Some days I fight back the tears for hours on end. Not most days, but some days. Something is said, or heard, or seen, or felt ...or thought, and the waves roll in. And when those days come, when it takes all I can find to stay composed and move through the day, someone who loves me very much appears the instant I need scooping up. I'm grateful for those times.
This season of Lent has brought more of those days, loaded my plate with a lot of sadness and uncertainty. The season started with a really sad thing ...and set the tone for the forty days of repentance and restoration in Christ. And it has just kept on.
A friend reminded me the other day how often I say that we must be thankful to God, most especially in the hardest moments of our lives, the ones that horrify us, rob us of our very selves, the ones we 'know' we can't handle. It's helped me to hear that I say that, spread that ...even though I don't 'feel' like saying thank you. But if we really believe in eternal life with God, then we must also believe in the story of the crucifixion and the great cost of believing and trusting that our chance for Heaven comes from the gift of suffering. Without the crucifixion there is no resurrection.
I've come to believe that though it is good and right to offer our own sacrifices and mortification, God will offer us the best way to participate in the Passion. He will offer us our own Lent. And some have longer Lents than others. I once heard it said at the funeral of a man who suffered, long and hard, the disease of addiction that his life was a long Good Friday. Some people suffer more than others. Many have suffered far more than I ever will ...which makes me deeply sad, because my own pain is quite heavy.
Holy Thursday reminds all of us of the greatest suffering of all. And where are we, where am I? Have I scurried away and hidden myself from association with Christ? Have I been oblivious all along? Am I willing to stay until the end when all seems despairing? Or will I show up, only for the accolades when I can be seen and deemed holy? What price am I willing to pay to be a true follower of Him? I have to ask those questions over and over ...and sometimes struggle for the answer. This Lent has been hard. I've begged for grace to see my way through.
Grace finds us in miraculous ways. As I struggled to get out of my own way, climb over my own despairing, I was able to hold the hand of a dear old woman. I am amazingly blessed with the job that I have and the people I get to care for. My old friend has buried more than one child, and so few words are needed between us, we understand each other, the searing pain that can come from nowhere, anytime. Her pain surfaced several weeks ago, and while we all grew concerned, she seemed to start slipping into another place. I know that place, a place I've often longed to go, but my kids and my life keep me away. It's a place of longing and yearning, where all you want is to delve in the waiting for that reunion ...that physical sense and awareness of your lost child. Without my other kids and knowing what they deserve, I would have gone there long ago ...just slipped away. And that's where I could see my friend was going.
We've laughed a lot together, but the laughter had gone. I'd tell her I wouldn't leave her until I got a smile ...and she would muster the tiniest upward curve of her mouth. Today I sat next to her on her bed and held her hand. "You've been living Lent," I said to her. "Is that what you think it is, I'm beginning to wonder?" she answered back. I reminded her that today we begin our journey to Calvary, we are on the road. She shook her head "oh, not me, I'm not worthy of that," she said. I told her none of us are or ever will be worthy of that journey, but we are all invited. That time with her was a great grace, a reminder of how broken hearts, together, can find moments of wholeness, moments of fulfillment. We smiled together knowing the Resurrection will find us ...one day.
This night, the night of the Last Supper, the night of Jesus praying while his Apostles fell asleep and one betrayed Him, the night when the promise of Heaven's gates being opened began its fulfillment ...this night, we are all invited to join Him, to convert ourselves, our hearts and souls to living only in Him. We're invited again to reject the glitter, glam and empty promises of this world, and follow the son of a carpenter to His death. It is a tough road, but worth the climb.
And where is Phoebe in all of this? In my stillness, I hear her telling God, "She's my mom, she can take this!" And she turns to me "C'mon Mom, you know you can ...don't be a slacker." Not the warm and fuzzies, but certainly Phoebe through and through!
Blessings and grace to you during these holiest of days!
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
St. Joseph
We push on toward the two and a half year mark. Hard to believe. And still it's like it is just hours ago that I saw the lifelessness of Phoebe. In her life, she was the epitome of energy. Life buzzes around us, both by choice and necessity. There are things to tend to, challenges and opportunities. We strive to launch our children into the world, well prepared, solid, faithful, kind ...real, especially real and genuine. There's a host of characteristics we want our kids to have. Likely they won't have all of them, but together they might, each one bringing their own strength ...and weakness to culture of our home and family.
We are far enough away from that day when our lives shattered to be forgotten by most, or at least to be only in the shadows, never in the forefront. That's how it all works, the nature of being human, we forget, diminish the impact if it doesn't immediately affect us. I do it too!
So we make our way, with our little entourage of those who remember with us, help carry the loss and tend the wound that will not heal. In little moments, a slip here and there, a child reveals the pain of missing. But the world tells them it is behind them, it shouldn't hurt them now ... We see though, we know. We push on.
Yesterday was the feast of St. Joseph, spouse of the Blessed Mother, foster father to Christ. Several years ago, a dear friend at the time introduced me to him. I've felt close to him since, and trust in his protection of our family. I've come to believe St. Joseph gives nothing away, he is not indulgent or impulsive. He petitions on our behalf for only what we need, and desire only if its what God desires for us too! Many prayers have been laid before him from this heart, and they've all been answered ...most in ways I hadn't wanted. For me its all about trusting, entrusting ...and then accepting. A constant struggle of pulling back and releasing, desiring a certain answer and then ascending towards the response given, the plan laid out. In my mind and heart, my path is laid out before me, trimmed in pansies and thyme, sweet stones marbled with color and moss. I haven't found that path yet, mine winds its way through stormy wilderness. Puddles, roots, divets and droppings demand my attention and caution.
I imagine the journey St. Joseph took from Bethlehem to Egypt, how treacherous it must have been and yet he pushed on ...and on, to safety.
I want St. Joseph to take me and my family to Egypt, help us get there, find safer land where we can rest, breath, not look over our shoulder quite so much ....ease the panic. My eyes and heart search for the signs of that, and for now there are none I can see. We push on. And only a very few know the risky steps we take to keep looking forward. Life gets a bit easier here and there, a bit heavier and bitter in others. St. Joseph did all he could to protect his family, knowing the road ahead would not be easy ...knowing in some way that here on earth salvation would be played out with his little family. He pushed on ....leading by example. I'll follow as best I can, my intentions tightly clutched to my heart.
We are far enough away from that day when our lives shattered to be forgotten by most, or at least to be only in the shadows, never in the forefront. That's how it all works, the nature of being human, we forget, diminish the impact if it doesn't immediately affect us. I do it too!
So we make our way, with our little entourage of those who remember with us, help carry the loss and tend the wound that will not heal. In little moments, a slip here and there, a child reveals the pain of missing. But the world tells them it is behind them, it shouldn't hurt them now ... We see though, we know. We push on.
Yesterday was the feast of St. Joseph, spouse of the Blessed Mother, foster father to Christ. Several years ago, a dear friend at the time introduced me to him. I've felt close to him since, and trust in his protection of our family. I've come to believe St. Joseph gives nothing away, he is not indulgent or impulsive. He petitions on our behalf for only what we need, and desire only if its what God desires for us too! Many prayers have been laid before him from this heart, and they've all been answered ...most in ways I hadn't wanted. For me its all about trusting, entrusting ...and then accepting. A constant struggle of pulling back and releasing, desiring a certain answer and then ascending towards the response given, the plan laid out. In my mind and heart, my path is laid out before me, trimmed in pansies and thyme, sweet stones marbled with color and moss. I haven't found that path yet, mine winds its way through stormy wilderness. Puddles, roots, divets and droppings demand my attention and caution.
I imagine the journey St. Joseph took from Bethlehem to Egypt, how treacherous it must have been and yet he pushed on ...and on, to safety.
I want St. Joseph to take me and my family to Egypt, help us get there, find safer land where we can rest, breath, not look over our shoulder quite so much ....ease the panic. My eyes and heart search for the signs of that, and for now there are none I can see. We push on. And only a very few know the risky steps we take to keep looking forward. Life gets a bit easier here and there, a bit heavier and bitter in others. St. Joseph did all he could to protect his family, knowing the road ahead would not be easy ...knowing in some way that here on earth salvation would be played out with his little family. He pushed on ....leading by example. I'll follow as best I can, my intentions tightly clutched to my heart.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Listening
Recently, I can't remember exactly where, I read that what most of us want is to be heard. We desire someone to take in what we say, store it in their heart, and respond back in a way that confirms, affirms and assures us that we have been heard, listened too ...understood. Somewhere else I read, and again I don't remember where, that we might strive to cultivate as great a passion within ourselves to listen, really listen to others, that is as great, or better yet, greater than our passion to be heard.
The circumstances of mothering force us to be listeners, naturally. We listen for grumbling tummies, crabby dispositions from too little sleep, uniforms in need of laundering for a game in 47 minutes, deadlines for applications. We hear so much, respond so often and so well. We feed them, tuck them in, wash their clothes, drive them to the game and cheer them on, stamp and lick envelopes. We do so many things right, over and over.We hear, we respond.
For me though I wonder how often I fall short of real, true, passionate listening. This theme keeps popping up, calling my attention, posing interior questions and reflections about where I am in the listening spectrum. Dynamics in my own past and present demand my attention to hone in on my listening skills. Conversations with friends, mothers too, echo this desire to let go of the obstacles that prevent listening rooted in the heart, anchored in love and respect. For me those obstacles are many ...exhaustion, hunger, time, anger, boredom, fear, panic ...grief. But too, I wonder how afraid I am of not being heard ...not being listened too. Many of us carry that sense of not being heard. My own fear hinders me from listening in ways I am capable of, only if I let go of the hold it has on me.
I could go in lots of directions with this theme, but the one that replays itself over and over is how well we listen, or don't listen, to our children. Real listening matters, it affects our kids, shapes them for life in ways beginning to unfold now. We live in a prescriptive culture. Do this, check. Do this, check, Do this, check, Do this, check. "Oh look at all the check marks, they are doing fine!" There are some universal check marks for parents. Is my child eating, check. Is my child sleeping, check. Is homework done, check. And then there are the more personalized ones. Conversation, no matter how loud, challenging, disturbing, upsetting is one of mine. I feel better if we are talking. Check. I don't care so much if the conversation is pleasant. I don't care so much if what I'm getting back is what I want to hear ....I just want to be engaged, actively communicating. Check. I want my kids to ask hard questions (ok, honestly, I really don't like it when they ask them at eleven pm on a school/work night). I want my kids to challenge what they've been told or taught, so they ultimately claim the Truth for themselves. I've seen kids who yes their parents, appear to be in alignment with expectations and beliefs, only to be doing so just to satisfy the parents, while living a different construct right under their nose. I don't want that. I want a real, active, dynamic life that isn't afraid to ask and face hard questions. And I thought that's what I had with Phoebe, and I think did in many ways. But her death pushes me to examine my own authenticity, my own ability to extend both ears along with my heart and listen to the tangled, confusing lives of my children. Some children are sneaky, but I wonder if they become that way because they are not really heard, they are just satisfying, or acting as if they are, what adults put on them. It's a hard job being a parent. We want them to do well, thrive. Culturally there exist benchmarks universally accepted as indicators of moving through childhood and adolescence appropriately. Too often though these benchmarks don't come from ourselves and are not determined with our own children in mind. Creating benchmarks appropriate for our own kids takes great confidence and risk ....and real, whole listening, the way God listens to us. In small ways I might be there, but in big ways I think I lack a real ability for that. In a moment, Phoebe wasn't heard, she may have thought she'd failed to meet our expectations or those of our culture. Being unheard is a big deal, and more, being accused and condemned of something without the opportunity of our own voice expressed, is an even bigger deal. Our kids need us to listen. My kids need me to listen to them ...better, fuller, in wholesome way. My desire for my kids to hear me must be less than my desire to hear them.
God listens to us, He hears our prayers, knows the interior desires of our hearts. He is patient, encouraging, compassionate and kind. Gently He guides us. So often during my day I say to Him "could you please just say something, let me know you're there?" I say it in exasperation, frustration. He is patiently listening, actively engaged in my struggle to make sense of this world, my life, my heart. I wish I reflected His way more.
How often is my own chatter clanging over the voices of my children, my husband? How often do I think what I have to say is more important? How often do I believe, with all of me, that this lesson must be imparted NOW!? How often do I wait for a pause so I might jump in and weave my own fear and panic through the gift words shared, the exposed heart that just took a risk in revealing a vulnerable, treasured thought? How often do I fail to take delight in the launching of this young life for fear they might lose their way?
In lots of ways my situation is unique. I lost a daughter. I wish I heard her that morning. I wish so many things. And because of that morning, because Phoebe died, and because she was a teenage girl, and because she was my daughter, my daughter in my house, under my care, I live in fear, often panic, that I might miss something in my other children. And I'm becoming increasingly convinced that fear and panic will be what causes me to miss something. It certainly stops me from listening with a whole heart ...fully engaged and awed at the marvel of teenage girls spreading their wings and taking a shot at flight ...under my watchful gaze.
It is a crazy world, there is plenty to frighten us, lots to be aware and on top of. The prescriptive path might appear to work on the surface, but it's really a band-aid, and doesn't cultivate a richly lived life, an authentic life that bears the individual gifts given by God. And the fear/panic path hinders real growth and cultivates or exacerbates the exact things we fear, far too often. In my close circle there are a few mothers so stunned by the loss of Phoebe, their own level of fear and panic as a result of her death, nearly equals mine. We are afraid. Afraid of what the passionate teenager might do at times. So what's the answer?
The answer is to listen and love them. Listen without expecting a certain answer. Listen without the clipboard of check marks. Just listen without fear, panic. Listen with wonder and delight in the vibrant nature of who they are, designed by God to be exactly as they are!
I'm not advocating no limits, no curfew, high fiving them when they take a dangerous risk. I'm not suggesting we don't lead them, I'm not suggesting we let them riddle us with backtalk and disobedience and tell them they are a marvel. I don't dismiss the seriousness of teaching them about morals, about sin and its consequences. These are critical obligations of parenting.
For me, I'm striving to listen with a great expansive heart that will let me see and sense where their own heart is and the yearning that tugs at them. When my hearing and my heart work together, guided by the Holy Spirit. ...then I will be listening. I will be wholly present and engaged, on the journey with them, as a guide, rather than working the toll booth they must pass through, making sure they stay on the prescribed road paying the predetermined dues. I once believed I was united, heart and ear, to my kids. I know I have been at times, but I want it to be 'my way' always. Before Phoebe died, I would have said my rudder was prudence, but it was fear. I would have said my sail was faith, but it was prescriptives. Let my rudder be compassion, and let my sail fill with the witness of their adventure, their climb, a difficult, treacherous one, into adulthood. I want my kids to know they can come to me when they've taken a wrong turn, found themselves in trouble. Too many kids live in response to the check mark seeing no wiggle room for mistakes, setbacks, wrong turns "Oh, I would never tell my mother that, she'd disown me." Really. How do any of us get there? In some way Phoebe believed I'd disown her because she was found with pot in her backpack. Never would I have thought I'd conveyed that to her. that she would be rejected by that poor, but all too common, choice. But I look back and see I'd lost my way too. For years I'd communicated with sternness, fear for my children's souls, fear they'd displease God. I'd listened to wrong voices. I emulated faulty reasoning rooted in fear, not love and trust in God.
I pray to give thanks for the front row seating I have as my children navigate and explore their way to adulthood, sometimes using the map they've been given, and sometimes not. I pray they don't look like the cookie cutter kids our prescriptive culture adores, but rather people with real interests, real desires, real curiosity and a high sense of adventure not limited by a neatly etched template we expect them to abide. I pray I may take in the gift of their robust lives with both ears, a full, grateful heart and the assurance that God sees them, loves them and protects them with all His angels and saints.
Let my passion to listen be greater than my passion to be heard. Let my children know they have a voice, a beautiful melody that sings their own genuine song. And let them know their mother hears them with a full heart and great joy in the gift of who they are.
The circumstances of mothering force us to be listeners, naturally. We listen for grumbling tummies, crabby dispositions from too little sleep, uniforms in need of laundering for a game in 47 minutes, deadlines for applications. We hear so much, respond so often and so well. We feed them, tuck them in, wash their clothes, drive them to the game and cheer them on, stamp and lick envelopes. We do so many things right, over and over.We hear, we respond.
For me though I wonder how often I fall short of real, true, passionate listening. This theme keeps popping up, calling my attention, posing interior questions and reflections about where I am in the listening spectrum. Dynamics in my own past and present demand my attention to hone in on my listening skills. Conversations with friends, mothers too, echo this desire to let go of the obstacles that prevent listening rooted in the heart, anchored in love and respect. For me those obstacles are many ...exhaustion, hunger, time, anger, boredom, fear, panic ...grief. But too, I wonder how afraid I am of not being heard ...not being listened too. Many of us carry that sense of not being heard. My own fear hinders me from listening in ways I am capable of, only if I let go of the hold it has on me.
I could go in lots of directions with this theme, but the one that replays itself over and over is how well we listen, or don't listen, to our children. Real listening matters, it affects our kids, shapes them for life in ways beginning to unfold now. We live in a prescriptive culture. Do this, check. Do this, check, Do this, check, Do this, check. "Oh look at all the check marks, they are doing fine!" There are some universal check marks for parents. Is my child eating, check. Is my child sleeping, check. Is homework done, check. And then there are the more personalized ones. Conversation, no matter how loud, challenging, disturbing, upsetting is one of mine. I feel better if we are talking. Check. I don't care so much if the conversation is pleasant. I don't care so much if what I'm getting back is what I want to hear ....I just want to be engaged, actively communicating. Check. I want my kids to ask hard questions (ok, honestly, I really don't like it when they ask them at eleven pm on a school/work night). I want my kids to challenge what they've been told or taught, so they ultimately claim the Truth for themselves. I've seen kids who yes their parents, appear to be in alignment with expectations and beliefs, only to be doing so just to satisfy the parents, while living a different construct right under their nose. I don't want that. I want a real, active, dynamic life that isn't afraid to ask and face hard questions. And I thought that's what I had with Phoebe, and I think did in many ways. But her death pushes me to examine my own authenticity, my own ability to extend both ears along with my heart and listen to the tangled, confusing lives of my children. Some children are sneaky, but I wonder if they become that way because they are not really heard, they are just satisfying, or acting as if they are, what adults put on them. It's a hard job being a parent. We want them to do well, thrive. Culturally there exist benchmarks universally accepted as indicators of moving through childhood and adolescence appropriately. Too often though these benchmarks don't come from ourselves and are not determined with our own children in mind. Creating benchmarks appropriate for our own kids takes great confidence and risk ....and real, whole listening, the way God listens to us. In small ways I might be there, but in big ways I think I lack a real ability for that. In a moment, Phoebe wasn't heard, she may have thought she'd failed to meet our expectations or those of our culture. Being unheard is a big deal, and more, being accused and condemned of something without the opportunity of our own voice expressed, is an even bigger deal. Our kids need us to listen. My kids need me to listen to them ...better, fuller, in wholesome way. My desire for my kids to hear me must be less than my desire to hear them.
God listens to us, He hears our prayers, knows the interior desires of our hearts. He is patient, encouraging, compassionate and kind. Gently He guides us. So often during my day I say to Him "could you please just say something, let me know you're there?" I say it in exasperation, frustration. He is patiently listening, actively engaged in my struggle to make sense of this world, my life, my heart. I wish I reflected His way more.
How often is my own chatter clanging over the voices of my children, my husband? How often do I think what I have to say is more important? How often do I believe, with all of me, that this lesson must be imparted NOW!? How often do I wait for a pause so I might jump in and weave my own fear and panic through the gift words shared, the exposed heart that just took a risk in revealing a vulnerable, treasured thought? How often do I fail to take delight in the launching of this young life for fear they might lose their way?
In lots of ways my situation is unique. I lost a daughter. I wish I heard her that morning. I wish so many things. And because of that morning, because Phoebe died, and because she was a teenage girl, and because she was my daughter, my daughter in my house, under my care, I live in fear, often panic, that I might miss something in my other children. And I'm becoming increasingly convinced that fear and panic will be what causes me to miss something. It certainly stops me from listening with a whole heart ...fully engaged and awed at the marvel of teenage girls spreading their wings and taking a shot at flight ...under my watchful gaze.
It is a crazy world, there is plenty to frighten us, lots to be aware and on top of. The prescriptive path might appear to work on the surface, but it's really a band-aid, and doesn't cultivate a richly lived life, an authentic life that bears the individual gifts given by God. And the fear/panic path hinders real growth and cultivates or exacerbates the exact things we fear, far too often. In my close circle there are a few mothers so stunned by the loss of Phoebe, their own level of fear and panic as a result of her death, nearly equals mine. We are afraid. Afraid of what the passionate teenager might do at times. So what's the answer?
The answer is to listen and love them. Listen without expecting a certain answer. Listen without the clipboard of check marks. Just listen without fear, panic. Listen with wonder and delight in the vibrant nature of who they are, designed by God to be exactly as they are!
I'm not advocating no limits, no curfew, high fiving them when they take a dangerous risk. I'm not suggesting we don't lead them, I'm not suggesting we let them riddle us with backtalk and disobedience and tell them they are a marvel. I don't dismiss the seriousness of teaching them about morals, about sin and its consequences. These are critical obligations of parenting.
For me, I'm striving to listen with a great expansive heart that will let me see and sense where their own heart is and the yearning that tugs at them. When my hearing and my heart work together, guided by the Holy Spirit. ...then I will be listening. I will be wholly present and engaged, on the journey with them, as a guide, rather than working the toll booth they must pass through, making sure they stay on the prescribed road paying the predetermined dues. I once believed I was united, heart and ear, to my kids. I know I have been at times, but I want it to be 'my way' always. Before Phoebe died, I would have said my rudder was prudence, but it was fear. I would have said my sail was faith, but it was prescriptives. Let my rudder be compassion, and let my sail fill with the witness of their adventure, their climb, a difficult, treacherous one, into adulthood. I want my kids to know they can come to me when they've taken a wrong turn, found themselves in trouble. Too many kids live in response to the check mark seeing no wiggle room for mistakes, setbacks, wrong turns "Oh, I would never tell my mother that, she'd disown me." Really. How do any of us get there? In some way Phoebe believed I'd disown her because she was found with pot in her backpack. Never would I have thought I'd conveyed that to her. that she would be rejected by that poor, but all too common, choice. But I look back and see I'd lost my way too. For years I'd communicated with sternness, fear for my children's souls, fear they'd displease God. I'd listened to wrong voices. I emulated faulty reasoning rooted in fear, not love and trust in God.
I pray to give thanks for the front row seating I have as my children navigate and explore their way to adulthood, sometimes using the map they've been given, and sometimes not. I pray they don't look like the cookie cutter kids our prescriptive culture adores, but rather people with real interests, real desires, real curiosity and a high sense of adventure not limited by a neatly etched template we expect them to abide. I pray I may take in the gift of their robust lives with both ears, a full, grateful heart and the assurance that God sees them, loves them and protects them with all His angels and saints.
Let my passion to listen be greater than my passion to be heard. Let my children know they have a voice, a beautiful melody that sings their own genuine song. And let them know their mother hears them with a full heart and great joy in the gift of who they are.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
Perspective
Banter around our house lasts for about a week as Lent approaches. Who will give up what, who will do what, what will we do as a family. All sorts of comments and jokes are made "I'm giving up homework!, I'm giving up being polite, I'm giving up ...." The kids all laugh trying to beat each other, and it is comical, but also, it eases the tension of the seriousness of Lent and this season that calls us to give more of ourselves back to God and less of ourselves to our own desires. There are the outward actions we take on, or let go of, but the internal are harder, the one's that call for our own conversion, giving ourselves over to the One. I think there is truth too that God will often give us something for Lent, some struggle, some discomfort that eeks out of us what we claim to desire ...full union with Him. But claiming that, desiring it even, is far, far different from living it ...truly living it. If we truly live it, we are living with joy. The hardships are embraced as blessings, trail markers from God. That is so hard for us humans, us imperfect beings, especially me. Those rare birds who really do live it spread joy in the places and spaces they find themselves, among the people who cross their paths. I've been blessed with some friends who truly live that, and I know it's not easy, nor constant, but the majority of their lives are lived with this beautiful, extraordinary quality.. Someday, I hope to live that too. For now, it's a desire I have, something I pray for.
God chose a very specific cross for me in the second half of my life. It is heavy, and carrying it is hard ...and constant. Along the way, He's allowed some other crosses to enter my life, blindside me, leave me stunned and confused and feeling extremely hurt and betrayed. So by now, I've come to understand (because things can take me a long, long time to grasp) that He has chosen a harder path for me than many others, while others have been given a trail that is barely passable, much more difficult than mine. I know prayer, sacrifice, conversion are ways to stay close to Him and appreciate the intensity of Lent for that reason. I'd chosen my sacrifices for Lent, made my choices to live the season. But immediately, God had different plans, and some pretty heavy, untimely burdens came my way. I delved into a bit of a pity party, knowing full well that's what it was. I prayed for God to show me greater suffering than my own so I would understand and embrace my blessings, rather than shudder in the pain I felt ...feel. He answered.
I work with the elderly, sometimes not so elderly, as a nurse. I love my job, love the people I work with and feel enormously blessed that while I'm away from my family, I'm serving and making people's lives a bit better by caring for them. On Thursday, while God was literally unfolding His plan for my Lenten walk, I cared for a fairly new patient. I have twenty patients on a long-term care floor. We are among the more 'progressive' facilities in that we don't fit the stereotype of the traditional nursing home. As people live longer, have more healthcare options, we've become more like a sub-acute, stepdown floor that is aggressive in care. It's an active and engaged environment, fast paced and dynamic. This particular patient is new to me, I haven't 'gotten' her yet. She is lovely. Her diagnosis upon admission made us all cringe. While I entered orders for her on Thursday, the challenge was to balance different directives from different doctors with different specialties, all with solid, confident egos. I spent a lot of time on the phone for clarification, tracked down particular treatments rarely used. It was a lot of work, added to an already intense schedule. Everything for her would start Friday, so while I 'knew' the orders, reviewed them with the other nurses and our aides being very specific, emphasizing the critical nature of what we were to do, only my intellect was engaged. My heart wouldn't follow until today. Part of the treatments started yesterday while I wasn't there. The rest started today, under my care and supervision. To say I was deeply humbled does not grasp what God revealed to me. I felt both very small and insignificant, and at the same time ...beyond blessed.
We've all heard stories of what people must endure, hardships told that bring tears, and there are for sure worse things that people have had to experience. I can't go into detail, but what I will tell you is that no woman should have to bear what this one does. No woman should have to struggle each moment with the pain and outrageous unpleasantness of her condition, only to be completely at the mercy of her caregivers while in the most vulnerable situation I've ever witnessed. And she moves through it with amazing grace. In another culture, she'd likely be shunned, and outcast. She has humbled me and witnessed what I've asked of God ...show me worse suffering than my own (such a selfish, self absorbed question, I know) and He has. And knowing my need for a shared experience He's provided my companion for this particular journey.
While I always work with two aides assigned specifically to my patients, there is one I believe is Heaven sent. I have grown to love her deeply. We work very well together, often not needing words, just glances and gestures. She makes me look good ...a lot. Her own sister has a tough diagnosis. Last night they held a fundraiser for her care expenses. So Annie was a little late this morning. She had glitter in her hair still from the party bring with her a sense of joy and festivity, a mood of gratitude. This patient is one of her ten people. She loves all of them and cares for each as if they were her own. Today, Annie looked at me with her sparkling head and filled eyes. "She's here to die you know," she said to me, "I can't get too attached, it will hurt too much." I told her I didn't know that, I'd thought she was short term, we'd get her up and running, send her home. Annie shook her head. We just looked at each other, made a silent pact, as we've done before. She will die with dignity and beauty and grace ...we will help her. Annie will get attached, and she will drag me along with her. It will be a hard death, perhaps the hardest I will ever see, it will take months. She will suffer even more than she is now. It is a horrible, horrible thing for any woman to experience.
I asked for God to show me a burden greater than my own. If one day I have this same one, it will be different, I will have my children, perhaps my husband still. I will not be alone. She is ...all alone. For sure, God is with her, ministering to her. It takes me out of my own, unites me to hers ...because I do not want her to be alone. I don't want her to feel so vulnerable. Through her own suffering, I've been given the gift of caring for her, gaining perspective and reaching outside what pulls me down. God put me right where I belong, gave me the view I needed to say thank you! thank you! great God of mine.
The perfect answer to my imperfect prayer. Please pray for my little lady.
God chose a very specific cross for me in the second half of my life. It is heavy, and carrying it is hard ...and constant. Along the way, He's allowed some other crosses to enter my life, blindside me, leave me stunned and confused and feeling extremely hurt and betrayed. So by now, I've come to understand (because things can take me a long, long time to grasp) that He has chosen a harder path for me than many others, while others have been given a trail that is barely passable, much more difficult than mine. I know prayer, sacrifice, conversion are ways to stay close to Him and appreciate the intensity of Lent for that reason. I'd chosen my sacrifices for Lent, made my choices to live the season. But immediately, God had different plans, and some pretty heavy, untimely burdens came my way. I delved into a bit of a pity party, knowing full well that's what it was. I prayed for God to show me greater suffering than my own so I would understand and embrace my blessings, rather than shudder in the pain I felt ...feel. He answered.
I work with the elderly, sometimes not so elderly, as a nurse. I love my job, love the people I work with and feel enormously blessed that while I'm away from my family, I'm serving and making people's lives a bit better by caring for them. On Thursday, while God was literally unfolding His plan for my Lenten walk, I cared for a fairly new patient. I have twenty patients on a long-term care floor. We are among the more 'progressive' facilities in that we don't fit the stereotype of the traditional nursing home. As people live longer, have more healthcare options, we've become more like a sub-acute, stepdown floor that is aggressive in care. It's an active and engaged environment, fast paced and dynamic. This particular patient is new to me, I haven't 'gotten' her yet. She is lovely. Her diagnosis upon admission made us all cringe. While I entered orders for her on Thursday, the challenge was to balance different directives from different doctors with different specialties, all with solid, confident egos. I spent a lot of time on the phone for clarification, tracked down particular treatments rarely used. It was a lot of work, added to an already intense schedule. Everything for her would start Friday, so while I 'knew' the orders, reviewed them with the other nurses and our aides being very specific, emphasizing the critical nature of what we were to do, only my intellect was engaged. My heart wouldn't follow until today. Part of the treatments started yesterday while I wasn't there. The rest started today, under my care and supervision. To say I was deeply humbled does not grasp what God revealed to me. I felt both very small and insignificant, and at the same time ...beyond blessed.
We've all heard stories of what people must endure, hardships told that bring tears, and there are for sure worse things that people have had to experience. I can't go into detail, but what I will tell you is that no woman should have to bear what this one does. No woman should have to struggle each moment with the pain and outrageous unpleasantness of her condition, only to be completely at the mercy of her caregivers while in the most vulnerable situation I've ever witnessed. And she moves through it with amazing grace. In another culture, she'd likely be shunned, and outcast. She has humbled me and witnessed what I've asked of God ...show me worse suffering than my own (such a selfish, self absorbed question, I know) and He has. And knowing my need for a shared experience He's provided my companion for this particular journey.
While I always work with two aides assigned specifically to my patients, there is one I believe is Heaven sent. I have grown to love her deeply. We work very well together, often not needing words, just glances and gestures. She makes me look good ...a lot. Her own sister has a tough diagnosis. Last night they held a fundraiser for her care expenses. So Annie was a little late this morning. She had glitter in her hair still from the party bring with her a sense of joy and festivity, a mood of gratitude. This patient is one of her ten people. She loves all of them and cares for each as if they were her own. Today, Annie looked at me with her sparkling head and filled eyes. "She's here to die you know," she said to me, "I can't get too attached, it will hurt too much." I told her I didn't know that, I'd thought she was short term, we'd get her up and running, send her home. Annie shook her head. We just looked at each other, made a silent pact, as we've done before. She will die with dignity and beauty and grace ...we will help her. Annie will get attached, and she will drag me along with her. It will be a hard death, perhaps the hardest I will ever see, it will take months. She will suffer even more than she is now. It is a horrible, horrible thing for any woman to experience.
I asked for God to show me a burden greater than my own. If one day I have this same one, it will be different, I will have my children, perhaps my husband still. I will not be alone. She is ...all alone. For sure, God is with her, ministering to her. It takes me out of my own, unites me to hers ...because I do not want her to be alone. I don't want her to feel so vulnerable. Through her own suffering, I've been given the gift of caring for her, gaining perspective and reaching outside what pulls me down. God put me right where I belong, gave me the view I needed to say thank you! thank you! great God of mine.
The perfect answer to my imperfect prayer. Please pray for my little lady.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Storms
I just got back from the grocery store. I didn't go until 10PM. Earlier, the parking lots were jammed and the lines at the gas stations were long, out on the street. Seems like we live in the line of fire and full on panic has set in. Schools cancelled for tomorrow. I have to work, so the kids here will hunker down, though some think it's a great time to socialize and don't see the concern over driving.
I remember years ago the Blizzard of '78, back when Shelby Scott and Don Kent were our weather people. Don always stayed in the studio. He was like a dad. Shelby was a lot like a mom. Shelby always got stuck out in high winds, swiping sleet and ravaging rain. She was a hero. I miss her. I tell my kids about Don and Shelby. I grew up with them. They were different than the celebrities we see on TV today. There wasn't any glitz and glammor to their jobs. They worked hard, and were paid fairly.
They say this storm could be like that one, and by the look of the grocery story shelves it seems certain. We were stuck inside for a week, at least. Cars couldn't go anywhere. The snow took months to melt, piled high in parking lots. There was no internet, no constant updates, no advance notice school cancellations. So different from today.
I often wonder where all this advancement has taken us. For sure, a lot of it is good. But I miss people like Don Kent and the amazing Shelby Scott. I felt safe with them, even when the weather wasn't. As long as Shelby was getting whipped around in the waves and we could see her head still bobbing ...we were all set.
Sometimes I can find someone else who remembers her and we trade stories of "remember when Shelby was ...," "remember when all the trees fell, and sure enough, there was Shelby on top of them all!"
I think whenever you lose someone, you not only beg for their return, but all the other things too that made up the fabric of their time with you. You long for a return to the past and the things that made you secure.
Phoebe never saw Don or Shelby, but she knew about them, loved hearing stories about Shelby. And I think Phoebe would have liked her job, would have been a good protege. I miss having a storm looming and having Phoebe help me ready the troops. If she was still here she'd have the shovels ready, tell me the strategy for the cars. She'd be telling her sisters they could or couldn't go to their friends. She'd be bossing us all around. I could have walked through that store with her tonight and she would have laughed at all the empty shelves and wondered what people would do if they really lived without.
I get to do lots of good and fun things with all my kids. Simple funny things. Just this morning Mary Claire was horrified with me that I didn't know ducks don't get wet. "Mom! I'm six and I know that, you're a grownup and you don't know about the special oil on their feathers? How could you not know that?" She reported me to her big brother. I was reprimanded. There's lots of laughter in this house ...and its good, our life is good. But still, those times, those special little moments I shared with just her are gone, and I miss them. She loved the outdoors, the power of nature and knew what it could do. And she pushed her limits right up against it, always cautioning me.
The Grand Canyon, the rivers and mountain ranges, valleys all were forged by the earth moving and shifting. Their beauty is magnificent, extraordinary ...carved out of chaos and upheaval, undone by storms, only to settle on beautiful ...in time.
Is that what grief and loss, sadness and sorrow, suffering and pain does to the landscape of our soul? Is that how God prepares us for a better, richer, more beautiful ...even magnificent soul?
Maybe. I think in many ways, certainly. And that's a gift. Even still, I'd love my girl to boss me around a little bit, tell me what to do, get us all in line. I'd love to yell to her outside "Hey Shelby, how's the weather?"
She'd likely tell me it was more than I could handle and she'd let me know when it was safe for me to come out.
We'll ride out this storm ...without Don Kent, without Shelby Scott and without Phoebe. And we'll arrive on the other side.
I remember years ago the Blizzard of '78, back when Shelby Scott and Don Kent were our weather people. Don always stayed in the studio. He was like a dad. Shelby was a lot like a mom. Shelby always got stuck out in high winds, swiping sleet and ravaging rain. She was a hero. I miss her. I tell my kids about Don and Shelby. I grew up with them. They were different than the celebrities we see on TV today. There wasn't any glitz and glammor to their jobs. They worked hard, and were paid fairly.
They say this storm could be like that one, and by the look of the grocery story shelves it seems certain. We were stuck inside for a week, at least. Cars couldn't go anywhere. The snow took months to melt, piled high in parking lots. There was no internet, no constant updates, no advance notice school cancellations. So different from today.
I often wonder where all this advancement has taken us. For sure, a lot of it is good. But I miss people like Don Kent and the amazing Shelby Scott. I felt safe with them, even when the weather wasn't. As long as Shelby was getting whipped around in the waves and we could see her head still bobbing ...we were all set.
Sometimes I can find someone else who remembers her and we trade stories of "remember when Shelby was ...," "remember when all the trees fell, and sure enough, there was Shelby on top of them all!"
I think whenever you lose someone, you not only beg for their return, but all the other things too that made up the fabric of their time with you. You long for a return to the past and the things that made you secure.
Phoebe never saw Don or Shelby, but she knew about them, loved hearing stories about Shelby. And I think Phoebe would have liked her job, would have been a good protege. I miss having a storm looming and having Phoebe help me ready the troops. If she was still here she'd have the shovels ready, tell me the strategy for the cars. She'd be telling her sisters they could or couldn't go to their friends. She'd be bossing us all around. I could have walked through that store with her tonight and she would have laughed at all the empty shelves and wondered what people would do if they really lived without.
I get to do lots of good and fun things with all my kids. Simple funny things. Just this morning Mary Claire was horrified with me that I didn't know ducks don't get wet. "Mom! I'm six and I know that, you're a grownup and you don't know about the special oil on their feathers? How could you not know that?" She reported me to her big brother. I was reprimanded. There's lots of laughter in this house ...and its good, our life is good. But still, those times, those special little moments I shared with just her are gone, and I miss them. She loved the outdoors, the power of nature and knew what it could do. And she pushed her limits right up against it, always cautioning me.
The Grand Canyon, the rivers and mountain ranges, valleys all were forged by the earth moving and shifting. Their beauty is magnificent, extraordinary ...carved out of chaos and upheaval, undone by storms, only to settle on beautiful ...in time.
Is that what grief and loss, sadness and sorrow, suffering and pain does to the landscape of our soul? Is that how God prepares us for a better, richer, more beautiful ...even magnificent soul?
Maybe. I think in many ways, certainly. And that's a gift. Even still, I'd love my girl to boss me around a little bit, tell me what to do, get us all in line. I'd love to yell to her outside "Hey Shelby, how's the weather?"
She'd likely tell me it was more than I could handle and she'd let me know when it was safe for me to come out.
We'll ride out this storm ...without Don Kent, without Shelby Scott and without Phoebe. And we'll arrive on the other side.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
St. Joan of Arc
St. Joan of Arc is a formidable force, someone you want fighting for your cause, advocating for you, keeping you in line. Her life unfolded for me today as I hunkered down and indulged in a rare (I thought extinct!) day of reading.
I think I was able to avert the flu by lying low once the first symptoms hit. Lots of vitamin C, fluids and good old fashioned chicken soup made by my husband kept me on the couch for two days, reading and sleeping. I'd spent several days of the past week caring for patients with the flu. We all take precautions with masks, gloves, hand washing, but with so many at once, it's nearly impossible to avoid it. Fortunately, I think only outskirt germs found me and took hold for just a bit. I'm much better, and glad for the chance to read as much as I did. First I finished a great novel I had been chipping away at since Christmas ...a gift from a friend. Today the spine of another book kept glaring at me.
Shortly before Phoebe died she had a funny little exchange with her principal. They'd just finished an all school meeting where the principal, once again, passionately spoke on a point she would not let go of until accomplished. After, Phoebe told her she was beginning to sound like St. Joan of Arc. "I'm flattered," the principal responded. To which Phoebe replied "well, be careful, you know what happened to her." After Phoebe died, her principal shared that with me, a comment on how that would only come from Phoebe, she would have that sense of history, be able to apply it ...something her teachers had often commented on. I've remembered that story lots of times, and believing there are no coincidences, had a strong sense I should learn more about St. Joan of Arc and see what might have drawn Phoebe to her.
So today was the day. When Phoebe died, I lost my ability to read for many months, a common effect from loss of a child. When I was once again able, it was only for short periods of time, as in three minutes or less. I abandoned the idea then, that I would take on the highly complex and complicated spiritual reading I had once pushed myself through. Now I read books about the saints that are targeted to the middle school level. Perfect! I'm able to both start and finish the book, which is good and second, I get to see things from the perspective of a younger mind. The information shared is what might appeal to the younger set, so it helps me see from my kids eyes ...what qualities and characteristics speak to them, speak of God.
Now, for my disclaimer. I am in no way suggesting my daughter is a saint (though I may believe she is!, I do not expect, need, or even desire others to). I am suggesting however, I understand how Phoebe found this saint appealing and could sense a kinship with her. First, they were both seventeen. St. Joan left her family to fight for France. She left her family without telling them what exactly her plans were, and enlisted the hesitant help from her cousin to get her started. She fought and served without fear ...qualities shared by Phoebe. There was a sense of adventure and daring, risk taking for the sake of the greater good. Everything St. Joan did was meant to only serve God. She used her qualities to serve Him. Way back in the 1400's that was easier to do, I think. Life, culture was centered on God. Today we live in a world very far away from God, far away from serving Him, and I think that confuses our kids tremendously. Way back in St. Joan's time, God was the bedrock, the backbone. Of course then too, there was corruption, heresy, rejection ...but it was more obvious because He was the core. Not so anymore.
St. Joan fought to restore France, restore the Kingship, restore things to be rightly ordered to God. Our kids, all of them, want to fight for something beyond SAT scores and honor role. Too many of them question the existence of God, the purpose of themselves, the purpose of life. And they fight ...they fight us ...they fight with drugs, with sex, with alcohol ...all sorts of distortions and perversions that mirror the diet fed to them from this crazy mixed up world. And some kids fight right out in the open, while others hide. Either way isn't good, either way is statement for the madness we've created for them. Listen to the radio, it's all you hear. Watch TV, struggle to find something that isn't base and degrading with the laugh track running non-stop. Integrity, dignity, purity, selflessness don't sell ...and so we don't see much of it anymore. As parents we don't get much backup. While our kids make the inevitable journey to physical adulthood, our culture keeps them children, selfish, only now with a mix of cynicism.
I don't believe our children want this, I believe they desire the good, the Truth. They want the wholeness of life, the richness God provides. And yet, the vocabulary, the language of faith is unspoken, unknown. For those of us who teach it to them, they can't find others out there who understand it ...or care for it.
A long conversation with a good friend brings the shared concerns, but also the confidence there is a way for us to give all that is good to our kids ...even when it seems obviously impossible. God will provide. Those of us holding on to the faith, and the teachings ...yes, even the tough ones, the ones our culture calls archaic, laughs at and scoffs ..those of us striving to pass that on, without it being a badge of elitism, but rather a bridge for all we see, we must find a way to bridge Heaven to earth, Heaven to our kids in the immediacy of life. We are the Church Militant ...those desperately striving to live our lives as Jesus asked us to, as He witnessed. We must extend our hands to the Church Triumphant ...the saints, the men and women whose lives were lived for God, and often lost for God. Real people, real battles and sacrifice, real suffering and sorrow. Not the battles we often complain about ....needing a bigger house, an annoying husband, not enough money ...blah, blah, blah (I've done it too, so I can say it!), but the battles that make us bleed out every ounce of self ...every ounce of what we counted on and believed ...only to reach back and choose God over and over, when He has seemingly taken the very core of ourselves from us! These are the people, the saints, like St. Joan of Arc, that we need to ask into our lives, the lives of our children. It was said, that a high ranking English officer saw angels on horseback escorting her as she led the charge against the English. The sky was filled with Heavenly warriors. I want them on my team! I want them to be with my kids. I want my kids to be saved from all the deception and lies of this world. Parents cannot do that alone ...we need the help of angels and saints to help us. Guard our children, give them the virtues to attain Heaven one day. Give me the virtues to one day attain Heaven and merit the company of the saints, the company, once again of my daughter. I pray for that, never stop.
Like most things that are good and holy, St. Joan of Arc has been written off as a schizophrenic, a witch, a liar. Of course, in this day, we laugh at anyone who lives to serve God alone ...when He is all we should be serving. St. Joan of Arc was a seventeen year old girl with passion and purpose. I know a few other seventeen year old girls like that ....too bad the world is too Godless to witness their extraordinary grace and virtue. But I see it, and others do too! And thank God for these girls. And thank God for St. Joan of Arc.
St. Joan of Arc, young woman, with purpose, passion, courage and faith, protect our children, protect us, pray for us.
An ordinary day, a sweet memory, an invitation towards the Church Triumphant ...I'm thinking Phoebe and I found each other today ....I'm glad.
I think I was able to avert the flu by lying low once the first symptoms hit. Lots of vitamin C, fluids and good old fashioned chicken soup made by my husband kept me on the couch for two days, reading and sleeping. I'd spent several days of the past week caring for patients with the flu. We all take precautions with masks, gloves, hand washing, but with so many at once, it's nearly impossible to avoid it. Fortunately, I think only outskirt germs found me and took hold for just a bit. I'm much better, and glad for the chance to read as much as I did. First I finished a great novel I had been chipping away at since Christmas ...a gift from a friend. Today the spine of another book kept glaring at me.
Shortly before Phoebe died she had a funny little exchange with her principal. They'd just finished an all school meeting where the principal, once again, passionately spoke on a point she would not let go of until accomplished. After, Phoebe told her she was beginning to sound like St. Joan of Arc. "I'm flattered," the principal responded. To which Phoebe replied "well, be careful, you know what happened to her." After Phoebe died, her principal shared that with me, a comment on how that would only come from Phoebe, she would have that sense of history, be able to apply it ...something her teachers had often commented on. I've remembered that story lots of times, and believing there are no coincidences, had a strong sense I should learn more about St. Joan of Arc and see what might have drawn Phoebe to her.
So today was the day. When Phoebe died, I lost my ability to read for many months, a common effect from loss of a child. When I was once again able, it was only for short periods of time, as in three minutes or less. I abandoned the idea then, that I would take on the highly complex and complicated spiritual reading I had once pushed myself through. Now I read books about the saints that are targeted to the middle school level. Perfect! I'm able to both start and finish the book, which is good and second, I get to see things from the perspective of a younger mind. The information shared is what might appeal to the younger set, so it helps me see from my kids eyes ...what qualities and characteristics speak to them, speak of God.
Now, for my disclaimer. I am in no way suggesting my daughter is a saint (though I may believe she is!, I do not expect, need, or even desire others to). I am suggesting however, I understand how Phoebe found this saint appealing and could sense a kinship with her. First, they were both seventeen. St. Joan left her family to fight for France. She left her family without telling them what exactly her plans were, and enlisted the hesitant help from her cousin to get her started. She fought and served without fear ...qualities shared by Phoebe. There was a sense of adventure and daring, risk taking for the sake of the greater good. Everything St. Joan did was meant to only serve God. She used her qualities to serve Him. Way back in the 1400's that was easier to do, I think. Life, culture was centered on God. Today we live in a world very far away from God, far away from serving Him, and I think that confuses our kids tremendously. Way back in St. Joan's time, God was the bedrock, the backbone. Of course then too, there was corruption, heresy, rejection ...but it was more obvious because He was the core. Not so anymore.
St. Joan fought to restore France, restore the Kingship, restore things to be rightly ordered to God. Our kids, all of them, want to fight for something beyond SAT scores and honor role. Too many of them question the existence of God, the purpose of themselves, the purpose of life. And they fight ...they fight us ...they fight with drugs, with sex, with alcohol ...all sorts of distortions and perversions that mirror the diet fed to them from this crazy mixed up world. And some kids fight right out in the open, while others hide. Either way isn't good, either way is statement for the madness we've created for them. Listen to the radio, it's all you hear. Watch TV, struggle to find something that isn't base and degrading with the laugh track running non-stop. Integrity, dignity, purity, selflessness don't sell ...and so we don't see much of it anymore. As parents we don't get much backup. While our kids make the inevitable journey to physical adulthood, our culture keeps them children, selfish, only now with a mix of cynicism.
I don't believe our children want this, I believe they desire the good, the Truth. They want the wholeness of life, the richness God provides. And yet, the vocabulary, the language of faith is unspoken, unknown. For those of us who teach it to them, they can't find others out there who understand it ...or care for it.
A long conversation with a good friend brings the shared concerns, but also the confidence there is a way for us to give all that is good to our kids ...even when it seems obviously impossible. God will provide. Those of us holding on to the faith, and the teachings ...yes, even the tough ones, the ones our culture calls archaic, laughs at and scoffs ..those of us striving to pass that on, without it being a badge of elitism, but rather a bridge for all we see, we must find a way to bridge Heaven to earth, Heaven to our kids in the immediacy of life. We are the Church Militant ...those desperately striving to live our lives as Jesus asked us to, as He witnessed. We must extend our hands to the Church Triumphant ...the saints, the men and women whose lives were lived for God, and often lost for God. Real people, real battles and sacrifice, real suffering and sorrow. Not the battles we often complain about ....needing a bigger house, an annoying husband, not enough money ...blah, blah, blah (I've done it too, so I can say it!), but the battles that make us bleed out every ounce of self ...every ounce of what we counted on and believed ...only to reach back and choose God over and over, when He has seemingly taken the very core of ourselves from us! These are the people, the saints, like St. Joan of Arc, that we need to ask into our lives, the lives of our children. It was said, that a high ranking English officer saw angels on horseback escorting her as she led the charge against the English. The sky was filled with Heavenly warriors. I want them on my team! I want them to be with my kids. I want my kids to be saved from all the deception and lies of this world. Parents cannot do that alone ...we need the help of angels and saints to help us. Guard our children, give them the virtues to attain Heaven one day. Give me the virtues to one day attain Heaven and merit the company of the saints, the company, once again of my daughter. I pray for that, never stop.
Like most things that are good and holy, St. Joan of Arc has been written off as a schizophrenic, a witch, a liar. Of course, in this day, we laugh at anyone who lives to serve God alone ...when He is all we should be serving. St. Joan of Arc was a seventeen year old girl with passion and purpose. I know a few other seventeen year old girls like that ....too bad the world is too Godless to witness their extraordinary grace and virtue. But I see it, and others do too! And thank God for these girls. And thank God for St. Joan of Arc.
St. Joan of Arc, young woman, with purpose, passion, courage and faith, protect our children, protect us, pray for us.
An ordinary day, a sweet memory, an invitation towards the Church Triumphant ...I'm thinking Phoebe and I found each other today ....I'm glad.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Snow Angels
A single snowflake can send my kids into hysterical delight. They love snow! I can write at this moment because my last two to head off to school for the day are outside in the thin blanket of snow. Flakes are falling and I can hear the excitement and joy ...tongues stuck out to catch the falling gems. They are bundled, ready for a blizzard, planning their afternoon of sledding and fort building. They know it will stop soon ....but that doesn't wane their hope, their determination, their confidence that they've been blessed by this snowfall.
Phoebe was often the first out in the snow ....she loved it too, still does, I'm sure of it! Our hope in God, in His constant blessings, unrelenting flow of grace and opportunity for conversion can be like that great hope snow brings out in my kids. Of course the snow will melt and go away ....but oh it is so fun to play in it now ...and it will come again, maybe a long way off even, but most certainly it will come! Of course challenges, trials and sorrow will come again ...but today is the joy! Today is the gift, the assurance that life takes steps forwards, sometimes seemingly backwards, but always forwards when oriented to God ...because His orientation is not limited to north, south, east, west ....He is God, without constraints and limits. His river of grace may seem to run dry, but I will find the running waters of it again ....and again ...and again! I am certain of that.
Snow fell here on Christmas ...and then a week or so later. I went to that space where she lies, her body confined. I stood there and looked at that spot, and up at the tree above her with its great branch I see her running across barefoot. So often I want to give her something, a treat, a little treasure just for her from me. Its a mothers way, to find that little special something that says "I notice! I see you for who you are, outside the lot of all of you ...there is you, just you ...and I notice what fancies you." The snow is untouched and I lay myself down, on top of her space, swing my arms and legs. "There you go, Pheebs! Like it!" I stand and look at my gift to her, her snow angel ...and I hear her voice, her giggling voice ..."you are such a goof!, thanks mom, love you too!" Sometimes the simplest things are the best things, the greatest gifts. My snow angel melted, but Phoebe and I still ...still, share that moment in time! What a gift ...an amazing, grace filled gift of a moment with someone I love and miss so deeply.
Phoebe was often the first out in the snow ....she loved it too, still does, I'm sure of it! Our hope in God, in His constant blessings, unrelenting flow of grace and opportunity for conversion can be like that great hope snow brings out in my kids. Of course the snow will melt and go away ....but oh it is so fun to play in it now ...and it will come again, maybe a long way off even, but most certainly it will come! Of course challenges, trials and sorrow will come again ...but today is the joy! Today is the gift, the assurance that life takes steps forwards, sometimes seemingly backwards, but always forwards when oriented to God ...because His orientation is not limited to north, south, east, west ....He is God, without constraints and limits. His river of grace may seem to run dry, but I will find the running waters of it again ....and again ...and again! I am certain of that.
Snow fell here on Christmas ...and then a week or so later. I went to that space where she lies, her body confined. I stood there and looked at that spot, and up at the tree above her with its great branch I see her running across barefoot. So often I want to give her something, a treat, a little treasure just for her from me. Its a mothers way, to find that little special something that says "I notice! I see you for who you are, outside the lot of all of you ...there is you, just you ...and I notice what fancies you." The snow is untouched and I lay myself down, on top of her space, swing my arms and legs. "There you go, Pheebs! Like it!" I stand and look at my gift to her, her snow angel ...and I hear her voice, her giggling voice ..."you are such a goof!, thanks mom, love you too!" Sometimes the simplest things are the best things, the greatest gifts. My snow angel melted, but Phoebe and I still ...still, share that moment in time! What a gift ...an amazing, grace filled gift of a moment with someone I love and miss so deeply.
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