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.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
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.
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