do His will because that work is painful and the narrow gate hurts.
I sat on my floor with wet hair and said out loud to God,
"You have given me too much."
And then Jay called. From Eversource.
He called to tell me I was the only house in my area that reported an outage.
In fact, I was the only one in CT that had reported an outage.
And most likely, the only woman yelling back at an automated voice---"I am missing Mass!!!! My hair is wet!!!!" (which, FYI, the computer does not understand anything because "yes" or "no"...and takes you back to the beginning of the recording every time you yell, "Are you kidding me!???")
And could it be...that maybe...I just blew a fuse?
I assured him that every light was off and the power in the entire house was off and then I told Jay about my hair..and that I was missing Mass...and that probably, my whole life sucks now because of this.
But then I noticed.
The other lights were on.
And the digital clocks too.
I do not know for sure what happened, other than my chord was pulled, I was yanked to the floor, and I was reminded of where my true power source comes from.
And although my prayer to God was not the nicest...at least, I acknowledged Him.
Like the child who comes at the parent with complaint and argument when truthfully, the reason for their discomfort has nothing to do with the parent, but rather their own poor choice, so I come to Jesus.
I come to Him gratefully and I come to Him ungratefully, but regardless of the how, is this...I come to Him.
When I am undone, when I am buried, when I am powerless.
I turn to Him.
And he turns the power back on, just enough to get me standing, plenty to go about my day.
Maybe my problem is not about being given too much to do.
Maybe my problem is about taking on more than God asks of me.
Maybe my problem is in perfection and crossing off lists and getting everything right.
Maybe God does't expect half of what I expect of myself?
Father Dave Pivonka says, "Purgatory is full of people who did more than God asked of them."
Please Lord- open my eyes to what YOU want from me today...give me just enough...time..patience..work...keep me plugged into you, my true source of energy, the power I need.
Friday, October 14, 2016
open your eyes and fly
I woke up to a blindside.
My Friday all alone, to get work done, and clean the house, and maybe...just maybe...do some writing...took a fast turn.
Two kids home from school for reasons one might consider medical, if they knew nothing about medicine...
two unruly dogs who like to bite my leg while I work...
and two birds that flew straight into my sliding glass door.
Which wasn't even clean.
These birds?
They completely derailed the day.
Because now I had birds to care for.
Two of them.
With a zip lock baggie over my hand and a large leaf in the other, I gently guided them into a Nike shoe box.
The dogs stood on the other side of the glass, licking their lips and wagging their tails.
A perfect target for a hungry beast- the lame, the paralyzed, the hurting, the too frightened to make a move.
And so I carefully carried the shoe box into my laundry room, and set them on top of the dryer.
I sprinkled bird food at their feet and held up sunflower seeds to their tiny beaks. Beaks, that up close, truly looked like they could poke my eye out at any given moment.
One bird managed to stand, but kept his eyes shut.
The other stayed on his side, until finally, was able to prop himself up on his skinny sticks for legs.
I talked to them.
I took their pictures.
I promised they would be ok.
Then I screamed.
Because one started to fly and I knew it was going straight for my eye.
It landed on my door.
The other flew out of the box and landed on a laundry bag.
Two kids home.
Two dogs barking.
And now two birds flying...in my house.
And how does this end?
Well.
In their own time, they flew away to a nearby tree.
But it was the hour before they flew that amazed me.
These birds barely moved.
Were they stunned by the hit?
Were they afraid of me, their rescuer?
Were they injured?
Were they confused?
I kept careful watch....checking on them every now and then.
I knew they were vulnerable, and that the one...his eyes...they were still shut...and I know all too well what can happen when you are vulnerable with eyes closed:
the hungry beast comes to devour.
I remember being motionless.
Sitting on my bathroom floor.
Stunned.
Afraid.
Injured.
And confused.
The perfect target for the evil one.
And it was in that place that I was taught a very hard, but very important lesson.
It was in that place that I heard His voice.
Be still.
Just be still.
Feel your sadness.
Feel your pain.
Do not run from it.
Rest in it.
I have come to save you.
And I promise. I won't poke your eyes out.
Ok.
I didn't hear that.
But truth be told, I was given new eyes.
So maybe He did poke my eyes out, to make way for the new ones.
But the birds.
And the lesson I was reminded of.
No matter how hard the hit, we will fly again.
Clipped wings grow stronger.
We soar like never before.
We open our eyes.
We open our eyes and we fly.
My Friday all alone, to get work done, and clean the house, and maybe...just maybe...do some writing...took a fast turn.
Two kids home from school for reasons one might consider medical, if they knew nothing about medicine...
two unruly dogs who like to bite my leg while I work...
and two birds that flew straight into my sliding glass door.
Which wasn't even clean.
These birds?
They completely derailed the day.
Because now I had birds to care for.
Two of them.
With a zip lock baggie over my hand and a large leaf in the other, I gently guided them into a Nike shoe box.
The dogs stood on the other side of the glass, licking their lips and wagging their tails.
A perfect target for a hungry beast- the lame, the paralyzed, the hurting, the too frightened to make a move.
And so I carefully carried the shoe box into my laundry room, and set them on top of the dryer.
I sprinkled bird food at their feet and held up sunflower seeds to their tiny beaks. Beaks, that up close, truly looked like they could poke my eye out at any given moment.
One bird managed to stand, but kept his eyes shut.
The other stayed on his side, until finally, was able to prop himself up on his skinny sticks for legs.
I talked to them.
I took their pictures.
I promised they would be ok.
Then I screamed.
Because one started to fly and I knew it was going straight for my eye.
It landed on my door.
The other flew out of the box and landed on a laundry bag.
Two kids home.
Two dogs barking.
And now two birds flying...in my house.
And how does this end?
Well.
In their own time, they flew away to a nearby tree.
But it was the hour before they flew that amazed me.
These birds barely moved.
Were they stunned by the hit?
Were they afraid of me, their rescuer?
Were they injured?
Were they confused?
I kept careful watch....checking on them every now and then.
I knew they were vulnerable, and that the one...his eyes...they were still shut...and I know all too well what can happen when you are vulnerable with eyes closed:
the hungry beast comes to devour.
I remember being motionless.
Sitting on my bathroom floor.
Stunned.
Afraid.
Injured.
And confused.
The perfect target for the evil one.
And it was in that place that I was taught a very hard, but very important lesson.
It was in that place that I heard His voice.
Be still.
Just be still.
Feel your sadness.
Feel your pain.
Do not run from it.
Rest in it.
I have come to save you.
And I promise. I won't poke your eyes out.
Ok.
I didn't hear that.
But truth be told, I was given new eyes.
So maybe He did poke my eyes out, to make way for the new ones.
But the birds.
And the lesson I was reminded of.
No matter how hard the hit, we will fly again.
Clipped wings grow stronger.
We soar like never before.
We open our eyes.
We open our eyes and we fly.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
why I cry in church
Lately, I come to Mass, look at the crucifix, and immediately start to cry. Until I sit and gaze upon His suffering, I have no idea how much I am wading in my own suffering- how I have managed to walk through this morning routine joyfully and graciously- all the while, deep down, there is this aching howl dying to get out- to scream to the world. And it feels like walking in through the front door of your home after a long, awful day, dropping your heavy briefcase and falling into bed. It's that kind of falling down and weeping-not because you feel sorrow-but mostly because you feel comfort-the kind of comfort when you share that most hideous thing you are carrying and someone looks at you lovingly and says, "me too, I feel that too, I get it." This is why I cry at the foot of the cross. Because this is where my suffering meets Jesus' suffering. This is where I am understood. This is where my sorrow takes on great purpose. And I am not drowning, but wading. Wading in the waters that will not cover my head, and even so, if they do, He will breathe for me.
Just yesterday we stood in our circle in front of the church as we do, and we comforted a friend who is steeped in her sorrow. And I shared, in the oh so eloquent way that I do, "You know, it is not that I enjoy suffering, but He is never more present than when things suck."
And so I am at long last learning to embrace these rocky roads when I find my feet stumbling upon them, and to ask him to take in the air for me should the waves cover my head, and then I walk into church and I fall to my knees and I joyfully allow the dam to break and the river of tears to flow, because there is no greater comfort than sharing in His pain, then knowing He cares. And it is here on my knees where His mercy calls out; this place of profound love, where sorrow mingles with joy, and His wounds shelter me from the storm.
Just yesterday we stood in our circle in front of the church as we do, and we comforted a friend who is steeped in her sorrow. And I shared, in the oh so eloquent way that I do, "You know, it is not that I enjoy suffering, but He is never more present than when things suck."
And so I am at long last learning to embrace these rocky roads when I find my feet stumbling upon them, and to ask him to take in the air for me should the waves cover my head, and then I walk into church and I fall to my knees and I joyfully allow the dam to break and the river of tears to flow, because there is no greater comfort than sharing in His pain, then knowing He cares. And it is here on my knees where His mercy calls out; this place of profound love, where sorrow mingles with joy, and His wounds shelter me from the storm.
Friday, September 16, 2016
eye contact
My chow - labrador mix, that I was told "does't have much lab in her", is unruly. And so we paid a nice man $175 to help train her. After the 2 hours we were told that he can come to our home three times a week for coaching, or, for $2200, he could take our unruly dog home with him for two weeks, for in residence training. For that kind of time and money, I would prefer to give him my teenagers.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
eye contact
My chow - labrador mix, that I was told "does't have much lab in her", is unruly. And so we paid a nice man $175 to help train her. After the 2 hours we were told that he can come to our home three times a week for coaching, or, for $2200, he could take our unruly dog home with him for two weeks, for in residence training. For that kind of time and money, I would prefer to give him my teenagers.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time to be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears, wrinkles, and blurry vision to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
eye contact
My chow - labrador mix, that I was told "does't have much lab in her", is unruly. And so we paid a nice man $175 to help train her. After the 2 hours we were told that he can come to our home three times a week for coaching, or, for $2200, he could take our unruly dog home with him for two weeks, for in residence training. For that kind of time and money, I would prefer to give him my teenagers.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
"It is important that when your dog obeys, you make that eye contact. See how she looks up at you? You want that."
People, let alone my dog, do not make much eye contact.
We are looking at our phones, as if to say, "I have someone better to look at than you."
We have conversations that are shouted from room to room, we yell up and down staircases, we text and we text some more.
We really don't look at one another anymore.
Rarely do we make that effort to walk, step or physically move.
If the eye is the mirror to the soul, what does this say about our relationships? With our spouses? Our children? Does being in the same room, or under the same roof, mean that we are connected? If we do not take the time be face to face, with full concentration on the one in front of us, how can we truly know how they are? Who they are? Who we we are? How do we determine the condition of a soul we are too busy to see?
Kids do not like to sit and look at their parents.
We are stupid.
We are boring.
We are annoying.
We are losers.
Sometimes they hate us.
And we have nothing wise to say. Ever.
Their eyes are everywhere, but looking into ours.
Lord only knows what they see.
They are always moving away, pulling, and reaching for anything but what we want to offer them.
And maybe there is something to hide-- after all, we look away when we are not truthful. Sin thrives in the dark.
Or maybe I need to let go of my overly, anxious imagination, and trust more.
But whatever the case, I still want to really see them.
Because I know that if we stare at each other long enough, the eyes will overflow.
They will let me know what hurts.
They will see mommy again...they will remember to whom they belong.
And like the good shepherd, I long to bring my scattered home, to hold my lamb in my arms, to wipe away every single tear.
I have not been to Adoration in a while.
And I think I need it.
That face to face time.
That chance to look into each others eyes.
Our eyes say it all. They tell the whole story. We have the tears to prove it.
No words are even needed.
Just a gaze.
And yet, if I am being truthful...I am afraid to look.
What if I do not like what I see?
What if I can not handle what it is I am freely choosing to not notice?
What if what God has in store for me is so much pain, so much suffering, that once I look, there is no going back?
And so I have been praying a prayer, Complete Trust in God, by Francis de Sales, whose last lines are, "Either He will shield you from suffering or He will give you unfailing strength to bear it. Be at peace then, and put aside all useless thoughts, all vain dreads, and all anxious imaginations."
My dog is still unruly.
But when we walk now, I take that moment to tell her to heel, to sit, and then I look for her eyes.
And in that brief moment, she stops pulling and reaching, she settles into the quiet, she knows I am there.
Monday, August 8, 2016
back up
When my children were tiny babies, I was terrified to cut their finger nails. Absolutely terrified. Now, 17 years later, I am riding in the passenger seat of my mini van, with my teenage son at the wheel. And let me just say, that I would feel less anxiety if you were to blindfold me, force me to do a shot of tequila, hand me ten newborn babies, and a rusty nail clipper, and say, "clip away!"
Nobody tells you about this when you are thinking about having children.
The loss of control, the absolute fear for their safety, how the fragility of their life can paralyze you.
You do not hear about it.
And the thing is, my kid is a good driver. Confident, and careful. But still. Sitting there next to him, I have found more places in that mini van to hang onto, and have hit that imaginary brake more times than you can count. I will not even answer my phone, for fear of distracting him. Of course, when I yell, "Slow down!" grabbing the ceiling and stretching my legs out like I am about to stop us from hitting a brick wall with my incredible legs of steel, I end up completely panicking him; I become his worst distraction of all.
I am not good at this.
I have seen more teens on the side of the road, next to their smashed up car, speaking into their cell phone (calling mom and dad, no doubt) and I want to throw up. Really. I want to pull over, take their phone, say, "I see your kid in front of me and they are FINE" but excuse me now, because I am going to throw up."
They look like babies to me. I remember sitting in Drivers Ed class with my son, looking at the young faces around me and thinking, "I do not want to be on the road with any of you!"
But time moves on and kids grow up and like it or not, it is their turn to drive.
There is no imaginary brake.
I do not have legs of steel.
I can throw up all I want.
It changes nothing.
Well, I'd be really skinny, I suppose.
But as far as the kids are concerned, it changes nothing.
Like it or not, they are ready to hit the road.
Actually, ready or not...they are going to hit the road.
It's funny, as a "former mommy blogger", to look back on those posts that really defined my life at that time. The diapers, the women at the park with the dirty looks, the kitchen messes, the long days that had no naps, the isolation, the feeling fat, wondering what my purpose was, wondering if I was good enough. At the time, life was so hard. And yet, at the end of the day, I put my baby in pjs, that most likely had feet and an adorable animal print, rocked them and kissed them, and put them safely in bed. A bed with bars. And a tent. They could not get out.
Why don't we make beds like this for teenagers?
I decided a few weeks ago that I needed back up.
Because I can not get my teens to sleep in a crib.
Because I can not prevent them from getting in a car and driving away.
And because if I start throwing up on the side of the road, people will begin to talk about me.
And so now, when that worry starts to build up...when my mind starts to go in all the wrong, dark places that the devil hopes it will go, I call on back up.
I put together a team.
A team of Saints.
My own Super hero squad, if you will.
When the tears are too much and the anxiety sky high, I call out to them.
I give them my children.
Saint Sebastian, Saint Monica, Saint Augustine, Saint Therese, Saint Michael, Saint Paul, Saint Peter, Saint Joseph...blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati...these are just some of the ones I call on. And of course, they are all lead by their Guardian Angels and our beautiful blessed Mother Mary.
And the best part?
They always show up.
And my teenagers? They may not know it, but they are there..and they are guiding them, and they are whispering to their hearts.
They think that I have finally left them alone.
They think I am no longer pushing my ideas and my ways and my crazy Jesus talk in their faces...
but they are wrong.
I could not be any more present.
A mother who prays is a serious weapon.
You see, we have this cloud of witnesses.
They surround us.
They have shown us how to run the race. (Heb 12:1)
And our kids?
They are running a race that is faster, and more dangerous than the race you and I ran.
Their stress is higher, the world is louder, and we need to fight hard to get their attention.
We need back up!
How stupid am I to have been trying, all of these years, to help my children by my own strength?
My son takes his drivers test this week.
Most likely, he will have his drivers license by Friday.
I have asked my husband to take him, because I am too afraid.
But I can rest in peace at home, knowing that he does not ever go out on the road, or into this world, alone.
I will see to it that his car is filled.
He will be surrounded.
And no matter what.
No matter what bumps he hits and unfamiliar roads he takes.
No matter how many accidents, how many dents, how fast he goes or how lost he gets.
No matter who he drives with.
He will have back up.
He will run his race, he will persevere, and by the grace of God, he will finish well.
Nobody tells you about this when you are thinking about having children.
The loss of control, the absolute fear for their safety, how the fragility of their life can paralyze you.
You do not hear about it.
And the thing is, my kid is a good driver. Confident, and careful. But still. Sitting there next to him, I have found more places in that mini van to hang onto, and have hit that imaginary brake more times than you can count. I will not even answer my phone, for fear of distracting him. Of course, when I yell, "Slow down!" grabbing the ceiling and stretching my legs out like I am about to stop us from hitting a brick wall with my incredible legs of steel, I end up completely panicking him; I become his worst distraction of all.
I am not good at this.
I have seen more teens on the side of the road, next to their smashed up car, speaking into their cell phone (calling mom and dad, no doubt) and I want to throw up. Really. I want to pull over, take their phone, say, "I see your kid in front of me and they are FINE" but excuse me now, because I am going to throw up."
They look like babies to me. I remember sitting in Drivers Ed class with my son, looking at the young faces around me and thinking, "I do not want to be on the road with any of you!"
But time moves on and kids grow up and like it or not, it is their turn to drive.
There is no imaginary brake.
I do not have legs of steel.
I can throw up all I want.
It changes nothing.
Well, I'd be really skinny, I suppose.
But as far as the kids are concerned, it changes nothing.
Like it or not, they are ready to hit the road.
Actually, ready or not...they are going to hit the road.
It's funny, as a "former mommy blogger", to look back on those posts that really defined my life at that time. The diapers, the women at the park with the dirty looks, the kitchen messes, the long days that had no naps, the isolation, the feeling fat, wondering what my purpose was, wondering if I was good enough. At the time, life was so hard. And yet, at the end of the day, I put my baby in pjs, that most likely had feet and an adorable animal print, rocked them and kissed them, and put them safely in bed. A bed with bars. And a tent. They could not get out.
Why don't we make beds like this for teenagers?
I decided a few weeks ago that I needed back up.
Because I can not get my teens to sleep in a crib.
Because I can not prevent them from getting in a car and driving away.
And because if I start throwing up on the side of the road, people will begin to talk about me.
And so now, when that worry starts to build up...when my mind starts to go in all the wrong, dark places that the devil hopes it will go, I call on back up.
I put together a team.
A team of Saints.
My own Super hero squad, if you will.
When the tears are too much and the anxiety sky high, I call out to them.
I give them my children.
Saint Sebastian, Saint Monica, Saint Augustine, Saint Therese, Saint Michael, Saint Paul, Saint Peter, Saint Joseph...blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati...these are just some of the ones I call on. And of course, they are all lead by their Guardian Angels and our beautiful blessed Mother Mary.
And the best part?
They always show up.
And my teenagers? They may not know it, but they are there..and they are guiding them, and they are whispering to their hearts.
They think that I have finally left them alone.
They think I am no longer pushing my ideas and my ways and my crazy Jesus talk in their faces...
but they are wrong.
I could not be any more present.
A mother who prays is a serious weapon.
You see, we have this cloud of witnesses.
They surround us.
They have shown us how to run the race. (Heb 12:1)
And our kids?
They are running a race that is faster, and more dangerous than the race you and I ran.
Their stress is higher, the world is louder, and we need to fight hard to get their attention.
We need back up!
How stupid am I to have been trying, all of these years, to help my children by my own strength?
My son takes his drivers test this week.
Most likely, he will have his drivers license by Friday.
I have asked my husband to take him, because I am too afraid.
But I can rest in peace at home, knowing that he does not ever go out on the road, or into this world, alone.
I will see to it that his car is filled.
He will be surrounded.
And no matter what.
No matter what bumps he hits and unfamiliar roads he takes.
No matter how many accidents, how many dents, how fast he goes or how lost he gets.
No matter who he drives with.
He will have back up.
He will run his race, he will persevere, and by the grace of God, he will finish well.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
a lot of broken
When his flip flop came off, and he could't brake, and he flew off of his scooter, flipped in the air, and fell smack on the hard pavement, you would think my first thought would be, "Are you okay?"
You would think.
My first thought?
"Why didn't you listen to me!!!????"
Because he didn't, you know.
I told him, more than once, "Do not ride your scooter in flip flops, you can get hurt."
He broke his collar bone that day he didn't listen to me.
It could have been worse.
I could have not insisted on the helmet.
There could have been a car.
He has lots of bones. They could have all broken.
I have spent a lot of time in waiting rooms this summer.
At the orthopedic.
At the pediatrician. Camp physicals and swimmers ear.
At the children's trauma clinic, our latest attempt at effective therapy for PTSD.
I have witnessed a lot of broken.
And I am sure that my reaction to my son flying in mid air, is not unlike God's, as He looks down on this broken world. As He looks down on me. Too stubborn to listen. Too caught up in myself to do what he says. How often have I put myself in danger, gotten into trouble, flown and flipped with no self control, only to land smack on the ground, broken and bruised? How many times does God, our Father who knows best, shout at us, "Why didn't you listen to me?"
But I have witnessed a broken much deeper these days.
And that broken?
That kind of broken requires more than the orthopedic or pediatrician.
That kind of broken?
That kind of broken is screaming for a much deeper healing.
Our weekly appointment at the trauma clinic was changed yesterday, from early evening our usual time, to mid afternoon. The evenings are quiet. We are the only ones there. To be honest, I always found it to be a little strange and wondered if our clinician was there all day, all alone. It made me kind of sad, to tell the truth. But yesterday, mid day, the waiting room took on a whole new picture.
Children.
Filled with children.
Now, the room is small and depressing, with tattered books and used blocks and a plastic table and chair in desperate need of a lysol wipe.
In fact, I had been so struck by the lack of friendly decor and inviting toys, that I took it upon myself a few weeks ago to clear off our own book shelves and donate them to the metal shelf that stood by the wall. And so when I say "filled with children", truly, there were only about four.
We are at the children's trauma clinic, however.
And so four?
Four is just about four too many.
And I dare you to sit in that room with those four and not wonder, "What happened to you, sweet child?"
I dare you to sit in that room of four and not want to hold them and whisper, "Are you okay?"
On an old cell phone, an exhausted woman with torn shoes, and a large styrofoam cup, spoke, "I am the foster mom...checking in...yes...it has been wild...out of control..."
And then a vibrant young female clinician bounced in, oohing and aahhhing over her waiting client, in a black dress with floral print, and her hair in curls. "You look so pretty today! You better go for a walk at the mall or something looking so good!" And the girl, arms wrapped around her tight, as if she was holding herself together, literally...holding her pieces together...just rocked back and forth, back and forth. She gave a half smile.
I sat with my raspberry and lime seltzer and Magnificat.
My husband with his greek yogurt and laptop.
And all I could think was, "Dear God, how did we get here?"
But here we are.
Because sometimes our broken pieces are not a result of our own stupidity.
Sometimes our broken pieces are the result of something we never had any control over.
And because blows to our bones and knives to our hearts are not just for the the poor, the ones with bad judgement, the people who live over there, the prostitute or tax collector. Suffering comes no matter your race, religion, or sexual preference.
And it has come to us.
Us, with the raspberry lime seltzer and greek yogurt.
And I would really do much help to myself if I could stop wondering how and why, and simply accept and look for the grace.
Because my son...he is there with us...we are here for him...and the fact that we are here, alive...that, my friends, is grace upon grace.
And you know, when I saw the x ray of my sons collar bone...how severely broken, how disjointed, how unnatural it looked...it made me sick. To see the pain, to see the fracture...it was almost too much. That x ray? It looked just like the children's trauma clinic waiting room. You could see the broken, you could see how wrong...and as much as you hated to look at it, you could't help but stare.
As I looked up from my Magnificat, I noticed a young boy, in his batman shirt and bandana on his head, reach for a super hero book off of the dirty metal shelf, sit down, and begin to read. It was a book I had brought from my home. And while I do not know what is broken in that young batman, it brought some light to my heart to see...to see that out of my own brokenness, I was able to share a moment of joy and possible escape with another. As I told a friend just days ago, "without my own suffering, how could I have compassion for another?"
And I thought about leaving my Magnificat on that metal shelf.
Because the grace I have been soaked in is the truth that no matter how great these clinicians are (and they are G R E A T), without knowing and accepting the comfort of our one true healer, our broken pieces do not stand a chance. Until we invite Christ into our wounds, (and by the way, He is already there) we remain fractured and torn, reaching for books on super heroes, hoping for the cure, longing to have our bones fill up the gap and fix what is so wrong.
My son's collar bone is healing.
We saw the new x ray.
And it was disappointing, at first, because to us, it looked no different.
But to the Dr? He was pleased.
"Look here...you can see right there..the bone is filling in...that gap is closing...he will be just fine."
You would think.
My first thought?
"Why didn't you listen to me!!!????"
Because he didn't, you know.
I told him, more than once, "Do not ride your scooter in flip flops, you can get hurt."
He broke his collar bone that day he didn't listen to me.
It could have been worse.
I could have not insisted on the helmet.
There could have been a car.
He has lots of bones. They could have all broken.
I have spent a lot of time in waiting rooms this summer.
At the orthopedic.
At the pediatrician. Camp physicals and swimmers ear.
At the children's trauma clinic, our latest attempt at effective therapy for PTSD.
I have witnessed a lot of broken.
And I am sure that my reaction to my son flying in mid air, is not unlike God's, as He looks down on this broken world. As He looks down on me. Too stubborn to listen. Too caught up in myself to do what he says. How often have I put myself in danger, gotten into trouble, flown and flipped with no self control, only to land smack on the ground, broken and bruised? How many times does God, our Father who knows best, shout at us, "Why didn't you listen to me?"
But I have witnessed a broken much deeper these days.
And that broken?
That kind of broken requires more than the orthopedic or pediatrician.
That kind of broken?
That kind of broken is screaming for a much deeper healing.
Our weekly appointment at the trauma clinic was changed yesterday, from early evening our usual time, to mid afternoon. The evenings are quiet. We are the only ones there. To be honest, I always found it to be a little strange and wondered if our clinician was there all day, all alone. It made me kind of sad, to tell the truth. But yesterday, mid day, the waiting room took on a whole new picture.
Children.
Filled with children.
Now, the room is small and depressing, with tattered books and used blocks and a plastic table and chair in desperate need of a lysol wipe.
In fact, I had been so struck by the lack of friendly decor and inviting toys, that I took it upon myself a few weeks ago to clear off our own book shelves and donate them to the metal shelf that stood by the wall. And so when I say "filled with children", truly, there were only about four.
We are at the children's trauma clinic, however.
And so four?
Four is just about four too many.
And I dare you to sit in that room with those four and not wonder, "What happened to you, sweet child?"
I dare you to sit in that room of four and not want to hold them and whisper, "Are you okay?"
On an old cell phone, an exhausted woman with torn shoes, and a large styrofoam cup, spoke, "I am the foster mom...checking in...yes...it has been wild...out of control..."
And then a vibrant young female clinician bounced in, oohing and aahhhing over her waiting client, in a black dress with floral print, and her hair in curls. "You look so pretty today! You better go for a walk at the mall or something looking so good!" And the girl, arms wrapped around her tight, as if she was holding herself together, literally...holding her pieces together...just rocked back and forth, back and forth. She gave a half smile.
I sat with my raspberry and lime seltzer and Magnificat.
My husband with his greek yogurt and laptop.
And all I could think was, "Dear God, how did we get here?"
But here we are.
Because sometimes our broken pieces are not a result of our own stupidity.
Sometimes our broken pieces are the result of something we never had any control over.
And because blows to our bones and knives to our hearts are not just for the the poor, the ones with bad judgement, the people who live over there, the prostitute or tax collector. Suffering comes no matter your race, religion, or sexual preference.
And it has come to us.
Us, with the raspberry lime seltzer and greek yogurt.
And I would really do much help to myself if I could stop wondering how and why, and simply accept and look for the grace.
Because my son...he is there with us...we are here for him...and the fact that we are here, alive...that, my friends, is grace upon grace.
And you know, when I saw the x ray of my sons collar bone...how severely broken, how disjointed, how unnatural it looked...it made me sick. To see the pain, to see the fracture...it was almost too much. That x ray? It looked just like the children's trauma clinic waiting room. You could see the broken, you could see how wrong...and as much as you hated to look at it, you could't help but stare.
As I looked up from my Magnificat, I noticed a young boy, in his batman shirt and bandana on his head, reach for a super hero book off of the dirty metal shelf, sit down, and begin to read. It was a book I had brought from my home. And while I do not know what is broken in that young batman, it brought some light to my heart to see...to see that out of my own brokenness, I was able to share a moment of joy and possible escape with another. As I told a friend just days ago, "without my own suffering, how could I have compassion for another?"
And I thought about leaving my Magnificat on that metal shelf.
Because the grace I have been soaked in is the truth that no matter how great these clinicians are (and they are G R E A T), without knowing and accepting the comfort of our one true healer, our broken pieces do not stand a chance. Until we invite Christ into our wounds, (and by the way, He is already there) we remain fractured and torn, reaching for books on super heroes, hoping for the cure, longing to have our bones fill up the gap and fix what is so wrong.
My son's collar bone is healing.
We saw the new x ray.
And it was disappointing, at first, because to us, it looked no different.
But to the Dr? He was pleased.
"Look here...you can see right there..the bone is filling in...that gap is closing...he will be just fine."
Saturday, June 4, 2016
parking lot friends
I am thinking about Mary today. She must have had a different plan in mind for herself, don't you think? I mean, don't you think that right before that angel appeared she might have had a different dream for herself? For Joseph? Because nobody dreams about the unexpected, the hard, the detour, the stepping out into the unknown. Nobody dreams of embracing fear and losing control and handing everything...I mean everything over to a God you can not even see, and although you love Him and believe in Him...you still...on those really bad days, I am ashamed to say...doubt.
Are you real God, because why... I mean why THIS?
We have all thought that, right?
Please tell me yes, or I will feel badly about myself.
We lost our farmhouse.
It is a long stupid story that involves all sorts of people that need our prayers, but yeah.
We are moving.
Now.
Again.
I can ask why.
I can doubt.
I can cry.
I can think my life is so darn unfair.
And I did.
Just ask the dogs.
They were very concerned about me.
But standing in the church parking lot for an hour with girlfriends who are praying for me...getting texts from across the country from friends who are praying for me...being told "I am on my way up to my room to pray for you right now" from a dear Sister in Christ who I have never met in person...talking about a plan with parents over frozen yogurt who for years have been praying for me...it answers that WHY question, doesn't it?
I mean...prayer...people praying...friends drawing closer to Christ in the hopes that I am drawn closer to Christ...I mean, good grief, how awesome is that?
No one wants to suffer.
But we all do.
Why suffer??
Because suffering always leads to love.
Always.
Because suffering brings people together, makes hearts stronger, puts everything in its proper order.
Don't argue with me on this. Because I am right.
I mean...why Mary?
Why Jesus?
It is the why that brings me to my knees, and puts beads in my hands.
It is the why that leads me to scripture, to His Word, to the truth I need to hear.
I can sit and stew and dwell in the why, or I can thank God for it, love it, and look at the because...
because you will get thought this..
because Mary had her plans changed, and look at what happened to her...she gave birth to GOD...
because Jesus always provides a way out...
because no trial that comes to me is bigger than I can handle...
because I do not have to worry...because He will fight for me...
because I have this amazing band of women friends, faith filled ladies..who do not just SAY they are praying, but actually ARE praying. And I have my parking lot friends...who for the last two weeks have sat by my side at morning Mass...who have been such a comfort...who have opened my eyes to the blessing they are...and that losing them would be far worse than losing a house...
This move was a blindside and not my plan at all.
But it moved me in more ways that you can ever know...
it moved me to a place of true peace and trust.
It moved me to a deeper love of my friends and family.
It moved me to where I need to be...focused on the others in my life, and not on the things I possess.
I am so blessed.
This farmhouse is cool...no doubt.
But it doesn't move me the way a prayerful husband or girlfriend does.
It doesn't love me the way a woman on her knees praying for me does.
And how did I ever get to this place...to a place where I feel so covered, so protected, so sure of the people that matter in my life?
Why am I so blessed?
Perhaps that is the WHY I should be questioning?
If you do not have a band of faith filled friends, find some.
Then hang out in the parking lot with them.
But pick a well lit parking lot...not a dark creepy one...that is not safe.
Like a church, or a Whole Foods parking lot...and during the daytime.
And if you do not like the change in your life that has blind sighted you, why not embrace it?
Kick and scream and cry first, that is okay and totally normal and acceptable. You can even throw in a bag of chips and salsa and a few glasses of wine...totally cool with that.
But then...stop.
Put the chips down.
Or, if you ate them all, throw the bag away so no one knows what a pathetic mess you are.
And give in to it.
Give in to Him.
Give in to the why.
Picture Mary.
Cry out to her because dang, that woman knows how you feel.
And sister...just trust.
Memorize scripture.
Marinate in His Word.
Why?
Because.
God knows what He is doing.
He is the writer of your story, so just go along with it.
Don't ask why...just lean into the because.
And then...give thanks.
Thank you God for a beautiful year in a beautiful home, but most of all, for my parking lot friends, who carried me through this mess of a chapter, and who will be by my side, preferably with glasses of wine in hand, poolside, in the pages yet to come.
Are you real God, because why... I mean why THIS?
We have all thought that, right?
Please tell me yes, or I will feel badly about myself.
We lost our farmhouse.
It is a long stupid story that involves all sorts of people that need our prayers, but yeah.
We are moving.
Now.
Again.
I can ask why.
I can doubt.
I can cry.
I can think my life is so darn unfair.
And I did.
Just ask the dogs.
They were very concerned about me.
But standing in the church parking lot for an hour with girlfriends who are praying for me...getting texts from across the country from friends who are praying for me...being told "I am on my way up to my room to pray for you right now" from a dear Sister in Christ who I have never met in person...talking about a plan with parents over frozen yogurt who for years have been praying for me...it answers that WHY question, doesn't it?
I mean...prayer...people praying...friends drawing closer to Christ in the hopes that I am drawn closer to Christ...I mean, good grief, how awesome is that?
No one wants to suffer.
But we all do.
Why suffer??
Because suffering always leads to love.
Always.
Because suffering brings people together, makes hearts stronger, puts everything in its proper order.
Don't argue with me on this. Because I am right.
I mean...why Mary?
Why Jesus?
It is the why that brings me to my knees, and puts beads in my hands.
It is the why that leads me to scripture, to His Word, to the truth I need to hear.
I can sit and stew and dwell in the why, or I can thank God for it, love it, and look at the because...
because you will get thought this..
because Mary had her plans changed, and look at what happened to her...she gave birth to GOD...
because Jesus always provides a way out...
because no trial that comes to me is bigger than I can handle...
because I do not have to worry...because He will fight for me...
because I have this amazing band of women friends, faith filled ladies..who do not just SAY they are praying, but actually ARE praying. And I have my parking lot friends...who for the last two weeks have sat by my side at morning Mass...who have been such a comfort...who have opened my eyes to the blessing they are...and that losing them would be far worse than losing a house...
This move was a blindside and not my plan at all.
But it moved me in more ways that you can ever know...
it moved me to a place of true peace and trust.
It moved me to a deeper love of my friends and family.
It moved me to where I need to be...focused on the others in my life, and not on the things I possess.
I am so blessed.
This farmhouse is cool...no doubt.
But it doesn't move me the way a prayerful husband or girlfriend does.
It doesn't love me the way a woman on her knees praying for me does.
And how did I ever get to this place...to a place where I feel so covered, so protected, so sure of the people that matter in my life?
Why am I so blessed?
Perhaps that is the WHY I should be questioning?
If you do not have a band of faith filled friends, find some.
Then hang out in the parking lot with them.
But pick a well lit parking lot...not a dark creepy one...that is not safe.
Like a church, or a Whole Foods parking lot...and during the daytime.
And if you do not like the change in your life that has blind sighted you, why not embrace it?
Kick and scream and cry first, that is okay and totally normal and acceptable. You can even throw in a bag of chips and salsa and a few glasses of wine...totally cool with that.
But then...stop.
Put the chips down.
Or, if you ate them all, throw the bag away so no one knows what a pathetic mess you are.
And give in to it.
Give in to Him.
Give in to the why.
Picture Mary.
Cry out to her because dang, that woman knows how you feel.
And sister...just trust.
Memorize scripture.
Marinate in His Word.
Why?
Because.
God knows what He is doing.
He is the writer of your story, so just go along with it.
Don't ask why...just lean into the because.
And then...give thanks.
Thank you God for a beautiful year in a beautiful home, but most of all, for my parking lot friends, who carried me through this mess of a chapter, and who will be by my side, preferably with glasses of wine in hand, poolside, in the pages yet to come.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
later
Kneeled in front of the tabernacle, with cheeks wet from tears, I had choked on the words that I read, that because in that very moment, I did not believe them. "My soul, give thanks to the Lord, all my being, bless his holy name. My soul, give thanks to the Lord and never forget all his blessings." (Psalm 102: 1-2)
Thanks.
Blessings.
These do not come easy when you feel like you have been thrown into the middle of an enormous mess, paralyzed by fear of the what the next months will hold.
And God is so funny like this you know, because it was just hours earlier that I sat with a couple of Saints, masked as friends, who shared their own mess and doubts, and it was me that preached and encouraged and cheered them on."God works all things for good", "we knew we would have trials", "we have to hope in HIM", and so on and so forth.
It is not all good.
But it is all grace.
And I believe that with my entire heart.
Until I don't.
Until that final thing snaps, and the storm tosses me about, and I feel like my family is being shaken in a snow globe, and I am waiting until we smash to the floor and shatter once and for all.
I know you are a part in this, Satan.
Do not think you have fooled me for one single second.
You can go now.
You are not welcome in my home, or near my children, or in my marriage.
We serve the Lord.
Get lost.
I did not get up early to pray this morning.
I could hear the rain on the roof and my littlest one was snuggled close to me.
I know how my steps wake up the puppy and I did not have it in me to be standing in the rain with a dog.
And so I prayed the rosary while in bed.
It was all that I had in me.
But I gave to God as best as I could.
I assured Satan that he did not win, that my praying in bed was not a victory for him.
And then I finally sat with my coffee and prayers, and God showed me this:
"God is glorified in our realization of our dependence on him for everything." (Magnificat)
I fail to remember that when all feels shattered, and when I doubt. I fail to remember that no matter how bad, I still believe.
I fail to remember that it is not only when I am joyfully speaking or preaching and encouraging that I am glorifying God.
I fail to see that me on my knees, with cheeks wet from tears, shouting at God, "Where are you?" is not a display of my lack of trust, but a testament of how much I do depend on Him in all circumstances.
But it is so hard.
This is when gratitude is essential to survival. This is when prayer has to be constant if we hope to make it to that next breath. This is when wisdom and patience must be begged for through the holy name of Jesus Christ. Because I do not like to wait. Because I fear what is yet to come. Because sitting still and allowing God to fight for me is one of the most awful things I need to do.
"What I am doing, you do not understand now, but you will understand later." (John 13:7)
Later.
No NOW.
Later.
Who likes to hear that?
Certainly not a child.
And certainly not me.
But God also says this. "Do you realize what I have done for you?" (John 13:12) And while my immediate response is "Yes, of course, I know! You gave up your only son so I can have eternal life!"...do I really know??? Can I truly understand??? How can I, a privileged white girl who in comparison to the rest of the world truly wants for nothing...how can I possibly comprehend what he has done for me??"
And I can hear my own voice shouting the same message; to my children, to my community, to my husband. "Do you realize what I have done for you?"
And this stings, in a really good way, because it brings me right back to my knees in a completely shattered dependent mess, and it is here that I come to realize that I glorify God best.
It is here that I let go of me, and turn to HIM.
It is here that I open my tight fists, and hand to Him everything and everyone that matters to me most.
It is here.
Here.
Not later.
Father in heaven, please grant us the wisdom to see your works in our daily lives, to see our suffering as an invitation to grow deeper in love with you, and to give genuine thanks in the "here", as we joyfully await for the promise of "later".
Thanks.
Blessings.
These do not come easy when you feel like you have been thrown into the middle of an enormous mess, paralyzed by fear of the what the next months will hold.
And God is so funny like this you know, because it was just hours earlier that I sat with a couple of Saints, masked as friends, who shared their own mess and doubts, and it was me that preached and encouraged and cheered them on."God works all things for good", "we knew we would have trials", "we have to hope in HIM", and so on and so forth.
It is not all good.
But it is all grace.
And I believe that with my entire heart.
Until I don't.
Until that final thing snaps, and the storm tosses me about, and I feel like my family is being shaken in a snow globe, and I am waiting until we smash to the floor and shatter once and for all.
I know you are a part in this, Satan.
Do not think you have fooled me for one single second.
You can go now.
You are not welcome in my home, or near my children, or in my marriage.
We serve the Lord.
Get lost.
I did not get up early to pray this morning.
I could hear the rain on the roof and my littlest one was snuggled close to me.
I know how my steps wake up the puppy and I did not have it in me to be standing in the rain with a dog.
And so I prayed the rosary while in bed.
It was all that I had in me.
But I gave to God as best as I could.
I assured Satan that he did not win, that my praying in bed was not a victory for him.
And then I finally sat with my coffee and prayers, and God showed me this:
"God is glorified in our realization of our dependence on him for everything." (Magnificat)
I fail to remember that when all feels shattered, and when I doubt. I fail to remember that no matter how bad, I still believe.
I fail to remember that it is not only when I am joyfully speaking or preaching and encouraging that I am glorifying God.
I fail to see that me on my knees, with cheeks wet from tears, shouting at God, "Where are you?" is not a display of my lack of trust, but a testament of how much I do depend on Him in all circumstances.
But it is so hard.
This is when gratitude is essential to survival. This is when prayer has to be constant if we hope to make it to that next breath. This is when wisdom and patience must be begged for through the holy name of Jesus Christ. Because I do not like to wait. Because I fear what is yet to come. Because sitting still and allowing God to fight for me is one of the most awful things I need to do.
"What I am doing, you do not understand now, but you will understand later." (John 13:7)
Later.
No NOW.
Later.
Who likes to hear that?
Certainly not a child.
And certainly not me.
But God also says this. "Do you realize what I have done for you?" (John 13:12) And while my immediate response is "Yes, of course, I know! You gave up your only son so I can have eternal life!"...do I really know??? Can I truly understand??? How can I, a privileged white girl who in comparison to the rest of the world truly wants for nothing...how can I possibly comprehend what he has done for me??"
And I can hear my own voice shouting the same message; to my children, to my community, to my husband. "Do you realize what I have done for you?"
And this stings, in a really good way, because it brings me right back to my knees in a completely shattered dependent mess, and it is here that I come to realize that I glorify God best.
It is here that I let go of me, and turn to HIM.
It is here that I open my tight fists, and hand to Him everything and everyone that matters to me most.
It is here.
Here.
Not later.
Father in heaven, please grant us the wisdom to see your works in our daily lives, to see our suffering as an invitation to grow deeper in love with you, and to give genuine thanks in the "here", as we joyfully await for the promise of "later".
Sunday, May 22, 2016
detours
I have been wrestling with this idea of hope.
I have seen how those with hope truly live a life they are meant to live.
Maybe not the life they expected to live, but they live it, fully and beautifully, none the less.
They live it, dare I say, more gracefully and fully than those who think they have everything they ever hoped for.
What we hope for is usually, more often than not, not what we really need.
I think that the only way we find what we hope for is by way of surrender, by way of suffering, by way of letting go of our hope, and being open to the One who is hope.
God has the answers.
He holds our plan.
He writes the story.
He has the answer key.
And this is hard. This is hard to wrap your mind around, and even harder to accept.
To surrender to the unknown feels, at times, impossible.
Simply put, it is scary.
Like driving in an unfamiliar place with no GPS.
We like to know where we are going.
We like to hold the plan.
We like to know where and when we will arrive and that somebody will be there waiting for us.
We like to play it safe.
But life is not safe.
In the last few months, I have been...we have been...faced with more challenges than I ever hoped for.
Kids.
Trauma.
Our farm house.
It is as if God has it all in His hands, showing it to me...handing it to me..and as I reach for it, His fingers are spread, and one by one, every hope and every dream, falls into the ground, and disappears.
And I stand in fear, wondering, "Now what? What do we do? Where do we go? How do we help?"
In the book Hope Heals, a story of "second chances" that takes you through the lives of a young married couple, "whose life was supposed to go one way and was instead wrenched into a direction neither one of them could imagine", Jay Wolf says this:
"If hope is only rooted in an outcome, then your expectations will crush you. This season of unrest began to spark a firestorm of questioning, and we found ourselves redefining many things in every area of our lives. What was our truest home? What was our truest hope? Could all the good things we longed for actually be drawing us away from the one thing that is the truest fulfillment of all our desires?"
It really gets you thinking about life, and hope, and what you hope for...really, truly, hope for. And that if there is a God, an all loving, all mighty Father, shouldn't He...wouldn't He, know what is best? Why would He not give us our hearts desire, when He gave up His only son? Could it be, and did you ever consider, that when things don't go your way, it is because it is going His way, and if He is the way, the truth and the life, why are we afraid? Why is it so hard to trust a God who gave us, and continues to give us, absolutely everything?
I have no reason to doubt God's plan for me. For my children. For my marriage. For anything. The proof is hanging on the cross.
If I could rewrite a few chapters in my story, would I?
Probably.
Based on past bad choices and obvious mistakes, of course I would.
I always think I know.
I always think I am in control.
I always think I know exactly what would make me and my family happy.
Until I realize that I am still left longing.
That the kids are still left longing.
That my idea of fulfillment is but a speck of nothing in comparison to God's all knowing truth, wisdom and understanding.
Nobody in their right mind would write a story for their children that involves the shooting in their school and the death of their friends and teachers.
Nobody in their right mind would include pain and suffering, anxiety and depression in their children's lives.
Nobody in their right mind would write of financial difficulty.
Nobody would choose to write a marriage that has bumps and bruises.
Nobody would write the story of finding your dream home to be told you have four weeks to get out.
But that does not mean we have no say in how we live out our story.
Because we do.
Because we have a choice.
We can choose how we respond.
And that is no small deal.
Our response to a life that feels like a mess?
That is a big deal.
A game changer.
And it is up to us.
We are most certainly at a detour in our lives right now.
And the way we have chosen to respond is by way of hope.
We have hope...an anchor of hope...firm and secure.
And we trust and believe in a God that sees so much more than we do.
How can I doubt Him?
He who put the stars in the sky and gave me life?
He who brings the sun up every morning and leads me to green pastures for rest?
And maybe...just maybe...because He knows better, this detour is the best thing for me; for us.
Kathryn Wolf says this:
"Perhaps some detours aren't detours at all. Perhaps they are actually the path. The picture. The plan. And, perhaps, most unexpectedly, they can be perfect."
And I agree with her.
Because when I look back on my life, it is the detours, not my plan, that have lead me to exactly where I belong.
I have seen how those with hope truly live a life they are meant to live.
Maybe not the life they expected to live, but they live it, fully and beautifully, none the less.
They live it, dare I say, more gracefully and fully than those who think they have everything they ever hoped for.
What we hope for is usually, more often than not, not what we really need.
I think that the only way we find what we hope for is by way of surrender, by way of suffering, by way of letting go of our hope, and being open to the One who is hope.
God has the answers.
He holds our plan.
He writes the story.
He has the answer key.
And this is hard. This is hard to wrap your mind around, and even harder to accept.
To surrender to the unknown feels, at times, impossible.
Simply put, it is scary.
Like driving in an unfamiliar place with no GPS.
We like to know where we are going.
We like to hold the plan.
We like to know where and when we will arrive and that somebody will be there waiting for us.
We like to play it safe.
But life is not safe.
In the last few months, I have been...we have been...faced with more challenges than I ever hoped for.
Kids.
Trauma.
Our farm house.
It is as if God has it all in His hands, showing it to me...handing it to me..and as I reach for it, His fingers are spread, and one by one, every hope and every dream, falls into the ground, and disappears.
And I stand in fear, wondering, "Now what? What do we do? Where do we go? How do we help?"
In the book Hope Heals, a story of "second chances" that takes you through the lives of a young married couple, "whose life was supposed to go one way and was instead wrenched into a direction neither one of them could imagine", Jay Wolf says this:
"If hope is only rooted in an outcome, then your expectations will crush you. This season of unrest began to spark a firestorm of questioning, and we found ourselves redefining many things in every area of our lives. What was our truest home? What was our truest hope? Could all the good things we longed for actually be drawing us away from the one thing that is the truest fulfillment of all our desires?"
It really gets you thinking about life, and hope, and what you hope for...really, truly, hope for. And that if there is a God, an all loving, all mighty Father, shouldn't He...wouldn't He, know what is best? Why would He not give us our hearts desire, when He gave up His only son? Could it be, and did you ever consider, that when things don't go your way, it is because it is going His way, and if He is the way, the truth and the life, why are we afraid? Why is it so hard to trust a God who gave us, and continues to give us, absolutely everything?
I have no reason to doubt God's plan for me. For my children. For my marriage. For anything. The proof is hanging on the cross.
If I could rewrite a few chapters in my story, would I?
Probably.
Based on past bad choices and obvious mistakes, of course I would.
I always think I know.
I always think I am in control.
I always think I know exactly what would make me and my family happy.
Until I realize that I am still left longing.
That the kids are still left longing.
That my idea of fulfillment is but a speck of nothing in comparison to God's all knowing truth, wisdom and understanding.
Nobody in their right mind would write a story for their children that involves the shooting in their school and the death of their friends and teachers.
Nobody in their right mind would include pain and suffering, anxiety and depression in their children's lives.
Nobody in their right mind would write of financial difficulty.
Nobody would choose to write a marriage that has bumps and bruises.
Nobody would write the story of finding your dream home to be told you have four weeks to get out.
But that does not mean we have no say in how we live out our story.
Because we do.
Because we have a choice.
We can choose how we respond.
And that is no small deal.
Our response to a life that feels like a mess?
That is a big deal.
A game changer.
And it is up to us.
We are most certainly at a detour in our lives right now.
And the way we have chosen to respond is by way of hope.
We have hope...an anchor of hope...firm and secure.
And we trust and believe in a God that sees so much more than we do.
How can I doubt Him?
He who put the stars in the sky and gave me life?
He who brings the sun up every morning and leads me to green pastures for rest?
And maybe...just maybe...because He knows better, this detour is the best thing for me; for us.
Kathryn Wolf says this:
"Perhaps some detours aren't detours at all. Perhaps they are actually the path. The picture. The plan. And, perhaps, most unexpectedly, they can be perfect."
And I agree with her.
Because when I look back on my life, it is the detours, not my plan, that have lead me to exactly where I belong.
Friday, April 22, 2016
all before 9 AM
It is all quite an adventure before 9am when you factor in a new puppy, same old small fat puppy, four kids, with at least three in some sort of crisis at all times, and a chest cold that leaves you lifeless but even worse, voice less, because when the small fat dog runs into the busy morning traffic because he spots the garbage man, it is impossible to shout out and call after the dog when no sound comes out of your own exhausted self.
And before this, all of this chaos, was the awakening to find that dinner from last night was never put away and no coffee was set, and you stare at the 5:30 am time on the oven clock, with eight chicken drumsticks lying in the same dirty pan, like they have all been tucked in for the night under a blanket of some sort of disgusting gel that formed over night, and right then and there, you reconsider eating chicken ever again.
And then you stare at the couches that have no cushions or slip cover because pee and poop were wiped on them and I am not confident here that it is only the dogs to blame.
And all before 8am I tried to order two yearbooks and reschedule senior portraits, and did you know that today is crazy hair day for fourth graders?
In these moments I do what I need to do. I search pinterest for pretty cakes, only to look up and realize that the bus comes in ten minutes and nothing has been packed and the kid is not dressed, and suddenly I am dipping colored chalk into water and rubbing the living daylights out of my kids head because he wants rainbow hair. Because don't forget. It is crazy hair day. I wish it was "forget to do your homework" day, or "don't pack any lunch" day.
Yesterday was the "miss the bus" day. For only us.
And now the house is quiet and I go to work soon, which means I shower and dress and sit back in this kitchen mess which is also known as my office, and I...go to work.
It is quite an adventure all before 9am. And yet, maybe it is grace, or just some stupid luck, that I am able to sit here in absolute peace while I feel gratitude rise, because this ridiculous life is all mine, and every bit of it a gift. I cling to to the verse "the Lord is my strength", because life lately, has done its best to weaken every bone in my body and shatter my faith, and yet I am wrapped around this anchor of hope that I refuse to let go of, and the only explanation for even having the energy to hold onto this anchor is that I grasp onto it not by my own strength, but by the very strength of the One who carefully knit this mess known as me; this mess that has nothing on the beauty that is Him, living inside of me.
And before this, all of this chaos, was the awakening to find that dinner from last night was never put away and no coffee was set, and you stare at the 5:30 am time on the oven clock, with eight chicken drumsticks lying in the same dirty pan, like they have all been tucked in for the night under a blanket of some sort of disgusting gel that formed over night, and right then and there, you reconsider eating chicken ever again.
And then you stare at the couches that have no cushions or slip cover because pee and poop were wiped on them and I am not confident here that it is only the dogs to blame.
And all before 8am I tried to order two yearbooks and reschedule senior portraits, and did you know that today is crazy hair day for fourth graders?
In these moments I do what I need to do. I search pinterest for pretty cakes, only to look up and realize that the bus comes in ten minutes and nothing has been packed and the kid is not dressed, and suddenly I am dipping colored chalk into water and rubbing the living daylights out of my kids head because he wants rainbow hair. Because don't forget. It is crazy hair day. I wish it was "forget to do your homework" day, or "don't pack any lunch" day.
Yesterday was the "miss the bus" day. For only us.
And now the house is quiet and I go to work soon, which means I shower and dress and sit back in this kitchen mess which is also known as my office, and I...go to work.
It is quite an adventure all before 9am. And yet, maybe it is grace, or just some stupid luck, that I am able to sit here in absolute peace while I feel gratitude rise, because this ridiculous life is all mine, and every bit of it a gift. I cling to to the verse "the Lord is my strength", because life lately, has done its best to weaken every bone in my body and shatter my faith, and yet I am wrapped around this anchor of hope that I refuse to let go of, and the only explanation for even having the energy to hold onto this anchor is that I grasp onto it not by my own strength, but by the very strength of the One who carefully knit this mess known as me; this mess that has nothing on the beauty that is Him, living inside of me.
Monday, April 4, 2016
entering the tomb
I think about her weeping at the empty tomb. Because haven't we all been there? Have we not all been so consumed by unimaginable sorrow that all we see is nothing? I think about her a lot. I picture her on her knees, face wet with tears, crying out, "Where is my God?"
Have we not all cried that out, at one time or another?
And what gets me is this. HE WAS THERE.
He was right there.
But she was blinded by a grief so large that it wiped away all hope.
It removed Him from the picture.
Angels could not even convince her that something amazing was happening.
Not until He called by her name did she notice Him.
If only she had taken that one step further-one more step into the tomb-one more step into the nothingness-one more step into the hurt and the doubt; just one more step, and she would have seen and known.
I can see myself next to her, you know.
Kneeling.
Crying.
Wondering, "Where is my God?"
And it is right here, in this place, that we are moved.
We need not to sit by the tomb, but rather, to enter into it.
And it is scary.
And it feels lonely.
But it is where He calls us to go.
And here He calls us by name.
He opens our eyes.
And we see that the nothingness we feared entering is actually the everything we long for.
Have we not all cried that out, at one time or another?
And what gets me is this. HE WAS THERE.
He was right there.
But she was blinded by a grief so large that it wiped away all hope.
It removed Him from the picture.
Angels could not even convince her that something amazing was happening.
Not until He called by her name did she notice Him.
If only she had taken that one step further-one more step into the tomb-one more step into the nothingness-one more step into the hurt and the doubt; just one more step, and she would have seen and known.
I can see myself next to her, you know.
Kneeling.
Crying.
Wondering, "Where is my God?"
And it is right here, in this place, that we are moved.
We need not to sit by the tomb, but rather, to enter into it.
And it is scary.
And it feels lonely.
But it is where He calls us to go.
And here He calls us by name.
He opens our eyes.
And we see that the nothingness we feared entering is actually the everything we long for.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
hope
I just loved what she said.
"I don't know why, but when I'm driving and I get lost, I drive faster!"
And it just has me thinking so much of those times we feel lost, and how rather than sit and stay in the spot where we are (as our parents instructed us when we were little) we run!
And in the wrong direction.
And then we run faster.
Until we don't even remember what we are running from.
We just know we are far away and have no way back.
And yet we do.
There's always a way.
It's called hope.
It's hard.
Staying still when you feel lost.
Because the fear is that no one will find you.
And yet the reality is, you were never on your own.
Remember.
He calms the storms and controls the seas.
He is your anchor.
Stop driving so fast.
Give him the wheel.
Hold on to hope.
Friday, January 29, 2016
Broken down cars, broken out skin, and ten week old puppies
Three weeks ago I got a flat tire.
Last week my car broke down.
And for two weeks now blogger will not allow me access to my own blog.
And so I'm writing this on my phone which I imagine is as fun as baking a wedding cake in your easy bake oven.
Or drying your hair with your easy bake oven.
Or baking with your easy bake oven.
Because it's a light bulb.
Not an oven.
So yeah.
A few curve balls.
And the occasional ball that hits you in your head.
I also have two pimples on my chin and grey hair coming in which frankly, makes no sense.
Not to mention is totally unfair.
And just stupid.
But it's okay.
Everything will be fine.
Because I am a child of God and He has great plans for me!
And because tomorrow I'm picking up a 10 week old puppy.
Because what could possibly go wrong with that???
Last week my car broke down.
And for two weeks now blogger will not allow me access to my own blog.
And so I'm writing this on my phone which I imagine is as fun as baking a wedding cake in your easy bake oven.
Or drying your hair with your easy bake oven.
Or baking with your easy bake oven.
Because it's a light bulb.
Not an oven.
So yeah.
A few curve balls.
And the occasional ball that hits you in your head.
I also have two pimples on my chin and grey hair coming in which frankly, makes no sense.
Not to mention is totally unfair.
And just stupid.
But it's okay.
Everything will be fine.
Because I am a child of God and He has great plans for me!
And because tomorrow I'm picking up a 10 week old puppy.
Because what could possibly go wrong with that???
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
Friday, January 15, 2016
open the roof
I don't know why, maybe because I do not read things clearly, but I always assumed that it was the faith of the paralytic who was lowered through the rooftop to meet Jesus whose faith saved him. But it wasn't. It wasn't his faith at all. It was the faith of the friends who carried him.
And it wasn't easy. It couldn't have been. What a heavy load to carry...a man who can not move for himself. I wonder if he asked to be taken, or if his friends took him regardless of what he wanted. And then there was the crowd.
When things get too heavy for me to carry, my knee jerk reaction is to just put it down and leave it there. The thought of lifting and carrying and for God knows how long overwhelms me. I become paralyzed. I am blocked by the crowd of fear, doubt and sorrow.
And I also go to great lengths to avoid a crowd.
These friends of this sick man did what I need to do. They carried the one who could not move on his own. They were not discouraged by the crowd, they stayed persistent and found a new way around the obstacle. They took whatever faith they had and put it into action.
And that is when faith blooms; when it is put into action.
We need to not give up.
We need to find a way to bring the paralyzed to Jesus.
We need to see a way to Jesus when the crowd tries to block Him.
We need to open the roof above and lower each other down.
Mark 2:1-12
And it wasn't easy. It couldn't have been. What a heavy load to carry...a man who can not move for himself. I wonder if he asked to be taken, or if his friends took him regardless of what he wanted. And then there was the crowd.
When things get too heavy for me to carry, my knee jerk reaction is to just put it down and leave it there. The thought of lifting and carrying and for God knows how long overwhelms me. I become paralyzed. I am blocked by the crowd of fear, doubt and sorrow.
And I also go to great lengths to avoid a crowd.
These friends of this sick man did what I need to do. They carried the one who could not move on his own. They were not discouraged by the crowd, they stayed persistent and found a new way around the obstacle. They took whatever faith they had and put it into action.
And that is when faith blooms; when it is put into action.
We need to not give up.
We need to find a way to bring the paralyzed to Jesus.
We need to see a way to Jesus when the crowd tries to block Him.
We need to open the roof above and lower each other down.
Mark 2:1-12
Tuesday, January 5, 2016
The Ten Commandments, the Becomers, and where this world is going (I'll give you a hint: it's in a hand basket)
How would the world be different if everyone actually obeyed the Ten Commandments?
Let's read that again, shall we?
How would the world be different if everyone actually obeyed the Ten Commandments?
A pretty simple, no-brainer question, right?
Yeah, well that's what I thought too.
Until I asked a room full of 6th graders.
This is my first year teaching 6th grade Religious Education, and I gotta say, I kind of love and am equally terrified of this wacky bunch of hormonal, ridiculous and yet endearing group of kids.
Our class is using Encounter, a video Bible Study designed specifically for this uncomfortable and awkward age group. Mark Hart is the host, and through humor, and relatable language, he brings the Bible to life, drawing the kids into the stories, engaging them in a real and meaningful encounter with our loving God. It's a brilliant step, really, as this age group, who learns their most important life lessons through what gets the most likes on social media, is a tough nut to crack. Throw in the fact that I would bet that more than half of these kids have not attended Sunday Mass since their First Holy Communion, and will probably not attend again until their Confirmation day.
So yesterday, Mark guided us through Egypt and Exodus, the Ten Commandments, and Moses and Aaron. We talked about and brought to life the spies, and bronze serpents, and the Battle of Jericho- seriously exciting stuff! And the kids were taking notes, and following along, and laughing at Mark's goofiness. Good stuff. Real good stuff. And then, it was discussion time.
I lead the discussion. Unsure of where to begin, I decided to talk about what I know every 6th grader in Newtown worships and adores. Sports.
"Who here plays a sport?" Nearly every hand shot up. Gymnastics, soccer, basketball, football, lacrosse, field hockey! You name it, Newtown plays it! Unfamiliar with field hockey, I asked a young girl to explain to me how to play, if I were to join the team. "Can I run holding the ball?" She laughed, "Noooo!" So I asked again, "Well, can I throw it into the net with my hands?" This, too, got a big, "Noooooooooooo!" Finally, after she shot down any of my suggested ways to play the game, I asked her, "Why? Why can't I just play how I want to play?" And her answer? Her answer was brilliant.
"You have to follow the rules, otherwise, you will get hurt."
THIS. This was exactly where I wanted them.
THIS was good, folks.
THIS was going to be one life changing, eye opening, Ten Commandment embracing discussion, lead by yours truly!
And so I looked around, at the eager, beautifully and wonderfully made faces, and I told the group,
"God gives us rules in life for the same exact reasons we have rules in sports. Only in the game of Life, we can hurt more than ourselves. We can hurt our relationship with God."
If I were holding a mic, I would have dropped it right at that point and walked out of the room.
My work was done.
Instead of my dramatic mic drop, we quickly reviewed the Ten Commandments, and then...then I asked the big question that Mark Hart gives as the number one question for group discussion. And I knew, I just knew, that this crew was ready for it.
How would the world be different if everyone actually obeyed the Ten Commandments?
Hands shot up high into the air, and I was just so darn excited to hear about the peace, joy, happiness, and goodwill that this world would experience if only we all followed God's rules!
I called on a cute boy with a mop of blond hair, and said, "Yes, you-tell me...how would this world be different if we all followed the Ten Commandments?" And with a total lack of enthusiasm, he shrugged his shoulders, looked into my eyes, and told me, "Boring."
BORING?????
I wasn't expecting that at all. So I dug a little deeper.
"Boring? How? What do you mean? I do not understand."
"Well, we would all be the same. There would be no differences among people. We would all have to be the same. And that's boring."
Still, with my shovel in hand, I dug some more.
"Really? Okay. Um, can you give me an example? Give me an example of how if we choose to not steal...not kill...not want what other people have...how would that make us all boring?"
Well, cute little mop top couldn't come up with an answer on the spot so we agreed to table it and moved on to other thought provoking answers such as, "It would be BAD if we all followed the Ten Commandments because then people would lose their jobs!!!!"
WHAT?
LOSE THEIR JOBS?
Who on earth would lose their job? A murderer? Shop lifter? Adulterer? Because I mean, I have always been under the impression that cheating on your spouse was not something that comes with a paycheck. And if it did, let me just say, that would really make it a hard Commandment to follow.
Again, not expecting that answer.
"Who, honey? who would lose their job?"
"The police!!!"
Okay, now I will throw this sweetheart a bone...we are Newtown and we have had more than our share of police presence. Another hand shot up clear across the room, and I prayed it would get us back on track, and so happily I called on him.
"Um, my dad is a policeman, and that's not true! They do more than fight crime you know. They patrol traffic, and..." and before he could finish he was interrupted by another boy, "Well, if we all followed the Ten Commandments there would be no traffic violations..."
Good grief.
Unfortunately, time ran out, and the kids scattered, and I walked to my car sort of shaking my head and feeling confused. Were they just being goofballs? Did they really believe that following God was a bad idea? Were they just playing dumb? Seeing how far they could get me off track? It wasn't until I got home and sat with my husband at dinner that I realized what had happened.
Aside from the obvious fact that these kids have no idea what the Ten Commandments truly mean, these kids are also being raised by a world that not only encourages them to not follow rules, but teaches them that it is wrong to follow the rules. Dare I say, even prejudice to follow rules. Rules exclude those among us that are different. Rules are boring. Rules keep you from being you. Rules, especially those awful Catholic rules, don't allow you to be who you are. Rules force you to conform. Rules keep you in chains. Rules don't allow you to be happy, or feel your own feelings, or live the way that you want to live. Rules don't allow same sex marriage or aborting your baby or dressing like a girl even though you were born a boy. Rules are not fair. We have the right to be who we are, and to feel what we feel, and to become whatever we want, no matter the cost, no matter how insane, no matter how wrong. And at the end of it all, it doesn't matter what God wants, does it? It matters what you want. And anyway, if our God is an all loving God, then He will accept us anyway that we are, because God is love and love is a feeling and rules play no part in any of it and because even facebook told me that #lovewins.
God help us.
This is the message our children hear.
All. Day. Long.
How do I know?
Well, I have four children.
One of them is a 6th grader.
And I follow them on Instagram.
I hear their conversations.
I check out their music.
I see what they watch on TV.
And they talk to me.
They ask me, "Mom, why can't a girl marry another girl?"
Or, "Mom, why can't a boy become a girl?"
And these are questions my nine year old asks me.
I was not thinking about anything other than how awesome I looked in my leg warmers and roller skates when I was nine.
And you don't need children to hear the world's message.
Just watch TV.
While snuggling on the couch with the kids, ready to enjoy a family Christmas movie, I could not get over the constant, inapproriate, in my face commercials. Sex, lust, violence, teen pregnancy....all while trying to enjoy Elf! And the best part? (And by best I really mean the worst, but you know that.) This was on the ABC FAMILY CHANNEL. Of course, as you may already know, ABC has dropped the "family" (so boring and traditional) and changed their name to FREEFORM.
I googled the definition of freeform.
google says:
Not conforming to a regular or formal structure or shape.
Merriam-Webster says:
Created or done in any way you choose; not required to have particular patterns or forms.
The Oxford Dictionary says:
Not conforming to a regular or formal structure or shape.
Variety magazine printed this in regards to the re-branding:
The Becomer's. And yes. That is with a capital B.
This was my audience yesterday-the 6th graders, the Becomers.
My bad.
Had no idea.
Thank you to the network for understanding the wants and needs of my children and finally defining them so that they can get through this stage of life.
Now excuse me, while I gather us all up into this hand basket....
And I am sorry, but what exactly are they Becoming anyway?
Well, not normal..not boring...not regular....because who wants to be that?
They are not conforming, and they are free to create themselves as they choose.
Like a sponge, they are soaking up the messages from TV shows like Pretty Little Liars, The Fosters, and Baby Daddy.
And this is good news.
This world is finally moving in the right direction!
Dear Lord, have mercy...this is a train wreck.
I have another week until I am back with this 6th grade crew.
And while I am a little sacred and feeling a wee bit defeated, I am determined.
I am determined to teach them about our God; a God who created them and loves them. A God who by the very rules He gives us allows us to live freely.
A God who made everything out of nothing, who can count the hairs on your head, who can change water into wine, which is just about the greatest and coolest miracle ever.
A God who knows exactly who we are to become...
because we are each made in His image.
Because He knit us in our mother's womb.
He made us, not the world.
And certainly, not a TV Network.
We need to point our children in the right direction.
Not the popular direction.
The right direction.
Who are they to become?
They are to become like Christ.
And there is nothing boring about that.
Let's read that again, shall we?
How would the world be different if everyone actually obeyed the Ten Commandments?
A pretty simple, no-brainer question, right?
Yeah, well that's what I thought too.
Until I asked a room full of 6th graders.
This is my first year teaching 6th grade Religious Education, and I gotta say, I kind of love and am equally terrified of this wacky bunch of hormonal, ridiculous and yet endearing group of kids.
Our class is using Encounter, a video Bible Study designed specifically for this uncomfortable and awkward age group. Mark Hart is the host, and through humor, and relatable language, he brings the Bible to life, drawing the kids into the stories, engaging them in a real and meaningful encounter with our loving God. It's a brilliant step, really, as this age group, who learns their most important life lessons through what gets the most likes on social media, is a tough nut to crack. Throw in the fact that I would bet that more than half of these kids have not attended Sunday Mass since their First Holy Communion, and will probably not attend again until their Confirmation day.
So yesterday, Mark guided us through Egypt and Exodus, the Ten Commandments, and Moses and Aaron. We talked about and brought to life the spies, and bronze serpents, and the Battle of Jericho- seriously exciting stuff! And the kids were taking notes, and following along, and laughing at Mark's goofiness. Good stuff. Real good stuff. And then, it was discussion time.
I lead the discussion. Unsure of where to begin, I decided to talk about what I know every 6th grader in Newtown worships and adores. Sports.
"Who here plays a sport?" Nearly every hand shot up. Gymnastics, soccer, basketball, football, lacrosse, field hockey! You name it, Newtown plays it! Unfamiliar with field hockey, I asked a young girl to explain to me how to play, if I were to join the team. "Can I run holding the ball?" She laughed, "Noooo!" So I asked again, "Well, can I throw it into the net with my hands?" This, too, got a big, "Noooooooooooo!" Finally, after she shot down any of my suggested ways to play the game, I asked her, "Why? Why can't I just play how I want to play?" And her answer? Her answer was brilliant.
"You have to follow the rules, otherwise, you will get hurt."
THIS. This was exactly where I wanted them.
THIS was good, folks.
THIS was going to be one life changing, eye opening, Ten Commandment embracing discussion, lead by yours truly!
And so I looked around, at the eager, beautifully and wonderfully made faces, and I told the group,
"God gives us rules in life for the same exact reasons we have rules in sports. Only in the game of Life, we can hurt more than ourselves. We can hurt our relationship with God."
If I were holding a mic, I would have dropped it right at that point and walked out of the room.
My work was done.
Instead of my dramatic mic drop, we quickly reviewed the Ten Commandments, and then...then I asked the big question that Mark Hart gives as the number one question for group discussion. And I knew, I just knew, that this crew was ready for it.
How would the world be different if everyone actually obeyed the Ten Commandments?
Hands shot up high into the air, and I was just so darn excited to hear about the peace, joy, happiness, and goodwill that this world would experience if only we all followed God's rules!
I called on a cute boy with a mop of blond hair, and said, "Yes, you-tell me...how would this world be different if we all followed the Ten Commandments?" And with a total lack of enthusiasm, he shrugged his shoulders, looked into my eyes, and told me, "Boring."
BORING?????
I wasn't expecting that at all. So I dug a little deeper.
"Boring? How? What do you mean? I do not understand."
"Well, we would all be the same. There would be no differences among people. We would all have to be the same. And that's boring."
Still, with my shovel in hand, I dug some more.
"Really? Okay. Um, can you give me an example? Give me an example of how if we choose to not steal...not kill...not want what other people have...how would that make us all boring?"
Well, cute little mop top couldn't come up with an answer on the spot so we agreed to table it and moved on to other thought provoking answers such as, "It would be BAD if we all followed the Ten Commandments because then people would lose their jobs!!!!"
WHAT?
LOSE THEIR JOBS?
Who on earth would lose their job? A murderer? Shop lifter? Adulterer? Because I mean, I have always been under the impression that cheating on your spouse was not something that comes with a paycheck. And if it did, let me just say, that would really make it a hard Commandment to follow.
Again, not expecting that answer.
"Who, honey? who would lose their job?"
"The police!!!"
Okay, now I will throw this sweetheart a bone...we are Newtown and we have had more than our share of police presence. Another hand shot up clear across the room, and I prayed it would get us back on track, and so happily I called on him.
"Um, my dad is a policeman, and that's not true! They do more than fight crime you know. They patrol traffic, and..." and before he could finish he was interrupted by another boy, "Well, if we all followed the Ten Commandments there would be no traffic violations..."
Good grief.
Unfortunately, time ran out, and the kids scattered, and I walked to my car sort of shaking my head and feeling confused. Were they just being goofballs? Did they really believe that following God was a bad idea? Were they just playing dumb? Seeing how far they could get me off track? It wasn't until I got home and sat with my husband at dinner that I realized what had happened.
Aside from the obvious fact that these kids have no idea what the Ten Commandments truly mean, these kids are also being raised by a world that not only encourages them to not follow rules, but teaches them that it is wrong to follow the rules. Dare I say, even prejudice to follow rules. Rules exclude those among us that are different. Rules are boring. Rules keep you from being you. Rules, especially those awful Catholic rules, don't allow you to be who you are. Rules force you to conform. Rules keep you in chains. Rules don't allow you to be happy, or feel your own feelings, or live the way that you want to live. Rules don't allow same sex marriage or aborting your baby or dressing like a girl even though you were born a boy. Rules are not fair. We have the right to be who we are, and to feel what we feel, and to become whatever we want, no matter the cost, no matter how insane, no matter how wrong. And at the end of it all, it doesn't matter what God wants, does it? It matters what you want. And anyway, if our God is an all loving God, then He will accept us anyway that we are, because God is love and love is a feeling and rules play no part in any of it and because even facebook told me that #lovewins.
God help us.
This is the message our children hear.
All. Day. Long.
How do I know?
Well, I have four children.
One of them is a 6th grader.
And I follow them on Instagram.
I hear their conversations.
I check out their music.
I see what they watch on TV.
And they talk to me.
They ask me, "Mom, why can't a girl marry another girl?"
Or, "Mom, why can't a boy become a girl?"
And these are questions my nine year old asks me.
I was not thinking about anything other than how awesome I looked in my leg warmers and roller skates when I was nine.
And you don't need children to hear the world's message.
Just watch TV.
While snuggling on the couch with the kids, ready to enjoy a family Christmas movie, I could not get over the constant, inapproriate, in my face commercials. Sex, lust, violence, teen pregnancy....all while trying to enjoy Elf! And the best part? (And by best I really mean the worst, but you know that.) This was on the ABC FAMILY CHANNEL. Of course, as you may already know, ABC has dropped the "family" (so boring and traditional) and changed their name to FREEFORM.
I googled the definition of freeform.
google says:
Not conforming to a regular or formal structure or shape.
Merriam-Webster says:
Created or done in any way you choose; not required to have particular patterns or forms.
The Oxford Dictionary says:
Not conforming to a regular or formal structure or shape.
Variety magazine printed this in regards to the re-branding:
The relaunch, which will coincide with the cabler’s popular “25 Days of Christmas” and winter premieres, marks a continued effort to evolve the young-skewing network past traditional family viewing and toward its target audience of “Becomers,” a network-coined term defined as those in the life stage spanning ages 14 to 34.
The Becomer audience — a concept ABC Family execs introduced at this year’s Upfront presentation — reflects the network’s efforts to keep up with its millennial viewers as they grow up. “The most important question that young people ask themselves as they’re going from high school to their thirties is, ‘Who am I becoming?’ So we call the life stage ‘becoming’ and the people going through it Becomers,” Ascheim explains.
Aahhhh....okay.The Becomer's. And yes. That is with a capital B.
This was my audience yesterday-the 6th graders, the Becomers.
My bad.
Had no idea.
Thank you to the network for understanding the wants and needs of my children and finally defining them so that they can get through this stage of life.
Now excuse me, while I gather us all up into this hand basket....
And I am sorry, but what exactly are they Becoming anyway?
Well, not normal..not boring...not regular....because who wants to be that?
They are not conforming, and they are free to create themselves as they choose.
Like a sponge, they are soaking up the messages from TV shows like Pretty Little Liars, The Fosters, and Baby Daddy.
And this is good news.
This world is finally moving in the right direction!
Dear Lord, have mercy...this is a train wreck.
I have another week until I am back with this 6th grade crew.
And while I am a little sacred and feeling a wee bit defeated, I am determined.
I am determined to teach them about our God; a God who created them and loves them. A God who by the very rules He gives us allows us to live freely.
A God who made everything out of nothing, who can count the hairs on your head, who can change water into wine, which is just about the greatest and coolest miracle ever.
A God who knows exactly who we are to become...
because we are each made in His image.
Because He knit us in our mother's womb.
He made us, not the world.
And certainly, not a TV Network.
We need to point our children in the right direction.
Not the popular direction.
The right direction.
Who are they to become?
They are to become like Christ.
And there is nothing boring about that.
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