Over at the National Catholic Register Today

The goal is to keep writing, keep churning through even when I don't feel it.  It's why I'm happy to report, I have a piece over at the National Catholic Register.  It's Now is the Time to Embrace the Mass even if it's on TV.

So today, I'm praying my way through the crisis as we begin the STAY at HOME part of this pandemic.    The rosary is a favorite means for me to do a litany of sorts, of petitions.

Because no one wants to be here...waiting...fearing illness.  Hail Mary.
Because no one wants to be sick and alone.  Hail Mary.
Because no one wants to be the one who keeps a mother from her child or a husband from his wife, or force an elderly person to die without the comfort of a hand holding them.  Hail Mary.
Because people fear what is next.  Hail Mary.
Because people long for a return of normal.  Hail Mary.
Because people worry they will fall into bad habits while home. Hail Mary.
Becuase people will lose their jobs. Hail Mary.
Because people worry about having to choose between going to work/paying bills and exposing their family.  Hail Mary. 
Because we miss commuity.  Hail Mary. 

Because people struggle with anxiety.  Hail Mary.
Because people struggle with underlying conditions.  Hail Mary.
Because people lack a means to pay for medical attention. Hail Mary.
Because Medical Staff are overwhelmed and overworked.  Hail Mary.
Because people worry about the unknown want.  Hail Mary.
Because school is stop gapped and people worry about what will happen next. Hail Mary.
Because people don't know they're contagious. Hail Mary.
Because people will blame each other if they get sick. Hail Mary.
Because some people will die from this virus.  Hail Mary.
Because some people will live through it with scars.  Hail Mary.

Because people miss parties.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss graduations. Hail Mary,
Because people will miss trips.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss lessons.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss boyfriends and girlfriends.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss Aunts and Uncles and cousins.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss Grandparents.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss friends, all the friends from the ordinary encounters of life.  Hail Mary.
Because people will miss families. 
Because people will miss priests and sisters and deacons and others who minister to them spiritually.

Because people miss going places. Hail Mary.
Because people worry about needing to get things.  Hail Mary.
Because every ache and cough and sniffle makes us nervous. Hail Mary.
Because we cannot clean enough.  Hail Mary.
Because all the days bleed into each other.  Hail Mary.
Because no one seems to have a handle on how to make it stop being impossibly hard. Hail Mary.
Because no one knows how long this will last. Hail Mary. 
Because we're used to having so much more liberty. Hail Mary.
Because we cannot play together or cheer for a team together, or go to a concert or a museum together.  Hail Mary. 
Because it's harder to recognize Sunday. Hail Mary. 

For all those who are sick with this virus. Hail Mary.
For all those who care for them. Hail Mary.
For all those who can't care for them. Hail Mary.
For all who await testing.  Hail Mary.
For all who want testing and can't get it.  Hail Mary.
For all who are called into service. Hail Mary. 
For all who shelter in place.  Hail Mary.
For all who need to shelter in place. Hail Mary.
For all who don't believe this is real.  Hail Mary.
For all paralyzed by the reality of it.  Hail Mary.

For all who miss the Eucharist, and all the sacraments we've grown so accustomed to receiving as needed, when wanted, because we want it, we now get to be like the apostles and disciples of the Early Church, who knew the experience of being in Christ's presence, and now had to go out and tell the world about who they'd met, and what meeting Him meant. 

New Piece (Again) at the Register

I admit, I need to get back to work if I want to top this week of three pieces published...especially when I have nothing in the pike waiting.   However, this one was a get up and write type of nag. 

So I hope you like my latest over at the National Catholic Register, discussing how the Mass is always good even if we don't know it, the mass is always "More than our feelings." My apologies if I've started a Boston concert in your brain with those words.

Bringing the Stable to the Mother

"Why do we have to go to mass tonight?" one kid complained. "Yeah, why didn't the Church move the feast to Sunday?" The teen sensed a mutiny and fanned the flames. I would have a full scale kid riot for a Holy Day of Obligation if I didn't act.

"We're going to the vigil mass because tomorrow is too full of things for us to make it. The 6:30 will be fine." I soothed. They'd already eaten. They were still dressed.

"I haven't done my homework." one said.
"Me neither." another volunteered.
"You have fourty-five minutes right now." I said and set the timer.

To minimize stress, I lay the coats in a pile, put my purse on top of it with my keys and lined up their shoes. I knew why the eleven year old didn't want to go. She'd had a fight with her two best friends, and the wounds were still fresh. I handed her my phone. "Call them. Say you're sorry. Don't demand anything. Just say what you are sorry for, and that you're also sorry there was a fight at all." She ran off to phone.

I wondered if we'd be spiritually wrecked before we even got to mass, as a shouting match broke out between two over the computer, and the girl with the phone came back, that problem cured, but a new one in tow. She'd been singing a Christmas carol and her brother didn't like it. When her brother didn't like something, he made sure everyone knew it.

I knew why the teen was mad. He wanted to eat. Mind you, he'd had two dinners already, but third dinner promised to be a better one, and so waiting seemed a major injustice. When he's mad, his favorite tactic is to set off as many other people with their own personal mads so that the whole world burns with madness.

I'd hit my limit. I admit, when I start a lecture, it gets a cadence all it's own and it keeps going. "We are going to celebrate and honor the Blessed Mother, and her state of perpetual sinlessness." I put on the first daughter's shoes. "We are going to celebrate a mass as a community and as a family." and handed her a coat. "We're going to sacrifice one hour of our lives to the woman who surrendered her son and didn't scream at the people who killed him." I knocked on the teen's door. "We're going as a family because this is what our faith teaches, it is important, and we're not going to become closer or kinder or better by arguing something none of us have the power to change, only to ignore or accept." I opened the door and they lined up. "Since I accept it and I'm the adult, knock it off and get in the car!"

We drove the three blocks down the road to the church. No one was in the parking lot. The announcement at the end of mass said 6:30, but the mass schedule on the door said 7:30. We went back home. "At least I know, all homework will be done." I said, "And we'll be back, hopefully in a more grateful and celebratory state in an hour."

P.S. They finished their homework and we made it.  The teen took his youngest brother to the back when he needed help quieting down, and when a daughter remarked during one of the songs, "Mary had it easy."  I said, "Nope, she had greater grace, but greater things were asked of her than of you and remember, she had to choose, all her life, to be obedient, even when she didn't feel like it."  Just to prove the point of how difficult obedience is, my son had a slight accident on my jeans.  I sat with him on my lap the rest of mass, draping my coat over the spot.  Mary understood.

I considered Mary's lfe and grace once again.  Mary had and has it hard; she had all of us to deal with, and we're all these messy squirly quarlesome children with different agendas. The mass ended and there was an opportunity to go and venerate a relic from the Blessed Mother.  A piece of her mantle was presented.   After I kissed the relic, I felt a deep sense of knowing, the obedience of grace, is the obedience born of love, that bears all things, hopes all things, and doesn't fail in patience or kindness, even when it seems like it would be so much easier to say, "Knock it off." because I said so.   Walking up, children in tow, smelly, still struggling with the trials of the day and the very real issue of my own wardrobe problem, I felt very much like the stable coming to her, in all its dirty dingey undignified way, coming to be somehow made better by love.  And it did.  Mary's kiss made everything better, even if nothing physically changed, how we treated each other, how we saw each other, did.  

Prayers Please

Most of you know through this blog that my father has Alzheimer's.  Sometimes, it can cause people to misjudge distance and thus fall.  Yesterday, my dad fell.  He broke his left hip.

Today, he will have surgery to replace the ball in the hip. 

So I am asking all of you to pray for the surgeon, for the team that helps the surgeon, for my dad, for my mom, and for all of us who get the frustrating task of having to keep going, because we don't live close enough to go and be simply present. 

While I am at it, I will also ask you to pray for a complete stranger.  Yesterday at mass, I took my youngest to the cry room.  We were at our "It's-5-o'clock on Sunday Mass" Church precisely because they have a cry room.  The space for children at this church is a large open kitchen, walled in with a large glass window, used for meetings where whoever is meeting, will also be serving coffee and probably food.   There is a bin of toys, and there are chairs stacked available for the adults who bring their children there.  

When I arrived, there were two mothers and seven children in the room.One mother had an 8 month old and a 3 year old boy. The other mother had two sets of twins, ages 5 and almost 7.  The sets of twins were very busy playing and the mother's face looked stretched like leather, too thin, worn from pain and stress.

I cannot help myself.  During the offertory song, I said "Hello." 
She spilled open. 
"I don't know why I come to this mass. I've been coming here since they were babies and I can't get them to listen or get anything out of it and I'm getting less and less."  If ever there was a soul that seemed to be begging, "Please don't let me quit coming to mass but help me get something from it," it was she.

I sympathized, told her I understood that there were masses like that for every parent, and she mentioned that she normally goes to the 11:30 where there's a children's mass but they don't like to get in the car.  I admittedly made a joke about how if they want to control the schedule, they should learn to drive.  She smiled.  I then suggested bringing along a friend, that she needed some help.  I couldn't stay because at that point, my two year old found the door knob, opened it and was skipping back to where the rest of my family was.  

But her lament stayed with me all mass.  The Communion song felt like a love song from a Smitten God to her soul to me, "Come Back to Me...with all your heart...stay with me..." I could hear God courting her.  The closing song was an encouragement, "My grace is sufficient, My Grace is enough. My Grace is enough."

After mass, I returned to the cry room. She was still there packing up.  I told her I'd hoped I'd find her again and suggested the Magnifcat as a way of feeding herself daily, and Fr. Barron's Word on Fire for Sunday preparation.  It was all I could do, my family was already bustling out the door to get back home for dinner.   So I would also ask also, that all of you pray for this woman, that she heard how much God wants her and her children at the mass no matter how they act, His Grace is enough.  

Poster Children for NFP*

(Originally Run on  7/26/09...in honor of NFP week).

Showing up for mass on time and worried that I didn't look at the schedule to see if three of the oldest kids need to serve, we huddled guiltily in the back of the church. Some of the ushers know that this is our habit, to send the oldest five upstairs to watch the mass and for my husband and me to wrestle with the "non sentient" crowd unobserved by the majority of the parishioners.

Occasionally we get a pushy mass attendant who will repeatedly try to insist that we take the two, three, five year old and 9 month old to sit at the front of the church. Usually, the two, three year or nine month old will dissuade said usher with a few well placed random happy screams.

At the back of the church there are folding chairs for the stragglers and for us, and a table where one can pick up handy literature on the needs of the food pantry, materials concerning pending legislation that will affect Catholic schools or the Church, teachings on Abortion, flyers for CYO and for retreats, and now, a giant poster covered with sunflowers advertising Natural Family Planning. Sitting with nine children in the back, it was hard not to giggle with the backdrop.

Still, upon reflection, I came to understand that we are NFP poster children. Only if the goal is to have no children, are we not. The fact that we have nine is more a tribute to my stellar book keeping skills and our great love, than the efficiency or effectiveness of NFP. If you succeed in keeping your family small using this method, it is because you have practiced the virtues of obedience and patience and sacrifice --all beautiful virtues which God loves. You have followed God's plan. If you sometimes ignore, forget, or willfully chose to ignore the times when one must abstain to avoid conception, you have abandoned yourself to life, to love, to a future of hope, and allowed yourself to be used in the great first gift of creation, also virtues that God loves. Either way, NFP places you firmly on the path to God.

And the bonus of all this, a man with his young daughter came by and walked in our midst to the table. He took up a flyer for the next session teaching NFP. Whether he did it out of desire for the massive number of sunflowers we had surrounding us or not, it didn't matter.

The usher came by right after that moment, and gave me a wink.

P.S. It wasn't our week to serve, or at least, it wasn't our week to have kids on the altar up front.

When We See

This past weekend I flew down to Texas.

It was for a baptism, meeting a future sister-in-law and seeing my mom and my dad who suffers from Alzheimer's and cannot say all the things he thinks or know anymore all the things he once knew with startling ease.

We ate, we talked, we went to mass. We hugged, we did ordinary things like shopping for diet coke and jeans and making pot roast and folding laundry. We also tried to hang onto moments, to slow time. To freeze the frame when the baby smiled, to remember the words my father could get out and cram every moment with all the stories and thoughts and feelings that too infrequent visits allow to pile up.

It was a joyful luminous glorious sorrowful ordinary time.

At mass, I watched as my father followed my mother to receive. He bowed his head and took the Eucharist on the tongue. He then tried to follow his wife but the traffic to the cup was confusing and for a moment, he looked lost. Then my uncle steadied him by putting his hand on my dad's shoulder and he received the precious blood. I breathed out.

Meanwhile, my mother realized Dad was not behind her. She was about to look about when my brother gave her a reassuring touch of the shoulder to show all was well. My dad was returning.

As a Godparent, I (along with the Godfather)was in the second pew with my sister and her husband and their newly baptized daughter. It was an unfamiliar church for my Dad, but he turned and he stopped. He looked at my face. Out of the packed pews and confusion, he pointed and nodded his head with a slight smile. "I know you." the smile said.

In that moment, I flashed back to the first year I really knew how to swim. I'd had a tracheonmy for the first 8 years of my life and so at nine, swimming underwater was a wondrous new thing for me. I was at the YMCA pretending to be a dolphin or a seal or a mermaid. A man came swimming towards me and his face flowered into a smile. It was my dad. I had not recognized him, being lost in the wonder of being surrounded on all sides by water. When I did, I remember smiling back at him underwater in sudden recognition and then zooming upwards for a breath. Dad had been in the fog of his disease, but for a moment, saw me clearly. I was a mess for the rest of mass.

I was so grateful to see that moment, and all the moments before, the kindness of an Uncle, the comfort of a brother, the strength of a parish bursting with song and with children, the solid faith of my niece's family, the whole of it, all of it, that it was hard not to have my heart both burst with joy and weep.

Saying those vows, receiving, and being present, anticipating a wedding feast in July, it felt a bit like heaven , in that all of time collapsed in that full moment. Yes my dad is dying, but he is still with us. Yes I live far from a lot of the people I love, they are still with us, in this family, this Universal Church.

It was hard not to want to love endlessly in that moment, despite all the known and hidden crosses in that Parish, in my own, in our nation, in the whole world and the whole history of this fallen, broken confused world. For an instant, I understood how grace breaks through the fog of our hearts and even when we are lost in our own worlds, calls us to really see each other, and come out of the fake world where we cannot last long and into the real place where we can breathe easy.

On that day, we will be walking, and we will see Christ's face and He will smile at us. In that moment, when we recognize Him, our face will say, "I know you." too.

It Beats Purgatory

It began with going to my friend's funeral service.  During one of her jaunts to the Mayo clinic, she'd planned her inter-faith memorial to the Nth detail.  I went to be with her family, to miss her, to weep, to remember and to pray.  But while we sang, wept and prayed, I kept getting pulled out of the experience because it was in a Catholic church but every once in a while, it would gong non Catholic. 

I fretted that it was my small minded heart.  We'd sing and I'd be there, and then there would be things which simply weren't Catholic, which within the church with a priest officiating, left me flat.  This was like my friend though, exactly like my friend, for she had fallen away from her faith, choosing the seasoning of the Church over the whole meal.  I worried that my soul was somehow shrivelled because the disconnect kept bapping me in the head. Part of my grief was steeped in that knowledge, part of my hope was she now was fully whole, fully healed, and that this hard life that she had lived with deep desire and deep love had opened her to a greater life with Christ. 

I loved my friend, and I promised her I would go to mass for her because part of my grief observed for her required that I go. 

I'd picked today.  Monday would be ideal, as my son did not have school, so I would not be hamstrung by a schedule about where I needed to be.  We'd go to Saint John's which had a cry room so I could be there with all three of my littles, Gina (4), Paul (3) and Anna Maria (1).  Because I'd be safe in the sound proof room with the speaker, I hadn't packed my stroller.  This was an easy walk from the parking lot to the church to the back room for an unobstructed view where the kids could look at their books or play quietly.  Such was my plan.  I briefly toyed in my head with also receiving reconciliation, yes this would work.  Perhaps I could even finish the rosary and go to adoration to receive an indulgence for my friend.  A gift from her uber Catholic friend, what I could give back. 

We made it on time with time to spare only to find once I'd unloaded that Mondays are the only days that this church does not hold a 9 o'clock.  At this moment, turning back might have been wiser, but I had mass tunnel vision.  I wanted to go, for my friend, for me. Alright, more for me.  So reloaded in the van, I drove to our home parish.  I love our home church but it is not modern.  There is no cry room.  There is a barrier in the back such that sound is sort of muted but if you find the sweet spot, it is amplified.  You peek out towards the altar from the middle and side aisles, but I figured, it's my home, it's the 9, they've eaten, this won't be too hard. 

Stop laughing.  No really. 

On Monday, it is free grocery day so the parking lot was full and the only van sized spot on the opposite end of the parking lot.  Crunching my daughter into my chest with one arm and sporting a death grip on my son with the other, I am verbal chirping at my 4 year old to hold her brother's hand. We braved the seemingly longer than I ever remembered parking lot.  I admit, I kept hoping I'd spy a friend who would take pity on me and help out.  It didn't happen. 

Despite having arrived before mass, we walked in and they were already at the first reading.  Walking to the back with three squirmy littles, I told myself this would still be okay. In the back, the three dispersed instantly, with no one wanting to have exclusive mommy time at the expense of surrendering freedom.  I kept offering to hold them and they kept squirming and making louder noises than I would have thought possible.  Finally getting them shushed, it was time for the Gospel. 

Then the homily came.  My 4 and 3 year old had decided it was laughing time.  They were giggling simply being in each other's company.  I kept shushing but they thought that was hilarious too.  A woman came back to me and gently said, "Some of us want to hear the homily."  Message received. They were getting a bit loud.

I scooped up Paul and Anna and got Gina to follow and we now went into the entrance area, flanked by the doors to the outside and the heavy wooden doors to the inside of the church.  I kept my foot in the door.  Anna and Paul and Gina continued their laughing fest at my feet, rolling on my coat and theirs, pulling up on my pant leg while I strained to muffle their noise and still hear snips of what Fr. was saying.  The reading had been about King David showing forbearance when he was cursed non stop by another, accepting the rebukes of this soul that others wanted to behead, as penance.  Humility.  Humility. Humility.  The gospel was about Christ expelling the demons that were legion into the herd of swine. 

The priest talked about recognizing the nature of how possession takes place, temptation, obsession, possession. He spoke of the soul needing grace, seeking it and how the demons that are seek to distort, destroy, pollute, warp everything, even our best impulses.  I chaffed at being stuck with my foot in the door.  I'd come and I wanted to hear, I wanted more than a sliver of the mass and giggling children were now keeping me stuck.  Honestly, it was a grave pain, I felt stupid and mad and irritated and agitated and wanting to go back in and have my children be awesome or have people recognize that it was okay if they weren't awesome, my brain spun everywhere until it stopped. I wanted pity, I wanted help. I wanted a break.  I wanted to leave.  I wanted to feel free to stay. Here I was at a Catholic mass not being able to be at the Catholic mass because my children were distracting others from prayer, while I was trying to go to mass because I'd been distracted from prayer while seeking to pray for my friend.  The irony was not lost on me.

The theme of this year for me is "Be still and know I am here."  "Why am I here?" my brain kept asking. "Why is it so important for me to be here? It's so hard." My daughter and son had started another game, this time it was knock on the doors and run to the other side, and giggle loud.  It felt so wrong to be telling them "SSSHUSSSHHH" when we were already almost out of the church building itself, with me keeping us in the confines of this little room, inbetween the outside world and the mass itself.  Struggling with all three in the back to hear a sliver of the mass felt like a spiritual battle of the first order...even though they were absolutely happy as I told them to be quiet.  It wasn't like hell, it was ...like purgatory.  Purgatory.

My friend and I were both struggling souls. She'd left the door open for a sliver of the Catholic church to be in her service; I was at the mass, foot in the door, getting a sliver of the mass.  Irony. Irony. Irony.  God's kind of humor.  Hers too.  "If I'm ever a saint, my icon will be me at the back of the church, some of my children acting like barnacles on my ankles, foot in the door."  My brain said and the pain, the ache of it, left.  

I'd been tempted to leave.  I'd been pushed away from prayer.  There it was, my own complaint echoed to me, so I could see something of the shriveled nature of my soul.  I'd even been irritated at the woman for observing that my children were a distraction.  It was nearly the same complaint I'd made about the non-Catholic elements of the memorial service.  Why I'd been kept from my plan is the same reason all of us get to struggle when things run amok, my plan would not have worked, my plan would have allowed me to stay comfortable living  within the confines of my own soul's comfort.

So to sum up, we scrambled up to communion, I did make it to reconciliation, and as soon as I left, a friend (who is the former DRE) spied me and said, "Let me help you to your car." she then added, "Are you nuts? Taking all three of these guys to a daily mass?"

I had to laugh. "It beats purgatory."

Why We Go to 8:30

It's five o'clock.  You've opted for going to the evening mass so everyone can be there so it must be time for every one's favorite pew time pastime, "Who's got Mom?" 

In a twist for our contestants, Mom drove, ergo the original strategies of several key players has been scrapped.  They'll be stuck in whatever alignment Dad puts them in the pew and have to wait for the chance to strike.  It requires a rethinking of strategies as normally, the kindergartner opts for Virtue child, having Mom hold the misselette so she can follow along; muscling out the four year old who thinks the best method is to declare "huggie time."

Mom arrives before the first reading.  Each smaller child is flanked by an older one, leaving Mom on the side with only one method to approach.  The seven year old stands and makes his move.  "Mom!" he urgently doesn't quite whisper.  "I have to go to the bathroom." He may, but he's hoping to go and return to flank Mom on the outside, giving him unrestricted access.

Mom gives the glare and hisses, "Wait until the offertory."  The boy is stuck for what will seem like an unbearable amount of time between his sister who has decided she hates her hair cut and now is the time to let Mom know, and a brother who is trying to both be a bossy bigger brother and seemingly more pious than anyone else in the row.   The rejection has sparked the interest of the older brother who is now trying to correct his younger brother's every move so that it is more correct than the altar servers.

That later kid's a crafty one, as he's placed himself strategically as far away from actual parents as possible, allowing for maximum leeway provided he plays within certain restraints.   Unfortunately, he tends to skate beyond those restrictions which often means there are much more severe consequences if he gets caught. And he's corrected one time too many, resulting in a verbal outrage from the seven year old.  They're both busted. Yes folks, pew kid tetris has begun, as the children are shuffled to try and create the proper alignment to ensure minimum distraction from the mass.

It's rather like one of those analytic problems from the S.A.T.   Kid A can only sit by kid C, F or G.  Kid B sits on the end.  Kid C can sit by anyone but must be in the middle.   Kid D and Kid E must be by one of the two parents.  Kid H and Kid J cannot sit next to each other, but can sit with any one else.   I admit, I've toyed with sitting one child in each pew, at the end, and seeing how that works out, but decided I'll be spending enough time in purgatory as it is. 

Mass includes a visiting missionary with a slide show.  It's good but the children immediately despair.  Commence bathroom breaks.  Shift one, the boys.  Shift two, the younger girls.  Shift three, the older middle children who were trying to show off by not going. 

Back to the action.  Mom had the two toddlers after the potty wars on her lap.  One overly helpful sister was trying to take a child but that child did not want to go.  She announced her desires.  Loudly.  The other child on the lap decided now was as good a time as it was gonna get to give Mom a backwards headbutt.  Mom clears the lap, retreating in pain.  Lap children are now buckled in pew by older teen siblings who relish the idea of 1) acting as parent 2) controlling their siblings 3) appearing virtuous in the process.  Seeing that Mom's arms are free, a new player announces her presence. 

The baby decides she will declare herself the winner.  Bouncing in my arms, she nuzzles up to my neck.  I swear she was giving the rest of them the evil eye and a gloating, "I Win!" victory lap smile when we came back from communion. 

Tune in next week to join us for "Who's not singing?"

Part of the Crowd

Whenever we can't rouse everyone to get out the door for the 8:30, the 5:00 becomes our fallback position for meeting our weekly obligation to attend Sunday mass. Why it's harder to get to the ten than to wait the whole day to load them into the van just before the witching hour when they'll be 1) fully awake 2) annoyed because I broke up something they were doing and 3) within minutes of feeling like they haven't eaten and 4) unable to be bribed with donuts, I don't know. 

But when we sleep in past 8, I set the alarm for 4 o'clock.  At 3:59 pm I begin inspecting my offspring, sending some to go laundry diving to find suitable attire, asking others to state "when they last showered." and if the answer is not immediately forthcoming, to remedy that problem.  Today, I looked at my youngest son and in a fit of parental vanity, I gave him a haircut at 4:15.  I managed not to make him look like either a girl or Moe of the three stooges.  It was a victory.

It was getting near crunch time.  Two children could not find their shoes, a third was looking for her long pants and a forth wearing a turtleneck and sport shorts.  Three of these problems were solved, but for the life of me, I could not locate my second grader son's shoes.  His flip flops had bit the dust two weeks ago and so he only had one working set of footware. 

We prayed to Saint Anthony and I begin looking in earnest while the oldest begins loading the car.

I searched the upstairs and found six shoes, five sippy cups and a load of laundry. After searching the downstairs and finding three more shoes, a sippy cup, three paper plates and three abandoned soda bottles and two loads of laundry, I've lost my sense of humor.  I could now shoe everyone in my family except the son in question.

Digging through all the unfolded laundry, I strove and failed to keep my temper as I counted approximately 5.5 tons of unsorted washed and dryed clothing that everyone including me had ignored for the better part of a week. The clutter, disorganization and chaos of not being able to get out the door after almost an hour of trying had gotten to me.  

My son is very sweet so he was undeterred by my grousing about how everyone else was in the car.  "When was the last time you KNOW you wore shoes?" I asked.  While he stopped to think, I finally railed at heaven in a half nag, all rant type prayer, "God, I want to get my family to mass.  I want to get them there on time! We started at 4.  It's ten minutes to 5! Please help us find them so we can go! I WANT TO GO! I NEED to go!"  About this time, two of my children return to the house for pre-church bathroom pit stops and I'm trying desperately to reign it back in because the temptation is to say, "NO! GET BACK IN THE CAR!" but those sorts of outbursts will lead to further disasters so I can almost hear God telling me to cool my heels and not worry, we'll get there.  It's hard to accept.  "I just want the shoes found God." I plead in my head.

My son is a chatty boy.  He talks when he thinks about things, "...not when I was out on my scooter, not when we were using the slip-n-slide, not when we shot Peter's airplane and it broke, not when we ate ice cream outside..." His face flashed in recognition but I was deep in Mom irritation because his catalog of events indicated these shoes were going on at least four days lost.  I did not see his joyful knowing eyes until he brough back his backpack from Tuesday when we went to the city pool for the day.   "Remember Mom?" he asked as he unzipped, "You said just to put them in here when we were leaving because my feet were wet." 

I'm feeling three things: 1) Mentally, I'm all wet and 2) If you can go six days without noticing you've lost your sneakers, you're having a heck of a summer and 3) God laughs a lot at my expense and I deserve all of it.

We made it by the skin of our teeth and I was feeling exhausted and overwhelmed by just getting there and then I saw her, a girl of seven years of age in the open foyer area at the back of the church, turning cartwheels...one....two....three.   I know the mom was dying inside as she saw her darling girl practicing gymnastics but honestly, I needed that absurd moment as I sat and hugged my once shoeless son close to me.  The Gospel is about the feeding of the 5,000.  Jesus looked out at the crowd and was moved with pity for them.  I have to think in that crowd, He saw mothers who got mad at their seven year old sons for losing their shoes and girls who turned cartwheels during his parables.  And he fed them all.  Here we were, all of us, part of the messy crowd that didn't give Christ room, didn't give Jesus time to grieve because we are so very needy and He was moved to work a miracle, to feed everyone.

Thank God.

You Should Remember to Remember This

Growing up in South East Texas, Independence day meant being lugged to mass, even if we were at the beach. It meant singing “God Bless America” at the end and hearing a woman who had probably practiced for two months try to imitate Kate Smith. We’d complain about it, being kids, but Dad maintained it set the importance of the day on remembering that this great gift of free will, of liberty, of independence does not come without a prior generation’s cost. He'd talk about how it will it not long endure if the current caretakers are ignorant of their past, of the present, or fearful of the future. We’d roll our eyes with that knowing 'Dad' look that only kids can give grownups who obviously don’t understand what is worth knowing.

After mass, Dad would drive us to the local grocery store, and we’d sit down at the picnic table outside with popsicles that melted faster than any of us could lick. He’d ask us either in the car or while we were licking off the sticky stuff, “What were the readings?” or even worse, “What did you think of the homily?” We soon learned to speed read the misselettes before leaving Church in case our kid minds had wandered during the Liturgy, but it didn’t help when July 4th fell on a non-Sunday. Then, he’d quiz us about our country and its history and offer suggested readings. We learned to pay attention or at least preemptively cram, if only to avoid the embarrassment of flunking the Popsicle quiz.

But Dad, being a crafty parent, employed further stealth. He waited as we grew older. We’d drive home, have lunch and be lounging over comic pages from the newspaper, idly discussing whether or not we wanted to play cards or go hunting for driftwood to build a bonfire, and he’d appear with the quiz questions. He’d say the summation of the reading and ask us what Father had said. But Homily Jeopardy often resulted in a goodly amount of sibling collusion, where we’d rack our adolescent sunburnt beachcombed brains for key words we’d remembered and hope that others would fill in the blanks.

He’d read the readings over again to us and hope something sunk in during the process. Then he’d slyly offer to play Trivial Pursuit and always pick history so as to, once again, engage in parental instruction about the importance of the day. I took to studiously avoiding the yellow squares, while my brother keenly pre-read every Trivial Pursuit card’s history question and answer. It never really mattered to Dad, he was just glad we were learning it, by osmosis or repetition or sheer stubborn adolescent desire to win.

It didn’t matter what the year was, the evening of the 4th meant piling into the largest car and sitting outside on the side of the freeway on top of it and watching the fireworks with my family. It felt cool and communal to sit under the stars with everyone I loved. I wished the shows would go on forever if only because I knew the next day, I’d be back to fighting with my two brothers and Dad would be back at work and the magic and beauty of having the whole country take a break and celebrate would be over. The 'connected with everyone' feeling would dissipate from the crowds as quickly as the smoke from the last explosion thinned into nothingness and everyone scrambled to their cars and began to complain about the traffic.

My father would hum songs and makes puns in between the various stars and bomb bursts and whistling rockets and after, trying to prolong the feeling, the moment of everyone being united and at peace with one another.

Today, as my husband and I scramble to load the car for mass and make sure everyone has matching shoes that fit and combed hair, so as to make it on time for three of our children to serve, I find myself tucking the Magnificat in my purse as we run out the door. Scanning the readings ahead of time so that if I am occupied by my children or my own wandering mind, I at least had a chance to read the wisdom I may not hear in my distraction. I want to know what I might otherwise miss, because I have been taught to recognize I could miss it.

I have even tossed out the Popsicle question on my kids over breakfast bagels. My kids know more than I did at their age -- about their country, about their government and about the need to be involved and engaged in the world -- but they too look sometimes shocked at me as they grope to remember all the things or some of the images presented during the mass. And when I begin to chide or lecture them about it, they give the look that only children can give to parents who want them to recognize something they think they already understand but don’t.

So this 4th of July, I intend to take my children to mass and sing my best Kate Smith imitation, and ask them afterwards about how our independence is secured and endowed by our Creator, and what the Priest said. And then, we’re going to sit outside on top of the cars so they can one day recognize that communion feeling of being surrounded by everyone they love, watching beauty explode outward overhead. Because the fireworks may fade but the memory of these moments, when everyone stopped and took pleasure in each other’s company, lasts longer than the Popsicles or the last rocket’s red glare, giving proof through the night that this people are still here.

I’ll hold onto each of them at some point, hoping that the grip of my hand in theirs helps seal in their hearts and minds, don’t miss the opportunity to remember this.*

Originally ran August 11, 2009

Holy Wars

Every parent who has ever gone to the five o'clock it's-now-or -never mass with children knows that sometimes, the phrase "The mass is over, go in peace." is answered with "Thanks be to God." a bit more earnestly than the rest of the congregation.

This week I've been struggling with writer's block.  Thankfully, or not so much, my kids have opted to provide today's story.  

We went to one of our not so regular masses, at the church near our prior home.  The church has an theatre in the round sort of feel to it and arriving as the opening music was in its second verse, we scooted along the back wall to the side pew that gave us an unobstructed and unshared pew that buttressed the far wall of the building.  This gave us a side view of the priest and the entire congregation, it also meant leaving the mass for any reason would also be visible to the entire population, so perhaps we chose poorly. 

My husband and oldest son each holding one of the diaper set opted for the back of the back of the church where other people with squirmy babies and noisy toddlers hang.   I didn't feel I'd been cheated, after all I had the 15, 13, 11, 9, 7, 5 and 4 year old.  I figured we could manage.  Admittedly, I'd preemptively short circuited my five year old's temper by refusing to allow her to wear a baseball cap or bring a hot wheel into mass.

Two minutes in: The five year old decides she can't sit with me and walks to the very end of the pew so that she's a good 20 feet from all of us.  It is purposeful and even masterful as she's at the edge of the altar, almost daring me to come and get her.  I opt to hope this is the full extent of her rebellion.  Prayer is my best defense and since we're in church, I go with it. Please God let her behave. Please God let her calm down. Please God let her just sit there. 

Sometimes the answer is No.  I look over.  She's mad that I'm not in hot pursuit.  She tries swinging her legs.  I'm still not moving.  I'm not even mouthing "Sit still."  So she ups the ante. She lays down.  She's wearing shorts and  she's laying down on the pew.  We have now crossed my threshold toleration point for naughtiness.  I try to calmly like there's nothing to see here people walk over and take her hand.  She's not interested in obeying so she assumes the floppy boneless child pose.  I pick her up at which point she begins protesting aloud and loudly, "I don't want to go with you."  I get a few sympathetic head bobs from the dads and moms as she kicks at the pew.  I opt for the coward's way out, I take her to her dad. 

Five minutes in:  The four year old taps me during the first reading.I have to go to the bathroom. Not wanting to walk back out after I just came back in, I send the 13 to escort the 4 during the responsorial psalm.

Ten minutes in: 11 year old asks if he can go get water.  I say "No." because it's the homily. 

It's Offertory time.  My purse is the source of great distress as I don't have enough bills to go around.  Seven year old son is sulking. Nine year old daughter is preening because she got to put in the check.  The next round of sibling aggression has begun.  We kneel.

Now I know kids can fight over anything. I've heard the "Mom, she's looking at me." and the "Mom, she's breathing in a sarcastic way." complaints before. But today marked a new low in passive aggressive non virtuous displays of piety as my son and daughter begin inching down the open aisle where once my five year old lay, each trying to silently hiss at the other not to edge in front.  It is a battle that proceeds for a good five feet before I noticed because I'd momentarily attempted to give my full attention to the mass. 

Now I've got a few options as they continue kneel walking and glaring at each other.  I can ignore.  Not ideal as the scene is public and not without audio. "Stop trying to pass me. I'm praying!" she whispered loudly.  "I'm just trying to watch the priest." the other deadpans with an overly arch look of I'm so holy and you're not as he inches past her.  "I beat you. I win." he adds.   She's stiff arming him as she knee walks further.   I've tried signaling for them to stop but they're deep in sibling irritation right now and so mom is on the ignore button. 

There is nothing for it so I get up for the second time this mass and march forward to grab with a hug one of them and a hand the other and march them back to seats in between two of their sisters and me.  It's near the consecration so I can't give them the "I Will Kill You or Worse" look, I opt for the more effective though not as heart felt, "If you act up again, it's bedtime as soon as you get home." whisper.  They are in mental lock down as I deliberately speak aloud the Our Father with decided emphasis on "FORGIVE US OUR TRESPASSES." and "LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION."  One of them properly recognizes the editorial within the prayer from his mother and gives me a guilty "I'm sorry" look.  The other, I squeeze her hand when the priest says, "I give you peace, my peace I leave you."  and they shake with the coolness that only recently fighting brothers and sisters can muster when adults are watching. 

We always stay through the last song and so I do, though several of mine are ready to bolt.  They're hungry and a few saw friends in the communion line and some are just wanting to get back outside where they can resume hostilities.  I make them stay, if only to give me a few moments more with the allies of the Church and the mass against kid wars.   A man comes up to us smiling and compliments me on how well my children behaved during church and speaks of how he raised seven.  I decide either he wasn't watching or maybe he was and wants to make sure I feel better.   "Thank you." my children get out before I can respond. 

And then, basking in the glow of an unsolicited compliment from a stranger, the kids ask, "Hey Mom, since we were pretty good at mass, can we get donuts?" 

Pass the Eraser

Today is Ash Wednesday.  In the back area of the Church there is a wall separating any who sit there from the congregation. This is in leiu of a cry room. I hoped by sitting there we would draw less attention.  It was not to be.  First, they dumped their coats.  Then there was the mad scramble to sit on the kneeler only to discover one of the kneeler's cushions could be removed if you sat there and bounced.  After fixing the cushions, the girls kept bringing me flyers from the table.  I would replace them from one, only to be resupplied by the other.  Their favorite was a pink pamplet "PURE WOMANHOOD," they handed me six of those.

My son was in his stroller and kept throwing a plastic pink pig which the girls thought great fun to pounce on and throw back.  I took away the pig and got crying in stereo.  The baby then began to cry too.  I fixed her bottle and tried hugging the girls into compliance while letting Paul play with the pig.  It lasted five minutes.

When my older daughter who should know better started dancing as if she'd chugged a whole Mountain Dew, I admit, my resolve to be loving went out the window.   Right then, I just wanted quiet compliance!  I snapped at her to sit down.  She sat, crumpled, took a deep breath and howled. The sound echoed.  I considered packing it in but the irony of me trying to get her to be still and quiet so I could pay attention to the fact that all of us are sinful, noisy and distracted....pounded in my brain.

As the kids in front of us went up for ashes, I couldn't help thinking, "I've just proven how I still don't quite get it." and this is why I so need that black cross on my head.  I watched as my daughters skipped up the aisle, eager to receive. The rest of mass after ashes ran pretty much the way it had up to receiving ashes. I did have to give the "Behave or We'll leave" speech after receiving the Eucharist but the anger and irritation and "Why is this happening to me" type thinking that plagued the earlier part of the mass wasn't there.

This is why God handed so many souls to my heart to manage. They'd hopefully crowd out the "I" with their love, and if not, they'd at least distract the "Id" with their own needs. Blessed Mother Theresa understood the more people we serve, or the more we wholey serve people in our midst, the less we become attached to our own opinions and thinking and feeling and the more of what we are not, (Christ), shines through. Most are graced and talented enough to do this with less than ten. 

But human nature being what it is (fallen), we can turn any grace, even a lavish one into a source of sin...resting on laurels, presuming at all times that whatever we are doing, it is sufficient or has merit. But God is not satisfied with where we are because where we are isn't with Him.  Just as I didn't want my kids just to be at mass, I wanted them to behave and attend mass, God didn't just want me to show up with my kids, He wanted me to love even through all of that; (and I wanted not to be taxed to have to love through all of that).  

As sinners, we say "No more." and draw lines around our hearts, insisting that God cannot push beyond this point. But we are called to imitate the Saints who spent their lives trying to erase those lines around their own souls so that there is no space  in their minds or hearts or lives where God is not allowed. Any response I had outside of love was incorrect.   Ash Wednesday is about remembering the lines we have drawn around our lives to keep God out.

Pass the eraser please.

We'll try for Two seconds

The other day during the gospel reading at mass, I had the momentary grasp of how our response to sin should always be "more grace."  Then, being human, I got really annoyed at my daughters who were having a "She's looking at me." "She's sitting next to me." silent fight in the pew and wanting me to issue an equally silent but no less heard judicial fiat against the other.  Mom glares that exceed the disciplinary needs of the moment probably are not examples of responding to sin or the near occasion of sin with more grace.  

But the fleeting thought had echoed multiple times throughout the weekend.

My husband and I had to give a witness on marriage and so we talked about how choosing a singular person in all the world to love faithfully for all of one's life was a choice to imitate God who loves each of us faithfully forever for all of time.  So we talked about how marriage is a sacrament because it is a freely chosen call to imitate God's love with one's self.  It is a mini "Yes." in the way of Mary's "yes," responding to God with a full hearted "yes."   Children are a further yes, a further sublimation of one's self to another, also designed to be for all of one's life.  Being a mom or a dad means being responsible not just for the bodies of these people, but the formation of their souls.

The mini-retreat had begun with a mass as you might expect, and the readings for the day of our talk were the familiar and seemingly comforting scene of Jesus telling the disciples to let the children come to Him, "but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea."  I'd always associated that for some reason with big sins. In my mind, I could see murderers, abusers, drug dealers, and all sorts of people who corrupted and embraced acting in ways that were violent, hard and cruel, being handed out the millstones and looking out at the ocean. 

But Saturday, the millstone hit me with the hard reality that I'd wanted to keep that reading's meaning at a safe distance. Jesus doesn't speak from a safe distance, He is intimate always, and this applied to parents, it applied to us all, it applied to me and not just with my own children but with everyone.  Wasn't it obvious?  Hadn't Christ been explicitly clear? We had to work to be perfect as our Father in Heaven is perfect, to scrub from our words, thoughts, deeds and non deeds, that which would encourage sin.  Our marriage and our parenting had to reveal  how God loves by being unconditional, infinite, beautiful, lavish and luminous and (I mused to myself), as tireless. 



"Does a mother forget her baby?" the Old Testament readings had asked, yet even if these forget, God would not. If there was one thing the 21st century indicated in abundance I thought mournfully, it was that a mother could forget her baby, but that God's love was greater than this in all ways,that God's love was always available and always stronger than even death. Musing on the thought that we were permeable by God, and that His grace surrounded us, saturating whatever portion of our lives we willingly allowed; I suddenly looked at the air as if it were tangible.  I believed this.  We believed this.  We professed it, we celebrated it and yet we sat in this mass not recognizing how very pregnant the very air was with God.  I felt as if I'd forgotten or somehow walked by a great piece of art for 44 years and never stopped to look.   All of this mess and struggle and minutia and all the big things that happen and the mess in between those extremes, God uses to whittle away and break down all the places in our hearts and minds and lives where we say "No." to love, to get us to only say "yes" to God. 

And with that flash of insight distilled in the thought, "We must always say yes." I fell back into the mire of my distractable mind. The air became the unnoticed again. The whole rest of the mass was a mess.   I found a near infinite desire to say "No!" as each of my children seemed to be wearing amplifiers as they squirmed in the pews.   One asked to go get water, another to go to the bathroom.  The baby cried and two who knew better played kneeler wars. I knew I was seeing with sinful eyes when I interpreted every action around me as a distraction.  Fighting to pay attention to return to that moment, I knelt and almost instantly one child tapped me on the shoulder and complained that his sister was distracting him from praying. I suggested, "Close your eyes."  and then hissed, "You're distracting me!" as he poked at me again because he could hear her singing.  

"Getting it" had been a gift after 44 years of living, in that sliver of the mass when I'd forgotten myself and quieted my mind enough to let God in that crack in my heart. I was going to need help with that lavish unconditional tireless example.  Living it would be the hard slugging process of obedience to that understanding, to that moment to allow for more cracks, more grace, More God.   

I could almost hear God say, "See you next Sunday.  We'll try for two seconds."

Triping Over The Hand of God

Wrote this back in April. Not sure why I didn't post it, but since I have to now scramble to get everyone to mass today, it seems appropriate and a good reminder to myself.  --Happy Sunday everyone.

This past Sunday, I woke up late but everyone else was ready so we hustled to make it to mass on time.  My oldest wryly remarked, "We're not even going to try?" as I directed everyone to the cry room.  They could sit in the pews but I wanted everyone there, everyone together and I knew sitting in the pews would mean eventual seperation of powers to qualm the restless spirits of the two toddlers who had eyed the bake sale as we walked into the church.  

There were the obligatory first few minutes of child tetris while I figured out which combinations would result in the least number of fights.  Hearing the readings, my six year old asked, "Am I a sheep?"  "Yes," I nodded. "And Dad and I are your shepherds."   Meanwhile, my husband was imitating a border collie, rounding up two wandering lambs. 

And yet, as I looked at my sons and daughters and listened to the songs and the readings, I could feel that this was close to heaven, this blessed chaos.  Even with the two trips to the bathroom, the three kids shuffling their small chairs, the passing of the baby between the teenagers as a means of distraction, this was the mass. At the sign of peace, there was the usual mad scramble to shake the 54 combinations necessary to make sure all 11 got to each other, plus those around and I knew, this was why we are all always asked to all come, so that all of us would be present, so that none of us would be lost, so that all of us would receive and understand that we are to bring the Eucharist to everyone. 

No one of us could reach everyone, but each of us could reach some. Each of us is called to be the Eucharist to everyone.  Each of us are to be fed and to go feed the 5000 with what we receive in every mass. Each of us is to wash each others feet, to cast our nets in open waters not knowing what will happen and to imitate Christ in all things.  We will fail, but each of us is a shepherd to another, and a sheep ourselves needing to be brought home.

The Theological Implications of Donuts and Dollars

Three Sundays ago, my kids had to serve the 8:30.  With the exception of when I'm feeling extraordinarily ambitious, these sorts of mornings, we do a split squad for mass.  I had some folders to drop off for people who would be working the Fall Festival so I took the early shift.  Unfortunately, in waking the three required children, another five got up.  I wasn't worried,  I knew some would hang back and opt to have breakfast with Dad.  Then I heard those little words that send chills down any Catholic's spine.  "I'm bringing my money to buy donuts." 

My six year old's conception of money is not yet fully formed.  He knows money is needed to buy things, he knows how to count money, he knows to save money for certain desired items.  However, he does not fully comprehend that once the money is spent, it doesn't exist anymore.  He also frequently loses his money by removing it for repeated viewing and counting.  Thus when he came bounding down the stairs announcing he would buy six donuts and a drink (I guessed roughly eight dollars worth from his talk), and his pocket jingled loudly, I sought to do damage control by pairing him with his oldest brother in the back seat.  "He can hold your money for you."  I explained.   He refused.

We loaded the car and not five minutes into the drive, there was a wail from the back seat.  "I've lost two dollars."  He began throwing the blanket, umbrella, and various miscellaneous bags of stuff around, searching madly.  His brother was trying to calm him down and pitching everything to the trunk as it was being tossed.  The rest of the ride to the church was not restful.  I tried reason. "The money is still here, it's just hidden."  No dice.  I tried chiding.  "I told you to put your coins in a wallet or let your brother or me hold it or..." but stopped because it only was making things worse.  I was right but so what?   I pointed out that we didn't NEED to buy six donuts and a drink, that he could still get his own drink and donut with what was left. 

None of this rational thinking did any good.  I parked and the altar servers disembarked.  I hoped the walk to mass would allow all of us to get into good working order for the morning.   But there was a low grumbling rumble from my six year old repeated over and over again like a mantra.  "I want my money.  I want my money. I want my money."  I told him he sounded like a bill collector.   He glared at me.  I didn't like pulling out the big guns but, "If you don't stop, we won't go downstairs for donuts."  

So then he squeezed my hand, "We should have kept looking.  We should have kept looking. We should have kept looking."

We got to mass.  I prayed things would settle down.  My son is usually pretty attentive or at least quiet during the times when silence is preferred.  The gospel talked about the woman losing one coin and sweeping her house until it was found.  "See?"  my son is looking at me with the "You-should-have-let-me-look-until-I found-it" justification in his eyes.   Vindicated by the readings, he settled for the moral victory of being able to boast after mass, "Mom should have listened to me." as he munched on a sprinkled donut and hot chocolate.  His siblings chipped in for the donuts for those left behind with Dad.

When we got home, he went to put his remaining change away and came back joyful, "Guess what?  I guess I forgot I didn't take all my money.  I found the other two dollars on my bed."   I made a mental note; no children bringing money to mass...ever...or at the very least, I'm going to crib the day's liturgy of the word before we get into the church.

7 Quick Takes Friday

1. My favorite moment of the mass is right after Communion.  In that quiet, I know that all of us have stories, have crosses big and small that gnaw at the heart and make even the simplest things difficult. But we are all here, and all of us are offering all our sorrows, joys, hopes and triumphs and tragedies in that quiet moment before Christ, and being  fully aware of having Christ within us. 

2. My son finished school this week, and my daughter finished her exams.  For my oldest two, summer has officially begun. Time to sign them up for outside of the house jobs.

3.  Swimming lessons.  I think the woman at the aquatic center nearly quit but we got five kids signed up for the same time, all in different level swimming.  The sixth one is only 3 so I'm going to have us go to the pool for two hours prior to the lessons so she gets her water fix twice a week.   It should be fun.

4.  On my nightstand: Eat, Pray, Love.  So far, not too excited by it.   Sparta.  Yeah, I like it more than one  probably should.   Also hoping to throw myself into reading Blessings and the Bee Keeper's Daughter. 

5.  Phineas and Ferb have made it popular but before the cartoon, my kids and I had a tradition which we will still hold this summer.  We make a list of 100 things we hope to do over June, July and August.  We post it on the refrigerator and check off as we go, and add in as we find new things to do.   I highly recommend it. 

6. There are three things I require of my children's teachers; that they care about the outcomes of their students, that they come prepared to convey material and meaning to the kids, and that they hold the children accountable for their actions or inactions because  the real world commercial, social, economic, political, cultural and spiritual will.  

I thank God for teachers my kids say are "hard" because they assign homework, grade it and give it back with corrections.  I thank God for teachers that give my kids the grades they earn and demand my children turn in their best efforts even if the efforts reveal a lack of understanding.  I thank God they care enough to assign projects and posters and book reports, all things that cause my kids to groan, and to grow. 

We are coming to the end of another school year, and knowing how much I hate homework and how hard it is for me to get kids to get through it, I love these men and women for being willing to take it day after day.  I love my kids and some days it's a battle royale to get started on homework, but they walk into the lions den everyday to demand more.  

So Thank you!

7.  

Have a great weekend and remember those who walk in harms way and have since the beginning of our Country, so we could have all this lavish freedom, all these opportunities, all the gifts our society rains on its people.     

  

You Know it's a bad day at Mass when...

10) The usher tells you that he's been inspired and is going to call his mom when he gets home to thank her for putting up with him for all those years.

9) In describing what took place during the offeratory, you use the word "headlock" in a sentence.

8) Calories burned during mass via the trips to the bathroom equal or excede the value of a Dunkin' Donut's Boston Cream.

7) At the sign of peace, you get a lot of pity handshakes from fellow parishioners.

6) The woman behind you says, "Some day you'll miss this." and you think, "Not any time soon."

5) Kneelers. Toddlers. Echoes.

4) Going up the aisle for communion, a child wails, "When is it OVER?!"

3) The Eucharistic minister tells you, "There's only a drop." and you take the cup saying "Amen" and taking that drop because you need every bit of grace you can get.

2) You stare in wonder at all the well behaved children and have the eerie thought that the reason You get this battle is God knows this won't deter you from showing up next week.

1) Every one of these things actually took place within the span of one mass.

Follow-up: Why didn't you leave and come back later?
1) Three kids serving on the altar and
2) car was trapped by other cars illegally parked.
3) I did actually leave the main church three times in an attempt to regroup (during songs). Each time, it took for about all of five minutes.

Finally, when mass is over and you trudge to the parkinglot, you discover there is a black Acura parked in the firelane trapping you at the Church hall for the next hour with the bumper sticker "Chose Civility" on it's window.

Everyone here had to work to get to mass such that calling the police seems somehow anti the spirit of Lent. So the kids get to have doughnuts after all that while you wait for the parkinglot to clear and it seems that you should offer it up in sublimation because all of these little problems are merely a toe being poked into the sand of the 40 day dessert.  All you can do is sigh and say man, sublimation sometimes just really really, well it doesn't stink but man does it have to be this hard?

And then unbidden, it hits you that in the end, when you see your self truly and acknowlege that you misbehaved this much in real life yourself; that in the end, God is nice enough to still let you have a doughnut when all is said and done.

Extreme Parenting

The Balloon Parents have landed.

Forgive me if I want to look away, to somehow allow these children to hold onto a family that for all its flaws, is theirs and thus entitled despite the parents attempts otherwise, to a bit of safeguarding. I would seek to shelter this family from its worst impulses, and to use this unfortuante incident to allow child protective services not to take away these children, but to investigate and ensure the long term health and stability and safety and security of this whole family.

The arm chair pundits have prepared for the ultimate drama of watching children be removed from a home. We should not be wishing such a public blow up on anyone, even a person who believes in UFO's, chases storms and now has finally caught the noteriety he so craved and found it far more dangerous than any of the real or imagined monsterous realities he sought.

As painful and frightening as watching a homemade weather balloon drift 8000 feet in the air possibly carrying a six year old was, watching a homemade television tornado destroy a whole family publically and probably permanently, is worse.

We've known trophy kids for years, children who are immersed in activities done more for show than tell, more for the awards and accolades and prestige than the joy of movement, pleasure from the experience or benefits of a skill. Competitive parenting has always existed in the fields of academics, athletes and the arts. Sometimes it was kid driven, but more often than not, there was a grown up reliving Glory days that never were, or dreaming for their child.

We have witnessed the fruit of that unhealthy impulse in this family. But they are a product of a society that seems committed to the demise of leisure. When we measure down time in billable moments, not allowing for dullness, we are not taking a break but announcing our change in schedule. Vacations ought to include times when one learns to entertain one's self and others, (road trips), rather than a spin of perpetual enrichment exercises that make for good photo-ops and bragging postcards, twitters and the like, squeezed in-between isolatory moments of self indulgent individualized entertainment. We are becoming islands within our own families with the iPods and DVD’s and game boys that mean the only human contact is the occasional demand for batteries or a bathroom break.

Even camping has become something that must include a Face book worthy posting quality, a blog about being along the Appalachian Trail, a green awareness epiphany or a Zen moment of clarity about one's future job. We should be praying for moments that are not definable by praise or appreciation from others in our lives and seeking them. All of life is not blog, twitter, face book, IM, text or YouTube worthy.

So read a story to a child not because it will improve their test scores but because you think they'll like the book. Brush their hair and put in the ribbons if they love them, even if they don't match. Allow an older one to take a break from studying even if there's more time, and break out the Rock Band. The pseudo accomplishments of play that aren't taken seriously have serious benefits that no ribbons, trophies or public "Like this" thumbs up can match. Play for fun. Write for fun. Create a hearth out of your home and do all the things you do, because you would do them even without the A's, without the accolades.

Life is not just about showing up, but about being present. Not about being noticed, but noticing others.

There are places where it is easy to see the creative heart of God. For some, it is in their children’s eyes. For others, it is found in hiking trails and breathing in the smells of a hardwood forest or on the ocean surrounded by the sheer force and energy and beauty of the sky and water. We are called to come to the mass and find Christ in our midst, and to learn see Him present with us in all our sufferings and in all our joys. We are called to come and be present and learn how to be present to others. Because ultimately, what creates childhood memories, what creates dreams and drives are not all the extra classes or ultimate experiences, but the times of everyday, the little touches and something extras that made the ordinary time sacred.

Two

It is a well established fact amongst parents that children don’t so much grow as they reach a new evolutionary stage in development. One day, she was ten, the next, she became an adolescent. The same holds true for younger beings of the human race. My daughter who has ever been the silent, shy and reserved type, watching what everyone else did before plunging into the fray, has made a severe gear shift in cognitive development.

The first sign: My eleven year old daughter plays softball, but she loves to come over and pick up either her baby brother or toddler sister to show off to her teammates. One of the girls bounded over to say “hi.” And my toddler withdrew a bit into her sister’s arms. “She’s very quiet.” My daughter explained by way of an apology. Then, a decidedly unfamiliar voice said, “I’m not quiet.”

The Second Sign: It was a hot sticky day so I handed out retro water guns, the type that only send a thin stream at one, the kind that won’t cause the middle children to sob if they get hit. Even Mom had a pistol. My toddler reached up with her hands, “Annh. Annh.” Amused, I gave her my gun.

She gritted her teeth in a fixed smile, her eyes shined. She held the gun, squirted it at me and said, with perfect clarity, “Die Mom.”

The Third Sign: Now, I’m no rookie mom. The scribbles on the wall at her eye level were a dead give away. This child was now officially embracing her “twoness.” Still, she wanted everyone to be clear on the matter. And so it was that while Mommy was busy feeding the baby, She who was once the sphinx, who once could be given cursory scans to verify safety and good behavior, decided that she would cook today.

She got out a pan. She got out the eggs from the second fridge. It was masked by a collaborative toddler who brought me a diet coke. “Why thank you…how thoughtful.” And they’re thinking….sap. To their credit, there were no shells in the bowl with the eggs, and they did work at the dining room table, and they did wash their hands. Having four eggs cracked, what's a Mom to do? We made a cake.

So when my older toddler knocked on the door this morning and said, “Mom, what’s that red stuff?”

And I muttered from my sleepy stupor, “What red stuff?”
And she said, “You know, red stuff you put on your lips to look pretty.”
I asked why.

“Because it’s in her crib, she’s putting it on.” I was wide awake and scaling the stairs three at a time. It turned out to be a false alarm, as my other toddler then grinned at me from the base of the stairs, holding my purse, but it could not be considered inplausible after the egg incident.

But the definitive sign, was we took her to mass. Now normally, we go in the early morning, trying to get a jump on the day and get them through the process before they’re fully awake enough to give us trouble, but today, we went to the Saturday night vigil.

Never again.

She who never spoke, giggled and enjoyed the unique acoustics of our building, allowing her laughter to echo across the Church walls. She who never was any trouble anywhere, spent the whole mass being a pretzel, a monkey and a popcorn bag in the microwave. She flopped, she lifted her legs in the air, she ran all around the back. She pretended to weigh 5000 pounds, to have no bones and to be a mountain climber on the statue in the back. She pulled open my shirt and asked, “What’s in there?”

We normally give children a grade on mass, something between a 1 and a 4 Star rating. Negative numbers were discussed. But then, she came and gave my face an earnest searching gaze and a gentle kiss on the cheek. What grade could I give such a cherub?

The same grade I give all my 24-35 month children;

two.

Cry Room Rules

On Sundays, I admit I prefer for all of us to go to mass together, whereras my husband correctly points out if we do shifts, both of us might actually get to hear the homily. It remains a source of healthy discussion, as I counter that how can we be a witness as a family if we aren’t all there? My husband points out, how can we be a witness if people observing us see essentially, a pack of crazed pious squirrels scurrying about the back of the church with two adults attempting to round them up?

Cry rooms aren’t a solution, though we go to them occasionally with the delusion that being in a sound proof room full of other understanding parents who are wrestling with their own maggoty and wormity children who decide at pristinely quiet moments in the mass to scream, will garner sympathy. They don’t because cry rooms are really made-for-tv-reality-show contests wherein the winners are those parents who find that there are other families with noisier and more wiggly children than they have. (If you stay after mass and look back in the cry room, you’ll see the winners high fiving after everyone else has cleared out).

There are however, rules to this real life scenario.

1)Those folks who bring toddlers in tow with a lifetime supply of cheerios, coloring books and their entire hotwheel collection are summarily disqualified for 1) being unctuous –yes the rest of us are jealous and mad we didn’t think of it and 2) now we look like meanies for having forbidden the naked Barbie, the turquoise plastic recorder and the superman with glowing eyes that talks and the pack of mini snickers bars from being taken out of the car.

2) Bathroom breaks are of course expected, but points are deducted if the toddler in question begins a long discussion about bodily functions prior to or following the break, double negative points if the usher is coming through at the time with the collection basket, though I suspect it improves the take for the church on those occasions.

Please note that bathroom breaks to discuss potential birthday party themes, what one wants for lunch, or to scout out the number of Boston Crème donuts left downstairs for purchase after mass, is a mandatory major point deduction.

3) Mom rules. Dad disciplines. Most adults responsible for more than one child opt for the divide and conquer method of maintaining a minimum level of good behavior.

If you use the two most likely to fight as book ends of the pew, with the boring parents actually trying to pay attention to mass in the middle, odds of being able to follow along in the missilette increase by 30%. If you use the adults as bookends to curtail spontaneous bolting down the aisle (and it’s been known to happen), fights increase as a possibility by a factor of ten.

Once you have more than three, some combination of children will have to sit together and finding the right combo is a matter of luck and dependent upon many as of yet undiscernable factors. It is for this reason, we encourage as many of our children as possible to serve at the mass, meaning their behavior will be much more public display and limiting our personal liability.

On non serving days, Mom will try to bring order by glaring and whispering sharply, “Be good, we’re in church.” Dad will squeeze the hand of the offending child and say “No donuts.” Please note, the second strategy opted for by fathers everywhere does not work for vigil or the 5:00 Sunday evening slacker mass.

4) Virtue boy and Prayer girl are fighting. If you ever want to witness the true hostility that comes naturally to brothers and sisters of similar age, take them to mass. When they kneel next to each other, check the elbows. Chances are, they’ll be boring into each other’s with such intensity that one could create diamonds out of coal if a suitable sample were placed in between the siblings two opposing joints and allowed to endure simply the Apostle’s Creed.

There will be an unspoken battle to see who can sing better…louder…softer…with fewer mistakes. There will be a race to see who can stand, sit and kneel on cue. One will sit with his hands folded, eyes fixed on the priest while the other follows along in the book. Sure, it looks like both are into the mass, but both are petitioning parents and God to smite the other less reverent, less responsive, less worthy sibling down for his/her sloppy execution of appointed physical gestures.

Parental correction to a singular person equals victory. Admittedly, as long as the war remains a cold one, most adults are willing to allow this sort of muted spy vs. spy battle go unchecked.

So if you were ever wondering why the Catholic Church in its infinite and timely wisdom has the kiss of peace, the “Lord I am not worthy to receive you,” or the “Go In Peace.” Sections of the liturgy, now you know.

These are not just reminders of our unworthiness or need to express love to one another or the words of Christ himself, these are the Church’s way of helping out the frazzled Mom and Dad in the back of the building, reminding the offspring that are the faith’s future to “knock it off.” “Play nice.” And “Be good.” ….or no donuts.

To which we, the strung out grown-ups of the clan say, “Thanks be to God.”