In Memory of a Cousin

The seeds of memory are planted in the next generation when we share our stories.  This past week, my cousin died.  Over an evening Zoom wake thirty-one cousins and many aunts and uncles plus fourty or so friends feasted on memories and the faces of cousins we’d not seen in years, and the years fell away.  I don't have a particular story, but I remember my cousin, and my wedding pictures include him and his sister dancing up a storm.

The numbers were indicative of our cousin’s love of faith, his family, chili, music, crabbing,* Texas, the marsh and the beach.  Too soon for them, too soon for us, too soon, too soon, too soon, but Ben Hall’s life revealed his cramming of everything into everything, except beans in the chili.  

We should laugh more, we should feast more, and we should share stories more often than we do, for reasons other than someone no longer can create stories for us to tell.  We should listen more, we should look more, we should seek each other’s faces more often than when convenient, more often than ordinary life encourages.  

It’s so rare, and yet we somehow forget, that each of us is singularly rare, singular to the universe, created by God for the universe, for all of us to love.   The testimony of a life is all the stories of love, all the friends, all the people who reveal how much of that rareness has been seen and discovered by the universe.What a treasure given by God to us, for us to meet, to know, to feast with, and to wait in joyful hope for seeing again one day.  One of the gifts even of this time, of a time of grief, is the coming together and remembering if only for that moment, while the world never stops, even though we don't understand why the world doesn't stop, when someone dies, we stop. Stopping is important. Stopping makes us remember, there are important stories we need to be telling, need to be hearing, need to be living, that will get lost if we don't stop and pay attention. Remember to keep making the stories because you want those for the long haul. They're like warm fires on a cold night when the world feels like one long winter. It warmed to see their faces, to hear their voices, and to hear their stories. Thank you for the stories Ben, we will miss you until everyone is telling stories about us. Every moment here is a gift, and a reminder of that what is to come, is even better. Here;s one of his songs.

*Thanks to Danny for the correction, Ben loved to crab and went to LaBelle armed with a camera, not a gun.

On Today's Metrics

I saw a picture from last December when we all dressed up for StarWars and went to the movies. I remember, we bought three big bottomless barrels of popcorn and huge sodas to share. We walked around the outside shopping mall in costume, enjoying the stares at all eleven of us. (One daughter was still in exams at school). It was a carefully crafted and yet carefree memory that seems much further away than 365 days. Everything about that evening is not possible now.

We've had nine hundred fifty-eight deaths since we started tracking Covid-19 cases in our county alone, even with the restrictions we've endured over the course of now nine months. Montgomery County, Maryland is stricter than most places, and still, the numbers keep going up, because people bustle, people shop, and people want to believe somehow, it's over.

Today, five hundred fourty-four people were diagnosed with Covid, and the beds in acute care and ICU for patients suffering from this disease are at 81 and 76% capacity respectively. These numbers are beyond what the county wanted to have for opening up, and yet somehow, that is the discussion in the arenas of policy making, in the halls of government.

Thinking it would be nice is not science or policy, it's wishing. Big picture, I would like to see my mom and siblings and their children and my husband's family. Little picture, I would like to be able to go impulsively into stores and shop, like tonight when we made soup, extra french bread would have been nice.

Having the liberty to do as one will would be nice, but the price would be more people who know someone in that ever growing total who died; more people who cope with someone who is permanently affected. It isn't worth the bread, and as a county, we don't have the beds. It is a nothing of a sacrifice, to tell one's self "no," and yet a necessary nothing.

It would be nice to have birthday parties, but I don't want to host funerals no one can attend. It would be nice to travel, but every trip leaves a wake we don't want to have lead to a wake. All of what we want would be nice, but a civil and just society requires that we surrender what we want and would like, for what will ensure as many of us can be, still are. The liberty to do as one wants still exists, but at the price of others. That's not a civil society, that's a nation of islands, of souls who do not mind as long as they do not pay the cost and do not presume they will pay the cost for doing what they want.

We would like to be able to be fully present to each other, before this alters how we cope with life permanently. My youngest daughter walks on the balls of her feet, and has so despite our best efforts for so long, she must wear casts to relearn how to walk properly, to reallign her hips and ensure she retains full range of motion. It is not a fun process but it is necessary. We are going to need casts of sorts to cast off the rigidity of this type of living if we must go on with this kind of living. We must remember, this is temporary, and what we don't want, is permanent scars from the process.

So hold on, hold onto today, and be kind to everyone because everyone is enduring this trauma, this long winter of discontent, and everyone longs for the freedom we all took for granted and ignored all our lives until this past year. Hold onto all the necessary nothings that take place in this sort of quarantine. I am reading to my children and recognizing all these days here, are stollen summers and snow days even with all the assignments and tasks and fatiguing zooms attached. This time won't last forever, and all this time now, will be remembered as a gift if we help shape the way these moments are spent with each other.

The Churning of the Storm

Today, I think everyone who looks at the news or has endured this long seige of Covid-19, or who does any self examination about how we've failed as a nation to deliver the promise of freedom to be to a multitude of people through what we say and don't say, do and don't do, must feel like they are on the boat, with the storm swamping the deck on all sides.   "Lord, save us, we are perishing."

And Jesus seems to be fine sleeping.

We've tried doing this without Him, it's not working.   We've tried using the world's means of bringing about a Heavenly outcome, it's not working.  Politics and power is not the way.  Law and lawsuits are not the way. Policy is not the way. Procedure is not the way. Perception is not the way. Even actions alone are not the way.

 The only way is love.  Loving our neighbor. Loving our enemies. Loving those in our home. Loving those in our neighborhood. Loving. Loving. Loving. Loving. Loving. Loving. Loving.   It means sacrifice, it means living day in and day out and letting yourself pour out day in and day out. 

It doesn't matter if there is a storm.  Love.   It doesn't matter if the storm is swamping the boat.  Love. It doesn't matter if no one knows. Love. It doesn't matter if no one else cares. Love. 

The churning of the storm is the world and sin and all the craziness that sin creates.  We all want the peace the world cannot give. 

When Jesus woke and calmed the storm, and the waves died down.  My daughter came in to my room to tell me about her attempt to work on her relationship with her sisters. She went to their room and said, "I don't always tell you, but I love you." and something of the storm of life ebbed.  I sat amazed at the results of faith, of love, of answered prayers. 

So to quote Saint Padre Pio, "Pray, hope and don't worry."  and get to the business of loving because the world needs more of it.

The Plane Flight West*

*My husband took our youngest out to Yellowstone.  He wrote about it.

Boundless energy, never at rest. Does she not realize that she got up at 3:15 a.m.? She does not. Everything is either interesting, or a source of polite impatience. "Flight attendant?"  She asks as each one passes by, hoping to catch their ear to ask for a drink. "They will  come when it is our turn." I reply.  More than once. "How far away are they?" Inspecting the in flight menu and determining biscotti and Minute Maid Apple Juice is what she will get. "All flight attendants seem very nice" as the cart arrives. "What would you like peanut?" asks the solicitous Renee. "Dad, what would you do with a billion thousand dollars?" "That would be about 100 trillion"  I reply. "I would give it to the poor and homeless and sick and keep a quarter of it for our selves. "We probably wouldn't need that much money." "Then one - sixth." "What are you doing dad?" "Keeping a log of our trip."  Her face lights up with joy when she realizes herself in the description. "You are the best dad ever."  Before launching into:  "What does taxiing mean?" as she reviews every feature of the safety manual.  I wouldn't miss this for the world.

What We Wish for Them

Most days, I spend much of the time in the classroom trying to convince students they should read the meager 4, 7 or 11 such pages assigned.  Several do not read except under duress.  They know I love words, so they often ask me to read to them.

Sometimes I do.  Sometimes, I do not.

Today, was one of those "not" days.
"Why?" one asked.
"Because you need to train your brain just like you train your muscles, and that won't happen without practice."
"But it's hard!!!!!"
"It's two pages. You're in 10th grade. It shouldn't be."
"Ugh...."

They sort of read the two pages, and asked for help with the questions.

I sat wondering, should I have read aloud, if only to give them two more pages of material to draw from later.  There isn't enough time left in the school year to introduce them to all the stories out there that might chill their spines, thrill their hearts and challenge their brains.

One student lamented that we don't live in a Utopia, and I pined to hand her some of Plato's Republic and Animal Farm, and Hunger Games, Blithesdale's Romance and 1984 and the Giver, to illustrate to her the countless attempts to create a perfect society, and all the human moving parts which make it impossible.  However, she'd chaffed at two pages, and we'd even offered her some of those as choices and she'd refused because they were too long.  I'd love to somehow convince her to discover these books.  There's so much more than they imagine, so much more they could be exploring if only somehow today, something lit the spark. 

That's the real art of teaching, preparing each day in hope that this will be the day.  It will be a luminous moment, and all we who work with them are, is flint, striking at the tinder with steel, we are not the spark, and we are not the fire, only the instruments trying again and again and again and again, to create a flame. Today, someone will discover something more than they imagined, and it will be almost too much to bear.  It will act like a bubble of light almost lifting them through the rest of the day, even if it is filled with hard work outs or hard words. 

The whole goal of teaching is to help the students engage in the art of wonder, and revel in the world of ideas great and small, subtle and overt, beautiful and terrible, joyous and otherwise.  It's also to hope if today wasn't the day, that the kids went away fed, and chewing on some of what you presented, preparing for tomorrow, which who knows, might be the day. 

Shower of Hope

For the uninitiated, searching for a person to repair stuff in your home is parallel to picking your spouse by throwing darts at the phone book. You might find a keeper. You might find an axe murderer. You most likely will find someone who won't agree to the matter. They'll come, they'll look at your most private room in the house, and it's a tad insulting when they won't even take your money to get the job done.

The first guy I brougth to the master bath to examine the... shower chatted me up. I think he saw how big my family was and wanted to impress. He talked about the fifty year reunion with all his brothers and sisters. He told me how he'd been around the area and his family had for over one hundred years. He told me he'd write up an estimate and get back to me next week after the reunion. I'm guessing his blood line was hit by a plague or wave of Klingon warriors, because I never heard a word afterwords, and I even called and left a message. 

Nothing. 

You'd think I would have read about it in the paper.

Undeterred and still having tile in the shower held together by duct tape, I tried again. I'd gone to a tile shop to ask about what to do. Our shower is circa 1994. No backer board. Could I DIY? A gentleman introduced himself, explained he was the guy to do the job. I took his card. He made an appointment and showed up early.

After looking at my shower, he explained he could do the job, but he couldn't rehang the shower. Right now, the shower door/fixtures work fine, but the tile is bad. He could fix it so the tile would be good, but the fixtures and door wouldn't exist.
"So I'd still have only half a working shower, which would mean I'd still have a broken shower, but I'd pay you for the trouble."
"Yes. I'll write up a contract and email it to you."

I asked if he could get someone to finish the job. He said yes again. I entertained hope. But a week later, no email, no phone call, no nothing. He took my twenty-five dollars and left. I feel soo used.
So I'm back in the hunting season again. Trolling Home Depot like a barfly hoping for a quick fix. This time I'll be smarter, wiser, faster. This time, I'll get them drunk first and I won't let them leave without the equivalent of a pre-nup.

Pray and Fast and Give Alms for Peace

The Syrian crisis is as complex as anything one might imagine.  Here are some of the key points from the past four years alone.  Suffice it to say, 250,000 individuals have died and 11 million have been displaced from their homes.  Every once in a while we get worked up over a picture, because a picture as the saying goes, is worth 1000 words.  Nikki Haley held up pictures asking how many children have to die before Russia cares? I'd change the word Russia to world.

Seeing people dying in a horrible quick fashion that is frightening, that makes us want to take action.

This sort of horror, like the picture of the boy washed up on the shore, like the picture of the boy in the back of the ambulance, somehow gets us more invested than say, this picture:

or this one: 

Which makes us want to change the channel because we can't wrap our heads around it and don't have a symbolic action we could do which would let us go back to not paying attention. 

So remember folks, you can kill with indifference, denial of humanitarian aid, bullets and bombs all you like, but if you do a chemical weapon drop, we'll send missles.  Please, go back to killing and oppressing your people in less emotionally gripping and disturbing ways.  To avoid further strikes, only oppress and kill in ways which are approved by other civilized nations.

I'm sorry if that sounds too sharp to some ears. I'll concede it might deter Assad from authorizing further flights from airbases he contols to drop chemicals on civilians who do not favor his regime, but it also might draw us into a high stakes conflict with Russia, since Russia suspended an agreement of military cooperation between the US and Russia, since Russia is an ally of the existing Syrian regime. Additionally, while surgical strikes provide symbolic relief, no one even pleased with the US response, believes this limited action will result in the regime having a change of heart.

While I hope the missles got the places that hold chemical weapons, no one should feel comfortable that the US sends drones or missles into countries where we have not declared war or been given sanction to act in a military fashion or that Russia has promised to bolster Syrian air defense systems and is sending a frigate to monitor Syria's port to the Mediteranean.  It has the feel of brinkmanship, and not "the art of the deal." Military action, like all other things we do, ought to be the result of reflective, deliberate policy and thoughtful examination.  This act, (in contrast with the talk up until last week), is reflexive and reactive.  I didn't like it with the past presidents, I still don't like it.  

So what do we do as we watch powers and principalities play out a game of live chess with real people?

If we remember, back when war with Syria seemed inevitable in 2013, Pope Francis asked the Church to pray and fast for peace.  Somehow, the U.S. need to go to war which seemed unavoidable, evaporated...overnight.

Perhaps it is time to make that request again, and this time, add alms giving in the form of each parish taking on a family. If the Pope asks our fellow Christians and Muslim and Jewish brothers and sisters to each take on a family at each church, each mosque, each temple, we will be able to whittle that picture of endless despair down, and perhaps help prove there is another way to address "such relentless hate," by riding out to meet them.  Problems aren't intractable just because they're difficult to resolve. Problems remain intactable because people refuse to be moved or to move. What is required is embracing the cross.  Somehow, we have to know, if we are Catholic, everything always requires embracing the cross.   Somehow, we have to know, peace isn't the merely absence of conflict.  Anyone who ever had a silent fight knows how a house feels when two people aren't getting along.  On a global scale, we can't know peace when we wilfully ignore suffering so as to "get along."

What we keep forgetting, as individuals and whole peoples, is when we ignore a problem because it is hard, it gets bigger.  It's true with weight. It's true with debt.  It's true with education. It's true with politics.  It's true with everything that matters in life.  When we ignore problems because they are difficult, we eventually wind up ignoring people.    We need to take on this crisis we've ignored. 

How?

We can eliminate the humanitarian crisis by helping one family at a time, via one community at a time.  Risk is always involved when we reach out to a stranger, to an other, whenever we offer love but to do otherwise, is indifference (which is the simplest path and what we've done as a world whenever we thought we could).  We've tried indifference. It has lead to where we are now, with millions searching for room in the inn of the world, pictures of the dead and the dying and stories of suffering, waste and pain with no respite.

Here's some links to ways we can get involved.
Seven Ways to Help Syrian Refugees.

How to Get Congress to Act to provide relief to Syrian Refugees.

Here's one more, which has some of the same information but is still worth reading as I'm pleased it's from a secular source: How to Help.

Petition your bishop, your pastor, and your friends to encourage everyone to do the same.  As we prepare for Holy Week, we ought to ramp up our prayers, fasting and alms giving, storming Heaven, asking for the peace the world cannot give.   If we show we are not living as this world would have us, but as the next, perhaps we can have better pictures and better stories to tell.

So Pray the Rosary for peace.
Fast as penance for all the pain we've created via neglect, indifference and not being willing to act,
and give alms, so they will know who we are.

It may seem unreasonable to pray for peace in such a wartorn and conflicted country. How could it possibly happen? That's okay. God loves unreasonably.  We can be unreasonable with God in our prayers, and God wants peace for these people, for all of us, even more than we do. It may seem crazy to give alms when there are so many in need. How could our little be sufficient?  That's okay. Give what you can. God will do the multiplying. He's done it before.   It may even seem scary to take on caring for people of a different faith, people we don't know, and to invite them into our lives. Again, that's okay. 

Love is always unreasonable, generous and courageous.  So be unreasonable, generous and courageous.  This week, this about to be Holy Week, be love.  

Re-Illusionism

This week, one of the classes I assist worked on essays discussing disillusionment.  We'd read The Great Gatsby, and were debating whether Gatsby's relentless romanticism and hopefulness that Daisy would come, Daisy would call, and he and she would live happily ever after, was a good thing as Nick opines, or a delusion which should have been discarded when she married Tom.  

We'd given examples, "Finding out about the Tooth Fairy or Santa," learning a friend wasn't, or being let down by a classmate, parent, teacher or other person.  We'd discussed the first component necessary in being disillusioned, having trust and hope in something or someone.   So is it a good?  One could not say it was healthy in the case of Gatsby, and several students declared him to be insane to pursue her when he could have anyone and he had everything.  However the funeral reveals the stark reality.  He had everything of matter, and nothing that mattered.  Some of my students lamented the weight of the waste of Gatsby's life and felt mystified he'd have such depth of feeling for someone who seemed so casual in her feelings for everything.

Other students understood Nick's appreciation of Gatsby for his "all in" way of living.  These students wanted that romanticism to be real.  They wanted a "Re-illusioned" world where anything was possible and maybe, maybe if George hadn't shot him, Daisy would recognize what she might lose by not leaving Tom.  

The discussion took place in pieces, punctuated by talk about the fight that took place between two girls that morning.  Oddly, the students didn't recognize the very passions which drove the quarrel between two students, was also the result of two visions of the world.  One world held there is no place that is safe, there is no relationship one should hold as fixed.  The other side thought even if it was a fight, there was a reason, and the fight settled very little, as the passions remained.  

If we have a goal with education, it is to walk the line of growing hope and bolstering the steel in each student to face reality.    We have to do both and, revealing that we cannot know all ends of our actions or the outcomes of all relationships, and yet must act in all things with some degree of anticipation about how things will play out.  The students wrote over and over again of a wanting to not have to be disillusioned.   They want the dream of having someone be that lavishly in love.  They want the dream of being able to somehow build one's self out of nothing.   They want to think, they can one day arrive and have everything. They also presume, when they arrive, the friends at the party will be real.  That's what they want. It's what Gatsby wanted.   No one wanted to think they had to despair to face reality.

All I could think was, me too.  

So I pondered, perhaps it is time to create some story which allows for the re-ordering of our understanding about hopes and dreams.  They aren't an illusion or a delusion, but a means of imagining a reality better than what we face.  They may be a goal.  They may become a reality.  They aren't a guarantee, but they are a catalyst for everyone who ever embraces them, to make the world something other than the disillusioned mess it is now.  

There Isn't a Home

In the arena of America politics, there isn't a home where as a Catholic, I can feel comfortable.  I know good earnest noble intelligent caring people across the political spectrum. I know some who say, here is your home, because you oppose this...insert issue A. They are correct, I oppose issue A. It is insufficient reason. I know others who say come over here, it is obvious you don't belong over there. We have issue B and C.  It doesn't matter. If my faith is the determinative factor on voting and not ideology, then neither party deserves my support.  I cannot reject half of my values to affirm one, or ignore that one for the same reason.  I can't.  Not if I want to hold true to any of my faith.  Not one pinch of incense for either false god.

Neither candidate should hold power. Neither is a good decision, only a negative decision. Whether for Trump or Hillary, I can't give my assent without being tarred by the muck each candidate has chosen to embrace.  I cannot support either candidate if giving such support results in having to pretend corrupt isn't corrupt, evil isn't evil, incompetent isn't incompetent, and ignorant isn't ignorant. To support either is to somehow contort one's values and shoehorn them into the slipper for either R or D.  For me, neither shoe fits.

These candidates are real people with serious character flaws. I concede, one of these two damaged souls will win but not with my help. Today, I reject both parties and their proposed candidates.  I have never not voted, but I don't think in good faith I can assent to either ever. To me, they are both Barabbas. They are both something other than good, and the position of President is something that ought not to be given to one of these two least kind, least selfless, least ethical, least honest or generous candidates to enter the public arena in a long time.

To those who say, "No! You'll waste your vote."  No.  I am holding my vote.  It is not something someone is guaranteed because of their party.  It is something that must be earned.  No one has done anything to earn my trust, let alone my vote.

Why do I say there is no good choice?  It is not because I despair of good in this world or in people. I know I am not the only one who knows many on both sides of the political spectrum.   I know I am not the only one to be able to name names of people with R's and D's affiliated to their voting record that are to a person, decent, kind, thoughtful, diligent, people of good character.  I imagine most are trying to make the best of a situation they did not choose and do not want.

When I look at the fruits of pledging fealty to either side, both candidates demand too many compromises.   Anyone who doesn't fit one's political template is thus exiled to the political equivalent of Hell, for having thought otherwise.  Modern politics seems to thrive on this sort of instant US THEM, US GOOD, THEM EVIL sort of nonsense. This sort of rigid dismissal of all who think otherwise must be rejected.

Whatever that is, it's not American or Catholic, or even sensible. It's not healthy for anyone to presume to reading other people's hearts when we cannot even see each other's faces.     We are all more than politics, or we're supposed to be, and to be Catholic, we even have to see those we consider our enemies, as made in the likeness of God, and worthy of dignity, worthy of love.  It's too easy to give into snark, to vitriol, to declaring the other side willfully ignorant or deliberately evil.   It allows us to dismiss whole swaths of others and feel smug in doing so.

We are a diverse nation, with multiple reasons for our decisions, both pragmatic and ideological, social and personal, ethic based and steeped in history. By our very ordinary acts of everyday civility, and the peaceful transition of power from administration to administration, all of us prove, our great capacity for tolerance, our great capacity for diversity of thought, our ability to coexist despite what the political parties believe.

So while I don't have any faith or trust in the candidates, I do still hold great hope in the promise and reality of the everyday R's and D's.  I'm thinking they would probably prefer to skip both conventions, go to a local watering hole and complain about the candidate they got stuck with for this go around.

We'll survive whoever wins, because we are bigger than any one candidate.  Politics would have us always believe this is the critical juncture, (regardless of the year) where utopia or doomsday is around the corner.   I reject the damning despair and false hope presented.  The universe will go on, as it should, and it will the results of all of our efforts in the every day that determine whether we become a better nation or not.

Some of the More Things of Heaven and Earth

We live in a world that professes to love beauty, to love when people triumph over adversity, to love courage and fortitude and persistence. We celebrate it in wounded warriors, in athletes, in students that come from disadvantaged situations. When someone who has defined parameters we can see, exceeds them, even for a moment, it is a stop and recognize "there are more things in heaven and earth Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." type of moment.  But the world seems to think, we need less of these moments, as it continues to champion the destruction of the disabled in the womb, and sanction the euthanasia of the elderly.  The world professes to love seeing people triumph over adversity, but advocates for eliminating all people who might suffer from adversity.  You can't have the victory without the struggle, but the world, out of fear, out of hopelessness, has declared, all struggling should be eliminated.

Today, my son came to me and said, "Catch" and threw me a ball. It is a simple thing. But for my son to speak is already more than I expect. For him to invite me to play with him, and to do it multiple times, showing me he knows what he wanted, and how to say it, and how to do it, well, I had my miracle for today. He even caught the ball twice. 

Some people think people like Paul should be destroyed before they're ever born, to save them from suffering through the trials of this life. Some people think giving birth to a disabled child if you know the child will be disabled, is the height of selfishness, because you could have spared them.  

The problem with this sort of thinking is it denies a reality. No matter what the tests show, every child will be dis-abled, in that there will be some things that any given child cannot do or do well. There has not yet been born a Super baby, and even those exceptionally gifted, struggle with something because all of us do. Should your child be born perfect, there will still be the flaws of the world, of teachers and bees, mean dogs and rainy days, boredom and chores he finds tedious. She might hate ballet even though she has the legs and grace and apparent talent. She might love singing, though her voice is that of a frog. Desire, talent, reason and capacity do not always line up, and no matter who one gives birth to, or how well they are raised, there will be at some point, some rawness, some keen disappointment which shakes them out of the idea that all in life must flow without effort, and without suffering. Someone will die, someone will fail, someone will not show up, someone will disappoint. It may even be themselves.

We cannot bubble wrap life and live it to the marrow at the same time. If we opt for safety in all things, we can create a fragile creature of a person, and ensure they never have a skinned knee, but that will rob them of the joy of discovering they can survive such things, and that such things in the scheme of things, are not worth worrying over. Eventually, science will allow us to eliminate all sorts of conditions, but only at the cost of all sorts of people, people like Michael J. Fox, like Beethoven, like Stevie Wonder, like anyone we've ever met who inspired us because they didn't let their disability define the whole of them, or rather, they didn't let us define them solely by their disability. They already knew they were more than their blindness or Parkinson's or deafness or whatever it was, they already knew they were whole people of infinite worth.

Paul doesn't have a magic talent like they showcase in Hollywood movies. He can't count cards like Rainman, and he isn't a musician of professional caliber. He's seven.   But none of his brothers or sisters weigh Paul's worth by what he can't do. They celebrate his presence daily, not because they're angels, but because they recognize his victories are just that, victories over what the world says about his capacity to add value to life. Paul adds salt to our family. We were a big family before him, but he has made us fuller. 

Tomorrow, he will show me another miracle. It may be when he (he's seven), wants to go outside, and brings me my gloves. It is a  gallant little gesture on his part, but the world will be saved by little acts, by little kindnesses, by little miracles. And people like Paul, specialize in those sorts of things that will save the world. 

Like a Promise

Every once in a while, Paul's Down Syndrome announces itself by its differences. 

This past week one of the schools my son might attend next year held open house.  Within moments, I knew it wasn't a good fit.  The program lumped Kindergarten to 2nd grade level students with developmental delays into a single classroom and while I know each year a class dynamic changes, what I didn't see in any child anywhere, was someone who resembled my Paul.

There were some non verbal kids, but none as non verbal as mine. 
Some needed assistance with hygiene, but usually owing to a physical restriction, not a developmental capacity to willfully and consistently act.
There were kids with Down Syndrome, and yet I knew, I could tell, Paul would struggle to keep up with them on the playground and in the classroom. It did not feel promising.

I've been a special educator.  I know how a setting like this works, and I know when a child is the lowest or the highest by too much, there is tremendous frustration both for the child and the educators.  You want them to flourish, and with all the strikes against a child with developmental delays, you don't want to waste a year of instruction or even a day, in a placement where they will be bored, struggle, or simply not get the instruction and support they need to thrive.

As a mom, I felt protective and demoralized.  I didn't want my son alone.  I didn't want him isolated any more than necessary, and I could not see him being part of a group of friends when everyone there could tell the teacher and the class and even strangers what they had for dinner last night, and I can't get Paul to reveal what he's having for lunch while he's eating it.  It's an ache I haven't had to hold too tightly, as he is surrounded by siblings, he's been young, and he's small so his delay doesn't seem as great as it actually is when I put him in a classroom with children closer to the scale by which one is usually measured. But that day, I felt the weight of it, and the promise that the weight would only get heavier as time passed.

It happened again at mass, when Paul squirmed and chattered and laughed so loudly I had to take him out of the main body of the church and then even behind the double wooden doors, he proved his capacity to be mischievous leading to a hasty retreat to the basement.

Alone with my son, I really looked at him. His handicap doesn't normally plague my brain or my heart.  But today, it ate like acid on my mind. He's five. He's not potty trained.  He's five. He should be in Pre-school. He should know his ABC's and be able to count to ten and ride a bicycle with training wheels.  He should be able to walk to the car holding my hand and not require a death grip to ensure he doesn't bolt toward the street.  I groused at God, "I thought following you meant my burden would be light, the yoke easy.  This doesn't feel easy. I can't even stay in the back of the mass staring at it through the splinter crack of the two doors!" My heart whined with a two year old's "You promised."sort of pain.  My hurt must have shown on my face because another woman came down the stairs with her son, twice my son's size but also evidencing a developmental delay. 

I didn't know her, but she stopped and hugged me.  "Some days are like that." she said, and told me her story of her husband leaving before he was born, of her son being the same age as mine, and in a special program.  The bathroom momentarily forgotten, her son began racing back and forth in the hallway with mine in an improvised unspoken game of tag.  I was being shown, he wouldn't be alone.  Her son asked me his name, "I'm Stevie." he said.  Paul ran after Stevie and I heard something from my son that could be his name.   He'd keep up in his own way, and there would be friends for my son. It felt like a promise.

They'd sat behind us in the pew back when we were sitting in the pew.  I'd noticed the woman next to her,  a woman the same size as her, but with a face identical to my son's.  This lovely person hugging me took care of her sister for her parents when care was needed in addition to her own only child.  When we returned to the mass, I knew why we all had to be there that evening. It wasn't the normal mass time for either of us, but she had come with her sister and her son for me and mine.  Having her sister made her less afraid to have her son.  Having both made her able to hug a total stranger who was having a hard mass day because she knew the cross I was carrying, and how momentarily heavy it felt.  The stinking pity party I'd been having evaporated by the mere touch of the hem of Christ's garment.  The weight lifted, my heart lightened and all it took was a game of tag in the church basement and a hug.

We exchanged numbers and though I haven't called her yet (she told me she'd be on vacation this week), every time I see her name written in green colored pencil on the scrap of paper as I rummage through my purse, it gives me a bit of hope about Paul's future.  I've got another visit next week for Paul's placement and a play date to schedule with Stevie.  And his future, though as unknown as my own, feels like a promise of lighter days to come.

Breaking Down the Brick Walls in Our Hearts

When we found out Paul needed open heart surgery, there was no question that we would do it.  There was fear, there was great fear about what it would mean, whether he would survive, but there was no question that we had to try. 

Paul's Down Syndrome was irrelevant to the question. He needed his heart repaired to live, ergo his heart would be repaired.  Paul's age was irrelevant to the question.  Thankfully no one ever suggested that he shouldn't receive the heart surgery because of his Trisomy 21.  I might have developed mutant powers in that moment of pure rage and Catholic Hulk smashed the offending speaker into a wall. 

Moms are dangerous when their babies are threatened. 

So when I read about little Amelia and the callous response of the doctor who said,
“I will take this back to the team. We meet once a month. I will tell them I do not recommend Amelia for a transplant because she is mentally retarded and we will vote.”

 I see RED.

And when the mother then asks “And then who do I see?”

and the doctor responds:
“Well, you can then take it the ethics committee but as a team we have the final say. Feel free to go somewhere else. But it won’t be done here.”

I GET MAD. 

This cannot stand. 

Refusing to treat a child and telling the parents they are too involved with their DAUGHTER, refusing to perform the surgery even if the parents find a donor on their own, it is the very response of Scrooge: "let them die...and decrease the surplus population."  It is wrong. It is the pernicious "quality of life" argument that weighs a child's potential economic value to determine worth. 

Now I'm sure the doctor did not consider himself anything of the villain, only the bearer of hard news.  He even points out, "This is hard for me."  echoing Pilate's, "I wash my hands." 

Forgive me for not feeling terribly sympathetic, but you can know it's no where near as hard for the physician as it will be for the parents or the patient who must endure this sentence should it be carried out.

Here, on the week before the March for Life, I ask all of you to pray.  Pray for the Doctor to have a softening of his heart.  Pray for the family to find a donor and if not this hospital, another one willing to take Amelia's case on and help her live.  Pray for a miracle for this child because Heaven hears all our prayers. 

Some people use the existence of children like Paul and Amelia as proof that there is no loving God, because suffering, unreasonable suffering exists.  Some argue that children like this are better off dead.  None of Paul's siblings or family think this is true.  None of Amelia's family is willing to let her go quietly into that good night with a "it's for the best" attitude.  Only those not emotionally attached to these individuals can make that statement, because they think they lose nothing by the absence of people like Paul or Amelia.  They have no idea how much these children add to life, and how much their absence in our families would subtract. 

All people have souls and we are responsible for everyone's souls if we would love as Christ loves, we must love the souls that the world declares are unfit, unworthy of life.  These little ones are Christ in disguise.  Children such as these are here to show us how to love without limits, to love beyond reason, to love and will the good of the other when there is no apparent cost-benefit to us.  Little ones like this are greater proof of God than sophisticated educated physicians and social workers who refuse the tears and pleadings of parents desperate to save their daughter.  Evil, by omission or commission, via neglect, indifference or pure rational calculations about what is optimal scientifically, is harder to comprehend in the world of a loving God, than the existence of suffering.  Pray to break the hearts of stone, pray God gives us all hearts for love alone. 

Finally, I ask that you go to the website and share her story, because every child is precious in the eyes of Heaven, and in the eyes of the parents, and all of them deserve better, so much better than this.

P.S.  Just received word that the family has been INVITED BACK.  Keep praying.
http://yourlife.usatoday.com/parenting-family/special-needs/story/2012-01-16/Team-Amelia-backs-transplant-for-special-needs-child/52603482/1

Three Minutes of Joy

Since third grade started, the fast fifty have been the bane of my existence.  The kids get four minutes to do fifty problems. My daughter dreamed of seeing her work taped outside the classroom with the loopy big neat cursive of her teacher's praise, "Well done Faith" or some such.  She studied.  We did flash cards. We did videos to try and memorize the times tables.  We did practice tests. Most of the time, she had "U"s (unsatisfactory) or I for Incomplete.  The closest we got was a high "S" for satisfactory.  But to be on the wall in the four minute club, you had to miss five or fewer.
 
For a time, we thought the glasses would allow greater focus and improve performance, but we'd reached February and the times tables were now considered to be known facts.  So the test was now only three minutes.  The S's slipped back into U's and I's again as she perpetually left the sheet with 14 or more not completed plus about five actual errors. 

Because it is Spring Break, I have given her practice drills to prevent backsliding with the week off.  Yesterday, she did a four minute test and I peeked at 180 seconds.  She still had 8 left to complete and five she'd skipped and five I knew were wrong period. These practice tests were as trying for her as for me.  At the end of four minutes, she had five wrong and three she still had not tackled.  I'd feel like an ogre as I checked off the incorrect problems.

Today we began the big experiment.  I've still got my reservations about Ritalin.  I don't want her to think a pill will solve her problems, but a pill may have temporarily solved her problems.  At three minutes, she had five she had not answered but every answer she had put down, was correct. What's more, she knew she'd aced it.

"I feel smarter and stronger." she said.   Me too.

Family and Faith Live!

http://www.faithandfamilylive.com/features/a_little_bit_of_romance/

Obamanomics

Forgive me. I admit, my economics background is grounded in pure experience. Budgets require that you not spend more than you earn. Borrowing from the future is a bad idea. Having more money allocated to fixed expenses does not promote spending, it promotes cutting back. These are things I have learned via the school of hard knocks, the occasional over expenditure that resulted in a raidings of the savings account, and the brief experiement with a home equity loan.

We spend much easier than we save.

I remember wondering how the dot coms made money. It turns out, they didn't. I remember wondering how people could afford these McMansion houses starting in the low 900's. It turns out they couldn't.

So I'm wondering how taxing to create a 1 Trillion dollar bail out plan will actually result in more money being available. Flooding the markets with money to loan won't be something that people can afford. If we're paying more in taxes, we're not going to want to take on more debt.

The number could be a gazillion or five hundred google and it wouldn't matter. The money has to come from somewhere. If we print too much, the money we have will be worth less. It's been tried before.

Yet, we're going to press on with this plan because that's what the Country needs and people who write for the New York Times even fret that it's not enough. Those who complain are slammed as hypocrites because they spent foolishly when they were in power. So if I understand this correctly, the Democrats are entitled to spend foolishly because the Republicans did.

But the economy shall rise like a Phoenix because we spend this money quickly. I really hope it does, but my own ordinary understanding of economics says this won't work. We can't make the economy sing by taxing ourselves into oblivion.

So you heard it here first. I have coined the phrase, "Obamanomics." You tax to prosperity and when that doesn't work, you tax more.

I'd laugh but this isn't funny.

Petit Fours, Petite Threes and Demi-Sass

The bumps of raising eight individuals all at different stages of development towards adulthood sometimes tickle and sometimes bruise. Fortunately, the odds are in my favor that there will always be at least one that isn't irritated with Mom.

...
When we moved the two toddlers into the same room, they were delighted. The Jedi master now had her apprentice to makeover in her own image. Within weeks, the younger had begun to contribute to the scribbled walls, discover the joys of dumping laundry and found an effective means of getting sweets, climbing into the lap of whoever was eating.

There were still limitations on the young Jedi which her master Yoda had to address. One evening after bed, they felt a bit peckish. The younger was unable to get out of her crib so her older sister lovingly provided room service. Sounds of unmistakable glee from upstairs awoke us, both girls sat in the crib scooping large quantities of mint chocolate chip goodness with soup spoons.
Home Regulations have been modified: Ice cream must now be put in the second freezer in the garage behind any frozen vegetables.

...

Watching the Olympics, my daughters were captivated by Women’s gymnastics. Naturally, each of the girls came to me separately asking if they could sign up at the gym where Dominique Dawes had trained for the 2004 games, only two miles from our home.

“If I start now, that could be me in 2012.” My oldest said dreamily. “The rules say you have to be 16 to compete, and that year, I’ll be 16.”

Treading delicately with my very talented daughter who makes great grades, was a fabulous guard in both soccer and basketball and plays the saxophone, but who cannot at this point, do a cartwheel, I tried to explain. “I’ll be happy to sign you up for classes.” I started, “But you should know those girls have been in most cases, taking gymnastics since they were about six.”

Shawn Johnson had just done a flip off the balance beam.

“Well thanks Mom for shooting down my dream with a sniper rifle!” She snapped and marched off. I sat there breathing deeply. Adolescence rots.
...

The other day, ever the optimist, I suggested to my not yet three year old that she use the potty. Being a talented negotiator, this wasn’t a skill she’d agree to simply because Mom wished it. “M&m’s!” she said brightly. I agreed. M&m’s for pottying and producing pee in the potty seemed reasonable. “Miss Chief”stripped entirely while her father tried to explain this degree of nudity was unnecessary to no avail. We decided modesty could be learned later.

She sat for fifteen minutes happily looking at a book. We went about the morning routine. The announcement that there was water in the potty seemed subdued to me. She then requested the promised M&m’s. The abandoned potty held oddly 100% clear water. Further investigation revealed the potty had been filled with water from the sink.

This may be the only child in the history of the world requiring urine testing to verify substance and not substance abuse.
...

Getting ready for school to start, it was time to clear the desks in the study from their summer displays of intricate lego wars. My oldest has a Smithsonian view of his lego displays. Once made, they must not be unmade. His five foot desk was covered.

“You have to have a spot to study.” I explained as I cleared off another child’s table.

“I do.” My son argued.
Looking at the desk, there was a 1x2 foot rectangle of clear space on the desk. He pointed to it proudly.

“That’s it?”

“Dad said I could keep a few models.”
Now 80% of the entire desk was a landscape of legos. I knew this was not what his father had meant. “You need a clear desk for school. Clear desk, decluttered space for studying. Clear mind.”

“It’s clear. I can put my papers and book here.” Technically, a sheet of paper and an open (small) text book could fit in his designated space. However, this minimalist interpretation did not satisfy the parent in me.

“No.” I stood my ground. “There’s a table…”

“August 18th! The day Mom crushed my childhood!” he yelled as he dumped every one of his models in a fit of temper into a large plastic bin, and marched out.
Taking deep deep breaths. Supressing urge to place a RIP childhood note on his door for the dramatics or a Wanted poster with my picture, I arranged a clear table adjacent to his desk for future Lego battles that don't involve me.
...

I'd be discouraged by all this except that having smaller people around helps maintain perspective.

Today, Miss Chief got up with a project in mind, two pony tail holders and a tinkerbell costume before breakfast. Mom indulged her morning whim and as soon as the costume was on and her hair up, she looked at me with great seriousness, her soft toddler hand holding my cheek. “Mom,” she said, making sure I was looking directly into her eyes, “I promise not to fly outside.”

"Not yet." I thought.

Thank goodness.

For humor that doesn't ruin a child's hopes or dreams or childhood, try Humor-Blogs.com

Letter From Santa

My dearest children,

The question arises from age to age as to my actual existence. There comes a time in each person’s life when they must decide if they wish only to be governed by rationality, or if faith plays a role in their everyday being. I am part of that transition, true. I represent the joy and glory and bliss and innocence of childhood at Christmas.

Though I never knelt before the Christ child, I make to Him a present each year, of one day and one night, honoring his birth. I provide an opportunity for people, when more than most pause to consider the past year of blessings, when more than most pine to reconcile with their family and friends, and more than most open their hearts to their neighbors, their spouses, their children, and even to total strangers. Some people even find the most beautiful of presents by opening themselves to God on this day. I travel the world in one night, bringing hope and whimsy and the wish of true peace on Earth, the type of peace the World has never known but secretly pines for at its core.

My story gets told and retold and revisited and reinvented with the nuance and creativity of every age, and each year I do it again and again, willingly and happily, because it brings people to Christ. It brings people together to celebrate. “And wherever two or more are gathered in His name….” I am called Saint Nicholas, Santa Claus and Father Christmas, I have thousands of names beyond Kris Kringle. I am the great facilitator of Christ. People complain that Christmas has become secularized, but more accurately, the secularized world becomes more Christmas’ed each year, as more people celebrate it, even if only with the tree and the dinner and the presents.

I won’t say that Christmas is simply about Love because that’s inaccurate. Christmas is about Christ and Christ IS Love. Christ is MORE LOVE than the world can often tolerate. Yet we desperately need to keep Christmas every day, to welcome Christ into the world via our hearts, our homes and our everyday lives. Welcome to Christmas Day my Children and know that I never stop believing in you.

Merry Christmas

Love, Santa

The Potty Wars

I hate potty training. Really. I hate it. Why? Despite having five children out of diapers, I cannot point to any one of them as being a success because of my efforts. None of them have ever willingly embraced the idea of wearing underwear over diapers. None of them have been easy. None of the diaper set still pending looks to be easy on this point either.

I love my kids.
I love being a parent.

I hate potty training.
______________________________________
Potty Training with Child #1
Behavior management doesn’t work.

We went to the store.
We bought a small potty.
We bought stickers.
We bought “M&Ms.”
We brought it home.
We set it up.
We started the week with high hopes.
I made a chart.
I put the chart on the bathroom door.
I put the “M&M’s” in the freezer.
I put the stickers in an envelope next to the chart.
I explained to my son the idea.
He would try to go potty.
He would earn stickers (happy faces).
If he was successful, he got “M&M’s.”

Within a week,
my son drew a picture of himself.
He explained, he’s unhappy because he just had an accident.
He then began to cry. I looked at the picture.
The unhappy face stick figure burned into my brain.
Horrified,
I threw away the chart, gave him the stickers and then,
I ate the “M&M’s.”
Four months later, we were still changing diapers at 3 and nearly 8 months.
_____________________________________
Potty Training with Child #2
Bribes don’t work either.

We cut out a picture of a ballerina and taped it on the fridge.

The deal was simple enough, if she went potty and could wear underwear, she could do ballet.
We bought the underwear in advance.
We went to watch the ballet class.
We even bought the slippers and tutu and put them in her closet.

Our daughter sensed that this was worth even more than we were offering.

Within two months, a picture of a bike was added, at her request. She also wanted to go to school.

I stupidly agreed to it all, anything to get the job done.

Four long months later, she demanded payment in full,
for her very first success.

We explained (rationally) that she had to do this more than once.

She grew angry.

Four more months later, diapers were still on our grocery list, and she was 3 years and 7 months old.
__________________________________
Potty Training with Child #3
A watched child never potties.

Every 25 minutes, we took her.
That got old fast.
You can’t go anywhere or do much of anything.
Our lives revolved around the attempt to keep that commitment of every 25 minutes.
After a weekend of that, I was ready to be committed.

So we tried a combined approach of what had sort of worked before.
The chart was back.
The stickers were back.
The bribes were back,

None of it worked.

A friend recommended the Couch Potato technique.
It sounded promising.
We should stick a tv in the bathroom with her.
We’ll turn it on and she’ll sit. She’ll relax, and bingo! She’ll go.
She got hours of cartoons out of that deal.

Four months later, we were still trying for our first success at 3 1/2.

___________________________________________
Potty Training with Child #4
It’s his potty and he’ll cry if he wants to.

This time, we tell ourselves, it will be different.

We have read the books.
We have looked at magazines.
We have learned from our mistakes.
And, we are starting earlier.

Our son is newly two.

Our son likes his new underwear.
He likes his stickers.
He sits on the potty.
We praise him often, just for thinking about sitting.

Somewhere in the process,
something breaks down.
He decides, he doesn’t want to.

We take him any way.
I don’t want to!
He sobs.
We make him sit.
I don’t want to!
He screams!

We drag him to the bathroom.
He cries when he sits on the potty.
I …..gasp!..... hate…..gasp!....the….gasp!....potty!
One day, I see him clutching his body
and sprint him to the bathroom.
I sit him down, saying as calmly as I can,
“I know you need to go.”
“NO! You! Don’t!” he sulks back.
I sit in there with him, reading books.
I clean the bathroom while I wait.
I organize the towels,
And the sheets,
And the medicine cabinet.
I know I can’t spend the whole day in the bathroom, and
I can’t leave him there forever,
But nothing happens until I diaper him up.

Then he comes to me immediately
“I need a diaper change.”
sweetness in his voice and innocent eyes.

Our son held out until he was nearly four.

Our bathroom looked very nice for those two years.

_____________________________________
Potty Training with Child #5
Seek Professional Help.

Okay, we are getting desperate.

Yes, four children have managed to potty train, but not one before the age of 31/2! I have been driven nearly insane by the process. I remain doubtful about my prospects for success with my daughter. As I have a toddler and am expecting my seventh, the idea of three in diapers makes me literally faint of heart.

It is summer. All the books say that is the best time to do this.
We consult friends. The collective advice is to go Cold Turkey.
No Diapers. Not even at night. The theory is that within one week,
she will train herself.

A week passes, two, three. By the fourth week, I have washed every item of clothing and all of her bedding at least eleven times, the carpet has spots and smells faintly of carpet cleaner. Not one success.

Summer passes. We try pull-ups. These are simply more expensive diapers that prey upon parents’ hopes and create laundry at the same time.

We’ve had no success and we’ve been at it since April. I quit for a time and resign myself to changing three different sized diapers multiple times daily.

Then, one day, I crack.

She gets up and is dry.
I take off the diaper and explain that today, she will potty.
I sit her down. I bring her a book. I set the timer.
Twenty minutes pass, nothing.

I change her baby brother and the baby. Checking on her,
she is still looking at the book. I fix breakfast. Determined, I bring breakfast in on a step stool for her, and set it up next to her potty. “Thanks Mom.” She says with a beautiful smile. I go away feeling like Super Mommy.

I fix her brother breakfast and nurse the baby. After getting them dressed, I pick out clothing for my new big girl, my heart full of hope. Going to check on her, the phone rings. The call takes about five minutes, and then I do the dishes, absent mindedly forgetting to check. The baby needs nursing and changing again. My son needs his face washed and socks and shoes.

When I remember my daughter is still in the bathroom, I run upstairs, and there she is, sitting on her potty, fast asleep.

There is nothing in the toilet.

__________________________________
Potty Training with Child #6
Global Warming

This kid has seen potty training at its ugliest. He knows what is expected and is old enough to take care of business. He also has a sense of humor.

His favorite joke is to sit on the portable potty and then announce, “I did it Mom.”

When I go over to check, he laughs and says, “It’s a trick Mom. I tricked you.”

One day I said, “It’s time to potty now.” He looked outside at the weather and said, “Today isn’t a good day for pottying.”

The M&M’s are still in the freezer waiting.

______________________________________
The Last Word

I saw in a magazine that the average mom changes 3,175 diapers by the time a child is 2 &3/4 years old. I know that I have been changing diapers since 1993. Using that figure and accounting for the fact that none of my children have made it out of diapers before the age of 3&1/2, I have done the math. No one should ever know these sorts of stats, but from these calculations, I estimate I am responsible for a land fill the size of Rhode Island.

I still have a chance to have an easy pottying experience, our two youngest are still in diapers. Their father has a standing offer to any child who potty trains before the age of 3, he will buy them a car.

And once it does happen finally for our youngest child, once I am finally diaper free…..

the kids want a dog.