What I Hope for Her

My third child is going to the college my grandmother, mom and I attended.  I joined a Parents of the Class of 2020 group and somehow, when interacting with them, this bled out of the keyboard.  So since today I'm dealing with two sickies and a mountain of laundry that rivals Mt. Fuji, I leave you with this piece about what I hope my daughter and all others who attend Saint Mary's College in Notre Dame, Indiana, find during their four years.

When I went to my 30th reunion, I looked around and all I could see, were beautiful strong women. I saw women who ran marathons, fought cancer, became lawyers, ran schools, stayed at home with their children, some who worked for non profits, and others in the corporate world, I saw women of every stripe, but all of them Saint Mary's. All of them had a desire to connect, to return to this place that helped shape them to face whatever storm came at them when they left.

I saw women who I remember as girls, weeping over the boy who broke their hearts, now caring for women who are escaping from men who break their hearts and more. I saw women who struggled with anorexia as girls, who now work in counseling and nutrition. I saw artists who now seek out other artists, English majors who now have written books that became movies. I saw a friend who struggled but quit smoking, and another who struggled with depression, now so fully alive, it is luminous.

My friends and I also wept for the missing spaces, the friends who we'll never see in this life again, who lost battles to health issues, but who were at SMC and ever after, women of faith, courage, service and love. Some of them were classmates. Some of them were professors. All of them were dear.

I discovered classmates I didn't know then, who overcame personal loss, in some cases, the kind that can leave you forever stuck in that moment of pain, but who came and were shaped but not stapled by that suffering. It was the vision of Sister Madeleva, the once President of this school, all the girls who came to this college, their divine potential rendered in reality, sitting at the table.

All of these women, all from different walks of life, all from different vocations, all taking joy in each other's company, in the mass, in the meal, in the time remembered and time spent during the reunion. That is my hope for each of your daughters and mine, that they get to sit at a table, 35 years from now, reveling in the rediscovery of who each of them have become.

How Do We Do This?

It's a question that bites at four in the morning, when you just went to the kitchen for some water and discovered your teen asleep at the computer, having pulled the high school equivalent of an all nighter.  You send her down to bed.  The seven year old comes down the stairs, thinking it's breakfast time.  You send him back up.  The next day there is a parent teacher conference and a basketball practice which runs late, and a presentation at ten which two of your children are in, and who will feel crushed if no one shows.  You go.  There is a pile of a laundry in your room because you took everything out of your drawers looking for your daughter's pair of white pants which she insisted were missing, but which she found in her drawers after you'd done the damage.

My five year old slumps on the floor, demanding food and entertainment.  My ten year old chafes at being told to take a shower.  She doesn't have anything red, white or blue that's clean for the show, so I fish through the laundry, while my husband drives the two to their school, and the overtired teen who missed the bus to hers.  He stops and gets our daughter a shirt while I'm at home doing pony tails and trying to brush long hair without snagging, for she snarls when there are snarls in her hair.

And I know I'm not the only one feeling the crush of things.  My sister's family is rocked by my niece who broke her arm so badly, it will need surgery.  My mom needed care at the start of October. Fall has been hard.  The fall is hard.   Being fallen, harder still.

So what do we do? How do we do this? How do we keep doing this?

It is a choice, gnash or sing, weep or pray, growl or read.

Sunday, we took a late date night to see the latest James Bond film. We forced it into the schedule, because it wouldn't happen any other way.  The next day, I put out table cloths and Thanksgiving decorations and we had apple pie. There's only one way to fight chaos and stress, and the pain and nuisances of this life, with deliberate kindness, delight, service and beauty.  

The Blessed Mother did not scream at the crowd for mutilating her son.  She did not rage at the injustice or the cruelty of it all, and she had cause.  I just have nuisance value.  To prove the point, the nurse called from the elementary, to let me know Paul's eye is red, and he might have pink eye. I felt the sting of it, even though I know my sister is dealing with far more vexing medical issues.  I can understand how we are to respond.  I do not respond that way...also,  my four year old does not want to go back into the car.   She slumps onto the floor, rump in the air and says, "This is boring. I'm so bored.  I don't want to do this."

How do we do this?  I bribe her with mini-muffins, clapping hands and a song.  By recognizing we are always in a fight against time, against all the paper cuts and bigger wounds of the world.   This morning, my ten year old came down the stairs with a case of the grumps.  Her father hugged her until it melted away.   We have to keep remembering, to try again and together, with flowers and light, table cloths and books, hugs and games, kind words and second chances, we will make today, and all the days that come after, memories of light, and not one long scratchy dull fall of frustration.

But it is tempting to fall into that way of thinking, so God keeps sending reminders through other people.

Today, I went to Veteran's day at my children's school.  They sang songs. They asked the men and women to stand and be recognized. The principal asked them to speak.  The kids clapped, they recited a poem, and all children who had family still serving, were asked to stand.   Two boys stood for their father.  At the end of the school ceremony, when we'd clapped and sang and saluted the Veterans, a special guest arrived, and these two boys saw their father in the flesh for the first time in a year.   There wasn't a dry eye in the auditorium.  Here was a reminder that all of the pain and nuisance of life, is fleeting, this is what remains eternal.

Being a Crocus

It has been winter so long, I think people don't quite believe spring will come.  I believe, it is why God made crocuses, those over eager flowers that bloom first, sometimes surrounded by snow.

It's a funny thing, we all know we need food, water, shelter, and friends to make life bearable, but we forget that within those larger categories, in each of them, is something more.  We don't just want a house, we want a home.  We don't just want food, we want it to be good, warming, revitalizing.  We don't just want to know people who know us, we want some deeper connection, real community, family, friends that run deeper than likes and dislikes.  We want people who know us, and still love us.    What we want in all of those generic categories, is beauty.   "For beauty will save the world." --Dostoevsky

Deliberate design, art, competent cuisine, thoughtful planning, exposure to thoughts and music, all of these come from someone else seeking to carve out of the every day, a slice of greater pleasure than can be found in mere substance and shelter and somebodies.  We all know this, and yet we forget.  A day where you open the mail box and find a love letter, is a brighter day than one with only junk mail.  A garden full of blooms fills something we don't even know we need.  The smells of something baking elicit a smile before the first bite.   A favorite song makes people sit up, start to dance, sing, smile, even if before, the mood was much duller.  

So today, we are charged to be crocuses, who in turn will inspire others to do the same.   Be deliberate in cultivating beauty for others.

Put on fun music, start a book you've put off that you want to read. Plan your dinner so people will when they ask, "What's for dinner," respond with "Yum." when they hear the answer.  Roasted Rosemary chicken with roasted potatoes, green beans, Caesar salad and mixed berry pie is on our menu. Play a piece on the piano, sing even if you can't.   Write a letter to someone saying "I love you" and why.  Mail it.  

Because the world right now needs to know, to witness crocuses dotting the landscape of life, that spring is here, hope is coming, and there will be and is more than mere existence right now.

Happy Last two weeks of Lent.

Feeding the Sheep, Feeding the Lambs, Feeding the Sheep

I was going to do a rant today, but the world doesn't need another post by another blogger annoyed at the world.  I look out at the snow falling, covering everything, making the bare trees beautiful and the muddy ground bright.  The world needs beauty, and it is starving.

This week, a woman paid to have herself killed because her looks had begun to fade.  In all the discussion, not once have I seen anyone look at this picture of this woman and say what should be obvious.  

This is a beautiful woman.    Source: Daily News.

She should not have done this because she turned someone who was beautiful into ashes.  She should not have done this, but what's more, others should have said, "Don't do this. You are lovely, too lovely to turn into ashes and mail back to an office.  You have more to offer than merely your money or your looks." Someone should have loved her that much, and she should have known it.

Miley Cyrus is another example of a beautiful woman turning herself into something far less lovely. She too needs someone to say, you have more to offer than you are giving.   She does not realize or care that one day she may grow stale, because someone new will sell themselves out even more for even less.   I know people have written to her including Sinead O'Connor, telling her, you need not be less.  You could be beautiful and are beautiful, without this new act.

But she like so many in the entertainment world, like so many in today's culture, confuse sex with beauty, confuse sex with love, confuse notoriety and infamy and crowds with love, confuse voyeurism and fame with genuine desire to see her personally. They see the stage, they see the sex, they see the train wreck.  They do not see her.

Real beauty delights.  

Real beauty you drink in and each time you see it, you see it more. 

 Like the face of your beloved, no matter how long you've know that person, 

each time they smile, you see it new.   

Anyone who has ever held a newborn knows this innately. You hold this person, 

and you could drink in looking at their face all day.  No matter how old they get, you will never tire of seeing them smile.

(I'll use my daughter because I can). But the same holds true for kiddos in utero. 

From lifenews.

You see a touch of the infinite, of the mind and heart of the God who created this thing called beauty in the first place.

We need to reintroduce or rather remind the starving souls of this planet of what beauty is.  

Because some things which should not have been forgotten, have been lost, lost to the point that a woman who feels lonely, feels she should pay strangers 14K to turn herself into ashes, because no one, including herself, thought her beautiful enough to save. Lost to the point that a whole world will watch a young woman with talent and looks debase herself constantly and applaud her daring.  

A rose is beautiful as a bud, and as a full bloom, and even its petals hold the fragrance of loveliness once they fall.   Just as our world holds beauty in all its seasons, our people do as well, but we need to relearn how to see it and reveal it to others.  

As Catholics, we've done a fair job in this country of fitting in, but in doing so, we've lost some of our salt and flavor, some of our light, for we've failed to proclaim the absolutely amazing thing about our faith, the belief that all of us are called to be luminous, to be saints.   All of us, no matter our lot, our life, our finances, our education, our politics, our preferences, our creed, our professions, all of us, even those we find distasteful at best, are to be treated as children of God. To treat each person as the honored guest at the banquet, that is the full rendering of faith via works. It is not separate from faith, it is not ahead of faith, it is not behind faith, it is integrated, part of what reveals the depth of our faith. Who would we not serve? That is the limit of our love.  

If we would show the world our faith,  if we would show the world beauty, we'd best get to washing feet, feeding the lambs, tending the sheep.

But what would that entail?  How would we go about this, what do we do?  Blessed Mother Teresa talked about what that would mean:

“Stay where you are. Find your own Calcutta. Find the sick, the suffering, and the lonely right there where you are — in your own homes and in your own families, in your workplaces and in your schools. You can find Calcutta all over the world, if you have the eyes to see. Everywhere, wherever you go, you find people who are unwanted, unloved, uncared for, just rejected by society — completely forgotten, completely left alone.”

Because real beauty is fearless, touching, healing, truthful and achingly intimate.  As Catholics it is our job to make the Church beautiful, so that the people out there who think their lives no longer worth keeping, or their virtue worth cherishing, who think their lives are over or too hard, know otherwise because they happened to run into us today.

Lighting a Candle

Today is a snow day.  Today the power went out for a time.

It was an awesome way to slow down the huge rush to run through the season. You can't fly through life when you can't get on line. You can't drown out the whisper of God when there is no sound to distract, no lights, no buzz, no clatter.  Cereal for breakfast.  Sandwiches for lunch.  Blankets and books.  I took a nap. The power came back on, but the result? Four kids are watching the old Sound of Music, three are making cookies, two are outside sledding.

Advent requires deliberate action, deliberate wakefulness to the heavenly song as versus the jingle the world cranks out every year this time.  Here's a great article discussing it with ideas on how to deliberately rebel.  Read it, and then read the link it links to as well.

Then, seek out the softer part of Christmas.  Write cards.  Light candles. Bake cookies.  Sing.  Cultivate deliberate loveliness in a cold dark world.  Drink deep the joy of the day when it is offered, for it may not come again.  (My son just invited me outside to sled  and while I hate cold, I just wrote those words so...I'll be finding my socks and warm coat).

 In the meantime, enjoy this piece of Christmas awesomeness:

and consider, the goal of our lives is to be like Fred in the Christmas carol to all other wounded souls.

There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round - apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it! 

Then, I'm going to go eat some gingerbread and hot cocoa with the kids.  Blessed Advent.  

Because We Need Beauty

Today, if I look at the news, it is hard not to fall into the sin of despair.   It is why we need things like sunsets and the laughter of children, the taste of chocolate, the color red, spring with all of its riotous outrageous color, and beauty saturating our souls, feeding them against the pain, the wrong we creatures made in God's image inflict on ourselves daily.  
So I began a post wherein I wrote out the lies that the serpent says, but it brought me lower, then I saw this lovely lovely post on my facebook wall.  I think it says what good art says, everything through less, everything through love even in the face of death.

Arranging the Stars

Fall is one of those times when one can feel as if the whole world is fading away.  It is a time of packing away the easier parts of life like sleeping in and unobstructed weekends and breaking out the bulky clothing of coats and scratchy sweaters, homework and back to school nights.  It can easily oppress to the point of leaving one an emotional parallel of the trees that have already shed their glory and seem overly prepared for winter. 

The malaise of Autumn like the dog days of summer, has more to do with mood than the month.  But fortunately, it can be countered, with hot cider and pumpkins, football games and the trees that are willing to wait and allow themselves to be changed by the weather rather than surrender to it. 

So when today was raining and rough and I'd seen a note from a friend who seemed to hold the weight of the world on her heart, I wanted to paint a picture of beauty with words.  I wanted a scene of peace and beauty because with our 24-7 news cycle, politics, internet noise and the speed of our lives that often seems beyond our control or understanding, we need the stillness that beauty invokes.  But the question had always lingered for me, why is beauty the answer?

We need that moment of awe that comes and makes everything better without explanations.  It brings us back to being fully human. A baby's toothless smile, a letter in the mail, a found ripe tomato amongst the ravaged remains of a summer garden, these are treasures designed to help us through such times when the very air feels moist with dullness.  Prayer, a phone call from a family member, a visit from a friend, these are things which refresh and restore. 

The deeper grace that comes from beauty  is designed to get us through the dullness and tedium that otherwise threatens to engulf the daily grind of life.  Falling in love makes us remember we are more than here.  Reading a great book or seeing a fine film does to, because we can forget time and place not because of instinct, but because of a higher appeal than can be described and understood through the mechanics of science.  Our need for beauty is not limited to sexual appetites, we need and desire it for all our desires.  It is hard wired and further in than the DNA.  

That is part of why hunting for beauty often fails, it relies too much on the physical senses for validation. 

Beauty comes unbidden.  It reveals itself in little ways like wild flowers and a favorite song on the radio, the desirous kiss of one's spouse, the hand holding of a child, and in larger doses like reading the daily gospel and knowing somehow, that reading was picked just for you because you would need it today.  Most of beauty comes with our hearts unaware of how fully it is desired or needed. 

The animal in us does not understand the need for such indulgences; the spirit however, is starved for things like flowers and hugs on birthdays, fires in hearths even when the home is warm, and music that fills the air without clattering.    God knows this deep need echoes His deep love and pours out this beauty in sunshine and rain showers and seasons and creatures and people.  It is to teach us that beauty is indeed, necessary.  God took the time to arrange the stars for our pleasure, out of love for us.  We are to be about the business of arranging stars for others here from that same impulse to please and to love and to serve.

Today, there was a five point stag in my back yard.  If I'd been about my chores and not looking about for something other than my duty, I would have missed this breathtakingly perfect buck.  As big as the creature was, it was amazing that an animal this large could disappear into the woods as stealthily as it had arrived.  Beauty had come unannounced and, having done its job, left. Echos of that moment stayed painted in my mind, patching frayed nerves that had been created by the day's schedule and the to-do list that remained to be tackled.  I wished for my friend that she might have the equivalent of a five point stag in her back yard, catching her up short, filling the space, calming the mind and heart.  

My four year old told me, "Mom, the beautiful deer is gone." as she ate her cupcake that she insisted needed rainbow sprinkles.  Eating only the frosting and sprinkles, she is feasting on beauty as children do before they become jaded to dismiss such intrinsic wants in favor of pragmatism, when it doesn't matter if there are sprinkles or not.  Likewise, my 8 month old doesn't just want a bottle, she wants to be held and have her bottle.  Even she gets that we need more than what we think we need.  It is only when we get lost in the adult world that we fail to see the deer or ask for sprinkles or remember that all of this time here is an extravagant gift.

Nothing we do is unmarked, unnoticed and that at no moment are we ever unloved. Everywhere, there is deep beauty ready to fill our deep need.  Everywhere is the opportunity to arrange stars for others. It is as close as God, as close as creation, as close as the next human in the room. It is in the very air. 

To my dear friend, I hope you know the stars were arranged for you. Breathe deep. 

Creating and/or Finding Beauty

In this down economy, we need beauty more than ever to keep our spirits buoyant.  Creating beauty requires effort, energy and love.  It is an imitation of God's creativity and imagination, to will to create loveliness. As moms, we often are giving and doing a bit of triage parenting/housekeeping to manage everything, but that sort of labor can drain the life out of us and make the very acts of service drudgery.  For service to be joy, we must willfully engage in countering the temptation to just go through the motions.

So here's a helpful summer list for the most part in no particular order, to help you add a bit of extra to your day that will lighten your own and others spirits.  Feel free to add to it in the com box.

100.  Pray.  Stop and really pray for each person you must interact with today.
99. Cut flowers and put them on the table.
98.  Write a letter to someone. (not an email).
97.  Read a story to a child.
96.  Sing with the radio in the car.
95.  The shampoo that smells good and the good conditioner you save for special occasions, use it every day instead. 
94.  Go to bed on time. 
93.  Put on classical music.
92.  Empty one junk drawer. 
91.  Hug.
90.  Call a friend you've been meaning to visit and set a date and keep it.
89.  Use the good china.
88.  Start a book you've been keeping by your bed.
87.  Take your family to a park for a hike.
86.  Get produce from the side of the road.
85.  Grow herbs or flowers or vegetables from seed.
84.  Donate some items to charity.
83.  Smile.
82.  Teach your children a card trick or card game.
81.  Schedule a classic movie night complete with popcorn. 
80.  Videotape your kids.
79.  Stomp in puddles.
78.  Put on makeup if you do, and jewelry that you love.
76.  Make a bed for someone else.
75.  Eat good chocolate.
74.  Add a glass of wine to dinner.
73.  Plan a date with your husband.
72.  Volunteer to help with something in the future.  Make sure you follow through.
71.  Put seed in the bird feeder.
70.  Water the garden, drink from the hose and spray the kids while you do. 
69.  Dance.
68.  Lend a favorite book to a friend.
67.  Garnish your dinner.
66.  Make dessert.
65.  Prune a tree.
64.  Change the sheets and fluff the pillows.
63.  Read the daily readings or adopt a prayer regimen like the Rosary that keeps you mindful of where all this comes from.
62.  Paint nails.
61.  Cook food on the grill.
60.  Listen to baseball on the radio outside.
59.  Drive with the windows down.
58.  Go to a stream and skip rocks.
57.  Make smores.
56.  Dust and declutter the room you spend the most time in, make it welcoming.
55.  Exercise with your spouse or children.
54.  Go outside.
53. Give someone in your family who needs it, an unsolicited foot rub.
52. Phone your folks.
51.  If you play an instrument, break it out and practice for 20 minutes.
50.  Count your blessings. 
49.  Slip a note in your spouse's lunch.
48.  Throw out old socks.
47.  Play on your children's level.
46.  Flag down the ice cream truck.
45.  Donate that giant coin jar to a charity.
44.  Bring some food to the pantry program in your area.
43.  Use a tablecloth on a non holiday occasion.
42.  Dress up for no occasion.
41.  Paint something.
40.  Count how many days until the next anniversary/birthday, plan something special.
39.  Take one kid out for a special date, even if it's just to 7-11 for slurpees.
38.  Get a haircut before it becomes a desperate issue.
37.  Tuck each child in.
36.  Start a  pillow fight.
35.  Make smoothies for everyone.
34.  Watch a sunset/sunrise depending on if you have morning doves or night owls. 
33.  Blow raspberries on your baby's belly.
32.  Start a diary.
31.  Have a race with your kids.
30.  Go to adoration.
29.  Light the candles that smell good instead of saving them for some occasion.
28.  Fast from little something every day even if you only make it half the day.
27.  Kiss the boo-boos. Apply band-ades liberally.
26.  Introduce your children to a rite of summer, a book, a blanket, an apple and outside.
25.  Go to a park with swings.
24.  Let your kids play in the sink.
23.  Let your children help cook.
22.  Use bubble bath more often.
21.  Have a water gun fight.
20.  Go berry picking.
19.  Spend a day screen free.
18.  Play a board game with your older children.
17.  Give the benefit of the doubt.
16.  Apologize if you haven't.
15.  Phone, skype, or face to face visit if possible, your siblings.
14.  If you don't normally do so, sleep in just a bit so you're more rested.
13.  If you don't normally, get up 15 minutes before everyone else and fix breakfast.
12.  Compliment your children.
11.  Thank a teacher.
10.  Wish someone who serves you --a waitress, cashier, attendant at the gas station,  a great day.  Hit the tip jar with a little extra if you can.
9.  Let someone else pick the channels/movie.  Stay and watch their selection with them.
8.  Sit down to family dinner.
7.  Mail kid drawings to grandparents.
6.  Point out cows, deer, humming birds, squirrels, as you drive or bright colored cars if that's not possible.
5.  Teach your kid something hard; like making a complex meal, embroidery, guitar, parallel parking, chess...
4.  Learn something from your kid that's hard, like how to read Manga, play Wii Mario Cart, the rules to Yugi-O card games, the game Go. Let yourself play and possibly/probably lose. 
3.  Learn something together, like sign language, backgammon, the constellations, etc.
2. Open the windows and let the summer breeze run through the house.
1. Say I love you more often to all of your family.

Have a great day!

The Beauty of Simple Things

My son underwent surgery to have tubes placed in his ears.  I worried how the world would sound to him once the volume got turned up so to speak. 
With three teens, one tween and a nine year old with a cd player, there is always music playing.  At any given moment, music from Tangled, Star Wars (the prequelles), Japanese Animation, the current top forty mix station and classical all might be playing depending upon which room you enter.  I'd briefed the older kids that we'd have to give their brother time to adjust.

On the ride home while he was still shaking off the anestisia, we put on classical to keep the mood calm.  He was grabbing at the air, calling out to us to pay attention because there was all this sound; sounds that had become background for us. He sang along with the choir, Laaaaaaaaaaa, and clapped, and we had the pleasure of rediscovering the world through his eyes and ears.

We are hardwired for beauty, we are made to be struck with awe and wonder. But the world and its many tasks can make us world weary, unable to recognize that we are not stopping, we are not smelling the roses, we do not see the stars or stare at the moon. Being rushed, we fail to hear the notes of loveliness when they play because we are busy.  We spent the day listening to music through his new ears.

My son's ears got fixed, so now at least for the moment, we all hear better. 

The Whisper of God

If this season teaches us anything, it is that our eyes ache for beauty. In Maryland, spring is a feast of flowers and blooming trees.  I'm always shocked at the constant loveliness of this month, with tulips and cherry blossoms and dogwood, forsythia and azaleas. It's hard to feel anything but awe when surrounded by such lavish loveliness.

Then I got a phone call from a friend.  In my eyes, this woman is the equivalent of spring any day of the year. Her light brave spirit and easy laugh are contagious. Today however, she called to tell about her cousin's child, a four month old facing a possible tracheotomy on Friday and a lifetime of being paralyzed from the neck down. Facing the foot of the cross on a daily basis with her own daughter's chronic and potentially lethal condition that requires daily monitoring and nightly vigils, my friend knew there was only one source of comfort, one source of strength and healing. So she was asking people to pray.

My friend is one of those people who pours everything out.  She also has a wicked sense of humor that keeps anyone from feeling crushed by sorrow. When faced with my own son's pending open heart surgery, she came to the hospital bearing hot chocolate.  She'd not seen Paul before.  Peering down at him in his isolet with the IV and the feeding tube up his nose, she quipped, "Wow! He's Down Syndrome hot!"  I had to clean up my hot cocoa.

Sure enough, she told her cousin, "You can do this.  I know you can do this." Her cousin asked why my friend knew. "Because you're not lazier than me." and the blessed laughter washed over the conversation for a moment.

I must learn never to drink diet coke when she calls, it's hard on my nasal passages.  She remains a willing pitcher pouring out God's love through the grace of good humor.

As we talked, she told me the story of how she'd quasi-adopted a child in her apartment complex by providing a place after school for a meal, homework help and comfort while the mother worked.  It was the type of constant but seemingly random kindness that mostly goes unreported on the news and Internet. It isn't random, it's wilful cooperation with God's grace.

The whispers of God were revealed in these moments of kindness, of beauty, of prayer, of diligence and they go on every day in countless homes, in countless hearts.  These whispers are greater than the noise and bluster and violence and wrath that pours forth on a daily basis from the news whatever the source.  God waits to be discovered in all those places where the ordinariness of love is the norm.  God is in the details of being willing to submit to the rigors of this world when quitting or running away or pulling back would be seemingly easier. And the world practically sings with this sort of strong truth (especially in Spring), just as surely as flowers sprouted in between the rocks despite the presence of the rocks. 

So please pray for my friend's cousin and her family, they need to feel the presence of God.

Try Dyed For Mother's Day

It began with a Mother's Day card. 

My seven year old son had created a booklet at school.  Each page had a fill in the blank.  My mom likes to...My mom doesn't like to...with the answers having been supplied by each individual first grader.  The impressions a child has of their parents is often widely at odds with reality or at least the impression I'm trying to give in this world. 

For instance, according to John, my favorite food is crabs.  This despite the fact that I obsess over chocolate and diet coke daily and haven't eaten any side walkers in about a year.  My only explantion was a conversation I had two weeks ago with my two oldest daughters about how much fun it was to make gumbo growing up. They were recalling their last trip to the beach where they caught a mess of blue crabs and did the same with my folks. 

Apparently my favorite vacation spot is Texas but the place I loathe is Pennsylvania.*  Again, I could piece together the reasoning of my son; he knows I love to visit my family and the beach on the gulf coast.  He also knows family lore. Years back before he was even born, we had a bad experience once in Amish country at one of those theme hotels designed to be fun for kids, a hotel composed entirely of train cars.   We tried to be good sports but the place was so dusty and our bed so awful, my husband made an emergency trip to Walmart to purchase new sheets and comforters so we could sleep. He stayed up all night in the recliner watching March madness and we didn't stay the second of the mandatory two night reservation. To this date, while we know there are plenty of fun things to do in our neighboring state, we remain gun shy about an overnight stay; with the money quote being, "This would be pretty if it weren't Pennsylvania."  The Hotel which shall not be named, still evokes shivers at the memory and a case of the imaginary itchies. 

But the page that drew the most response was this:  My mom's hair color is.....What is this, a commercial for L'Oreal?  My son had written grey.   He wrote grey.  My hair is black.  Well alright, it's black with grey highlights and an skunk stripe in the front.  I looked in the mirror.  The standard pony tail masked how grey I'd become, bundling all the brown and black.The skunk stripe had encroached out of it's acceptable territory and I now had a large swath that his seven year old eyes had spotted correctly.  I couldn't be grey.  The little bit of vanity left in this mother of ten body railed against the idea of having my son think I had grey hair.  Off to the hairdresser I went.

I have discovered the limits of my vanity.  Two hours.  It takes three hours to get one's hair colored. After 120 minutes, I was done and tired of reading magazines that told me how to lose weight, budget, organize, think like a man, raise perfect sons, grill, improve my insurance I.Q. and where to eat in Bangladesh.  I'd said a rosary.  I'd written a list of things to do for the next week. I'd fretted about not being home and wondered if they'd started dinner.  I'd wished I'd gone shopping for sneakers instead or gone for a walk.  I'd considered getting into an email fight with the editor of a travel magazine for a snide comments about Houston not having much beyond steak until recently.  Clearly they didn't know Houston worth a darn.  Then  I realized, she'd missed out on some good mexican tamales and good seafood and fantsized briefly about Pappadeaux's soft shell crabs.. then I thought oh well, more for me.  Whoa! Maybe my son knew more about me than I'd thought.  

Finally sprung from the beautician's chair, I drove home and showed off my newly not grey hair.  He didn't really notice.  I looked at my mother's day car again.  The page after the hair said, "My eyes are....green," only they're not. 

Next week, I'm going to the eye doctor. My oldest son told me to get contacts if I need correction, so maybe when I go to the visit, I'll fix it so the other son's observations are more accurate. 

*I like Pennsylvania.  We've taken trips and have friends in Pennsylvania. I'm just never going to a theme hotel that has a mandatory two night stay again unless the family needs new bedding and even then, I think I'll just buy the sheets and skip the possible nightmare vacation spot.

The Very Necessariness of Everyone

It was a cold afternoon but I'd agreed to a play date at the park and so I trundled the four littles into the van for what I hoped would be a bit of fun.  The playground had a fenced in area that would allow the five, four and two year old to play without me hovering. It was ideal for someone with a lot of little people.  Other mothers apparently thought so as well, as I spied other Moms with kids in tow, helping their kids to get on the swings and enjoy the slides.  The women I'd planned to meet hadn't yet shown but it felt good to be out in the world. Winter and having a two month old had created a sort of cloistered existence for a while. 

We began the usual Stay at Hom Mom inquiries of each other, name, number of children, what you did before you were a mom, while coaxing nervous children to adventure out and adventurous children to tone it down.  Paul wasn't interested in being out in the world.  Normally he loves the park but today, he stayed clinging to my side.  The other mom tried to get his attention.  Paul looked away.  She asked how old my son was.  Her toddler was 2 1/2, the same as mine.  Hers was talking.  Mine was not.  There was a visible size difference.  She was putting the pieces together before I volunteered that Paul had a disability.   In almost that same moment, Paul hugged me and said in his deep blurred voice, "Iloveyu." to me.  She beamed.  "He said 'I love you.' I heard it."
I agreed and gave my son a hug.

"I used to work as a translator for the deaf." she explained.  I talked about how Paul liked to sign baby and eat and a few other words.  "You know, I knew a woman with Down Syndrome." she volunteered.

Paul may not say much, but he triggers a lot of conversations, stories that should be shared and need to be told.  She agreed to share her story.

"When I had my third son, there were medical complications.  I had to stay in the hospital for a week." she began.  Her voice got a bit shakey. The next part of the story was hard even in retrospect.  "When I came home, my son who was three had spent those seven days at his Aunt, my sister's house.  He didn't talk for three years after that."  We sat staring at the children at play for a moment.

I shared how my own daughter had elected to remain mostly mute for several months after Paul's birth and subsequent hospitalization.  I knew the pain of having someone so precious, so young, so deliberately silent.  It had taken six months of therapy to unleash the happy chatty person I now shared my days with; whereas this mother had to wait three years. 

She nodded her head and resumed. "We tried everything, sign, (It's how I learned enough to be able to translate), therapy, loads of stuff. Nothing worked. But this woman at the grocery store, she bagged our food and every time, she would just talk and talk and talk to my son.  She connected with him.  She made him feel comfortable.  Even if we were in another line, she'd stop what she was doing and come over and say, "They're my family." and take over.  She'd bag our stuff and help push the cart out, all the time talking talking talking to my son.  Then one day, he talked back.  To her." 

It was the beginning of his return to the speaking world. 

"When we moved," she paused, "I'm ashamed to say I didn't get her address so we could keep in touch.  My son still remembers her and asks if we will ever see her again and I can't say that we will because I don't know."  She patted my son's head. 

"That's a great story." I started to say.

But she wasn't finished.  "I tell you this so you'll know that he'll turn out okay. You know, we all want our children to grow up to be successful, to be scientists or teachers or lawyers or elected officials.  We want to say they are valedictorians and scholars and athletes and wondrous in ways that the world can easily acknowledge and already has." 

She teared for a moment, "But this woman, who by the world's standards, would not amount to much, living in a group home, working as a grocery bagger, having Down Syndrome and married to a man with Down Syndrome, gave to my son the gift of accessibility, of speech."  She'd given him a gift that would serve him his whole life, alter his whole life in as radically positive a way as silence had before then in a negative manner.  She pointed to her now ten year old son sitting on the swings sandwiched between his two brothers and a friend.  They were laughing and joking about something.   This moment was due to all of those moments with a person who had Trisomy 21. 

The very necessary nature of everyone became evident.  I would not have heard this beautiful story but for Paul.  We would not have come to the park but for friends inviting us.  She would not have had this story to tell but for this woman building a bridge for her son from the silence to the rest of the world and this woman would not have been there for her son if some other woman, the mother of this woman had not been willing to have a child deemed less than perfect by the world.

Trisomy 21 means the person has one more chromosome than a non disabled person; a little extra as versus the rest of the world.   That little extra made her a bag checker but it also allowed her to speak openly to a sad little boy.   That little extra made her more willing to extend herself for someone other than herself.  Would that all of us would more willingly reach down and find that little extra to help build a bridge from a smaller world to a greater one of possibilities for someone.   We could all go on to do great things for someone's world that would be forever remembered.  Perhaps then, the world would be so overflowing with joy, so filled with freed voices, that it could never stop singing.

Nailed

I'm currently trying to hide from one of my children. We are engaged in a subtle form of Keep away.  She doesn't know I'm it.  It's not anything psychological or emotional; it's just she has an idea, a vision she wants to enact and it involves me.  She wants to paint my nails.

Now I am not a nail polish kind of gal.  I didn't like it in high school and I still don't care for it now.  Even pedicures which I don't mind and actually need to keep my feet in shape, I would prefer without the paint bit at the end.  It's not just I hate the smell. I hate the sound of the emory board scraping the nails.  I don't like the pushing of the cuticles with little wooden punts or the pushing and cutting and trimming --I can't watch; even reading about how it is done kind of creeps me out.  But worst of all, you have to sit still for at least 20 minutes after the final coat to keep from having it look tacky and nasty within minutes.  Twenty minutes.

Do you know what could happen to my house in 20 minutes if I weren't able to use my hands to intervein?  I don't and frankly I'm scared to find out.  On top of that, I just don't sit still for 20 minutes anyway. Even as a student, sitting in a class, my leg would be bouncing under the desk or I'd be doodling while following the text or taking notes, I don't single task anything and so stillness, forced stillness is the most stressful thing I can imagine. At the hairdresser's, where other people relax when their locks are being brushed and dried and styled, I'm thinking "Okay, I've been here, my hair is cut let's go I'm done." I even twitch, talk and thrash around in my sleep.  You'll know I'm dead when I stop moving long enough for someone to do my hair properly.   

But my daughter bought beautiful sparkly pink nail polish with her own money and after I showed her how to use it, she reasoned, I would love it too.   I begged off the first day because as I explained, I needed my hands to do the dishes, feed the baby, bathe the children and get them dressed for bed.   The second day, I pointed out we didn't have time because we had swimming lessons.  

The third day, she helped with dinner and used paper plates.  I thought I was cornered until she couldn't find her nail polish.  I promise I didn't hide it.   I did use the opportunity to explain that people like to pick their own colors.  "Well," she said, "You could buy your own tomorrow when we go shopping." I couldn't see a way out so I mumbled that I'd try to remember.  She left a note reminding me on my pillow.  She called while I was out shopping to ask what color I'd picked.  Grudgingly, I went to the makeup aisle and picked a shade.

So tomorrow, it's happening.  I surrender.  My fingers will be a soft coral if all goes as anticipated.  I know it will bring her joy to paint my fingers.  If I'm going to be stuck for 20 minutes, I might has well make the best of it.  Wonder if she'd be interested in cutting my hair as well. 

It's Lovely now that it has stopped

Stay warm. Stay safe.  Enjoy the stillness that not being able to go anywhere brings.  Marc took this photo from our front door with his cell phone.

Summer Break

Even Congress goes on vacation in August, but the lobbyists in my house, never sleep.

This morning, two of my darlings decided they wanted to go to the pool. They knew they would have to persuade Mom. What motivates Mom? Clean house. It's true. My husband can be persuaded to overlook bedtime with a good back rub. But me, no, my inner bureaucrat requires direct graft in the form of unasked for but well sustained hard labor.

Being three, she saw me wipe a door knob that had become sticky and promptly pounced on the idea. Grabbing a roll of paper towels, she and her sister set about washing each and every door knob. I was feeding the baby and planning the day, dimly aware of her project and the proposed compensation as peppered in her constant stream of chatter.

She then dropped a very wet terry cloth towel in my lap.
"Mom, we cleaned all the doors."

I was then instructed to close my eyes and led through the house to personally inspect each and every glistening door knob. Some had puddles below. "Now the h ouse looks beautiful." She explained. "Can we go to the pool?"

My to-do list shall be shunted to tomorrow. Maybe I can get her to learn how to sort socks.

Silver Fox

For years I've toyed with the idea of dying my hair.

I've never done it.

Part of the reason I haven't up to now is, I've been pregnant or nursing for much of the past decade during which my hair has progressed from straight brown black to having a skunk stripe to having a white swath across the top. Whenever I've mentioned the idea, my husband has said something sweet like, "I've loved you in all your seasons." or "You've earned every one of those." which has melted me into laughing at my momentary vanity.

However, the amount of grey alarmed me when I viewed a recent photo of myself. As if to seal the deal, my six year old in all her tactful joy said to me, "Mommy, your hair looks really old."

I bought a loving care Clariol can that day.

Opening it in the bathroom, I looked at the happy woman on the box. I worried I would stain the sink. I worried I would stain my clothes. I worried I would look like one of those lego people with a cap of solid black hair on my head. I read the directions. I was losing my nerve. I reread the directions. More nerve lost. Now I taught my kids always to read the instructions three times before starting anything new, so I followed my own advice. The can remained unopened in my medicine cabinet.

But a friend has offered (she does this all the time), to teach me the secret ways of hair color on Tuesday.

I figure, if I screw up, I'll look good at least for Halloween.