Here's what I Know

None of us know what the next day holds, a child in the hospital, a bad diagnosis, a job loss, a death, all of these were in the petitions of today.  My own sorrows too, I put at the foot of the cross because that's where all of them belong.  So Christ can bleed on them, weep on them, and make them something other than merely misery, He can make them sacred. 

My sister called and in her grief, we visited, and through all of that, we shared a few laughs and were reminded of how we need each other even far from each other, because each bolsters the faith of the other.  She reminded me of  Reepicheep in Prince Caspian.   We're all called to be intercessors for each other.  We need each other.  We're not meant to be alone in our walk to Christ, we're to come and bring others, we're to walk together, to accompany each other and to pray for each others' needs and even wants. 

I should admit here, that Reepicheep is my favorite character of Narnia.   I love everything about that mouse, and Dawn Treader is my favorite book from my childhood.   I love all the islands, I love all the imagination of it, I wanted to find a picture that moved inside the frame and brought me there.  

But the stories remind me, what I tell my children when they're stressed about something beyond their capacity -and that description right now to me, fits everyone.   All the storms are temporary...all storms...even the worst ones... and sometimes, the storms abate in our favor. After all, we should remember, we have a God who the winds and seas obey.  

Remember God loves you and that all success and glory, like all trials and tribulations, are fleeting, they're moments.  Your job in living, is to treasure all the moments, even these that throw into sharp relief why all the boring time, all the ordinary time is sacred.   

Over at the Register Today

with a piece I wish wasn't inspired by the news and real life.  It is a sin to be scandalized by sin. I'm not, but I'm still sad about it because the world needs more saints.  

Because We Should Stop

As writers, we're supposed to take everything in, and pull from our memories, from our heart, and weave together associations through sentences that bridge the gap between the experiences we've all had, and the ones only some ever endure.  Yesterday, a friend on Facebook announced her son battled demons and lost.

I know countless mothers who hold their breath at such stories, because thus far, their children have won, but there's always the chance tomorrow, it will be them taking down the body of the child they carried, because they weren't there at the right moment to make sure this horrible moment didn't happen. 

The internet makes us voyeurs into each other's lives, it can even create real relationships, but it won't let us be flesh and blood to those friends when flesh and blood is what aches. Her heart's cry pierces the internet, because it cannot be answered. It cannot be comforted, not by anything here.
Suddenly, the internet revealed in addition to being a community, it is dust and amusement. We can be cheerleaders and encouragers, we can even be provocative, but what we can't be, is anything other than virtual in this moment when tangibility means everything, because death is such a tangible, bodily thing.

There are no words to give to a mother who found her son hanging in the garage other than, "I'm so sorry."

These sort of moments, the only appropriate response is to give some tangible form of a hug. Food. Watching her little ones. Offering to help with the mass, anything. Instead, I'm here, my thoughts churning over the children I work with, my own children and their trials, and over her. The rosary in my fingers feels inadequate, and yet I know she holds to it too, along with her other children who must also weather this terrible pain. They hold to it like a safety rope, and I want it to be for them. I have to hope it is.

Everything feels too new, too raw, too simple, too pat to be real. This unreality feeling, facing the deepest and worst we can face, will even make the sounds of cars and doors and phones and the television feel alien. Music will cut the air, and conversations buzz through without leaving an impression. As I feel the round beads in my hands, the realness of her raw reality works against allowing me the comfort of doing the familiar. It must. It is immediate. It is too soon. It is too near.
Her pain cannot be rushed or wiped away or easily healed; it must merely be endured. The rosary too, cannot be rushed, not if it is to be prayed. She will grope through the grief. We will all grope through prayers, hoping to add to the graces she receives, and lighten something of the hard cross she carries. So I'm praying for all of the trials to come, for her to feel as she should, and for the whole rest of the world to stop, and be gentle as it can for as long as possible, to give her leaking heart time to be bound.

My friend Simcha has details on how you can give tangible help. Please keep their whole family in our prayers.

Time for a Scary Story

There is one person on the planet who hates shopping for clothes more than me.

My daughter.

The trouble is, she's growing. She's already taller than me.

Uniforms have saved our relationship thus far but there will come a day when she needs an entire wardrobe and that will be trouble.

When we shop and granted, such times are rare, it is often at a catch all shop like Target or a department store like Macy's. Now I know her size and I know something of what would look good on her so I used to occasionally throw out a "That looks cute." to see if she was interested. This simple statement rendered whatever outfit had been singled out, unworthy to even merit a momentary glance.

In an attempt to get her to just look and try things on, I experimented with reverse psychology. I told her complimentary things about outfits I hated. Being an adolesent, she simply disagreed. She'd tell me why this outfit was stupid or that one was too short or too scratchy, there would be a litany of reasons but there was no way she'd even bother to try one on for size. Seeing as I hated the outfits myself, it was hard to argue with her logic.

Buying her outfits without her present meant I either put up with her not wearing it until she could hand it down for her sister, or she'd wear it but I'd know it caused deep psychological pain to be dressed thus.

But this past week, we had an occasion where she couldn't wear her school uniform or customary sporty look and as such, we HAD to go to the store. After handing her a few outfits and getting that aggrieved LOOK, I finally lay down the law. "You have to have something. You can't wear a basketball jersey for everything. These clothes are designed to look good on someone your age. They won't hurt you. It's not like I'm handing you a poisoned porcupine that will shoot quills and render you motionless from the toxins. Just try them on and say "Yes" or "No" and try on the ones you want."

"Poisoned porcupines?" She was smiling. A good sign. She took the clothing. A better sign. She came back to me with a stack of rejected and accepted.

We got a few outfits. Her clothing needs for the next few months had been abated. I was feeling pretty superior as a mother until she said those six little words that could strike true fear into my stout heart.

"Mom? I still need new shoes."