At the Register today!

I know, it's been a while.  Honestly, since the kids got out from school, I thought I'd have more writing time.  Somehow, I have less. 

Examining the virtue of Forbearance, something the world doesn't quite understand...because it is a manifestation of charity and grace, even when afflicted.   I know I'm not very good at it.   

Over at the National Catholic Register

I have a piece over at the Register addressing how we respond to God's love.

Here's a taste of it:

 "My children came to me because they felt lonely and needed reassurance, tangible and emotional. When we come to God, we are asking the same thing."

Understanding God's Love

I saw this video and was overcome by the simple beauty of the policeman holding onto the man afterwards.  Go ahead and watch, I won't spoil it.

Here, there was a soul despairing. Nearby, perhaps anticipating the rash cruel impulse that was tormenting the man, the policeman watched.   I especially love how he continued to hold onto the man afterwards.  God is like that with us when we seek to sin, when we fall into despair, when we find that the world is crushing us.   So God's love is vigilant, muscular, active and holds on long after we think the worst of it is passed.  He holds on until we let go.  

The commissioning of Catholics, at Confirmation, at every mass, is to be like the policeman for all the souls we encounter in whatever situation we find ourselves. 

To me, this video is luminous. 

Love is willing the good of the other first, primary, foremost, always.  The policeman may merely have been doing his job, but he did his job well.  Love simply does and does well, and if love is done properly, it is always treated as baseline.  It is simply, what we are called to do, our job.

How? 

Love is always sacrifice.

So love surrenders the body to be grown out, to be changed forever.

Love surrenders the time, all time, every time. Whether the surrender is at the job for years of sacrifice to pay for the braces, camps, tuition and all the treasures of childhood, or in hours of long tedium making sure there are enough socks or we have the right fruit and the prescription has been ordered,  love gives for eternity.

It does not count costs or tally favors, it is poured out lavishly, like water over everything, and all the love given yesterday does not count towards what must be given today. 

It is willingly given, so it is not a burden even if there are elements (toilet training, adolescence, driver's liscences, college tuition, and all the myriad of issues that come from this messy business of just living), that are burdensome.

Sometimes we forget because the messiness of life with the chaos that only humans can bring upon themselves and each other (see last week for prime examples), about the luminous component of living that only come from loving.  

So today, recognize that all you do, if done out of love of God, in response to God's love, be it homework, writing, housework, paperwork, exercise, carpooling, etc, it is a gift of love, to open the hearts and souls of others, to save them from oncoming trains and to hold onto them afterwards to let them know, it will be okay, it is okay, I've got you.  

A Letter to the Older Sons and All Day Laborers in the Vineyard

Inspired by some of the various conversations on Facebook and other places, about the new Pope, the traditions of the Church, the earnest work of living a faithful life, and the hard slow walk to the foot of the cross.

Fellow Older Brothers and Workers who have Been Here since Morning Working...Unite!

Boy do we get the short end of the stick!  We are asked to work, we are promised a fair wage and off we go like the dutiful hard working responsible people we are.  We bear the heat.  We do the grunt ugly jobs of minutia that require day in and day out consistency.  We say our prayers. We are faithful to the Father.  We are honest in our dealings with the foreman of the vineyard.  Then these interlopers show up.  They stay half the day, they only start coming to mass at Easter.  They don’t know all the right responses. They’ve messed up more than 90% of their lives while we’ve been ruled by those ten rules all our lives.  How is it they merit Heaven?  How is it that these are our equals?  Will we honestly be greeted by a cavalcade of great sinners beaming with luminous light, graciously delighted with the joy of having been forgiven?  How is it possible, is Heaven peopled with people like the good thief? 

I don't know.  I only know God's ways...are not ours.  His are better.  

God’s mercy remains a great mystery.   It can be hard to fathom.  Jesus illustrates it to us in that when the end of time comes, we will not know whether we are goats or sheep, wheat or chaff, until He pronounces us as such.   We do not know all the times we are lost, nor do we recognize when we have been idle in the vineyard or when we have fed Him in disguise by our fledgling attempts at loving our neighbor as ourselves.   We only know we haven’t done the glossy sins that make for juicy novels thus far.

However, any sin will keep us from paradise. It is a hard truth for the soul (mine anyway) to grasp and keep, we cannot earn/win heaven, we can only accept God’s grace or not.  If we accept God’s grace and love Him, we must serve. Our lives must become reordered. We will race to the vineyard, eager to gain callouses in the labor He provides, we will only wish we could have come to work sooner.   That doesn’t however, satisfy the older brother in the story who sees the party starting without him or fill many of us for that matter.

Those already working in the field are vulnerable upon the coming of new workers.  

It is the serpent that whispers, "Why didn’t we get to go squander our Father’s inheritance? Seems like we should have gone and partied at least a little with a goat or fatted calf or something before settling in to this gig."  Jesus looks at us with great love and says, “Sell everything you have.”  while we go away sad, because we thought we’d done enough, that we were doing enough. 

For the one deeply in love, service all day is a gift willingly given, and the cost, the tally of time is not measured or weighed or found wasted, it is worth it. 

God always wants our hearts to seek His, to desire more love, limitless love, always love.    

But we are fallen, we older brothers.  We didn’t go doing any great sins or ignore the law, yet, our reward is the same as those who failed spectacularly. Looking through the world’s eyes, God’s justice seems innately unjust to the faithful servant, to those who were part of the 99% of the flock. We feel less special, even though everything the Father has, is ours.  

It is understandably human, we want our moment in the sun, to be recognized and patted for the good and faithful servants we think we are.   But when we fail to rejoice that anyone is being pulled in, we are trying to shut them out, to horde God’s generosity for ourselves and those "like us."  It is a grave spiritual threat to our souls, to entertain this sort of spiritual envy combined with a scrupulous desire for a worldly fairness.  It will push us away both from God and our brothers even if we continue to pay lip service to both by our day in day out duty. 

None of us want to believe we are all both the older brother or the Pharisee complaining about the splinter and ignoring the planks, but we all hold onto our sins as fiercely as those lost out in the world we can easily spot.  When we wrongly perceive the inheritance as already ours, already earned, ours to demand because we are in the field working, we engage in self-justification, grace earned rather than given. 

If we still struggle, we must look at the perfect illustration of why we must be eternally grateful for the gift of faith and service we have thus far been able to eke out in the course of our lives.  We have to look at Christ on the cross refusing the vinegar soaked sponge. Surely, Christ had given everything He had at that moment.  

Why refuse this little tiny, almost minute touch of comfort? Why deny Himself a drink of sour wine after carrying the cross, being scourged, being mocked, spit upon, crowned with thorns, nailed to a tree?  Why not drink from the slender reed the dribble of wine from the sponge? 

Precisely so those of us who are trying (however ineptly) to live out a life embracing the cross, would recognize that we too must deny ourselves the offer of pain relief via something that numbs the heart and body, namely bitterness.   If we drink the sourness of entitlement, that is our reward for a whole life’s work. We opt for the self righteous vinegar of the elect, rather than the better wine served to all at the end of the day.

It is not worth it.  

So if you think that you are in the vineyard, and it is the heat of the day and the bite of the world seems about to devour you, rejoice that you have been given this task, rejoice in the work and know, the wages you will receive, are worth every drop of sweat willingly given.  And when you see a new laborer appear at the 11^th hour, be grateful that there are more willing hands to help in the harvest, God wants us all.   

  

The Solution of the World

It is a topic that I've been reluctant to talk about because I know, it sounds like I'm trying to be superior and it sounds funny coming from a mom of ten children.

But I've used birth control so I know the arguments. I've made them. I've swallowed them. The doctors told me I was high risk, that every pregnancy could result in a tracheotomy, and that the next one might be permanent. I had a medical reason so I thought "I'm good."

The sympathetic priest told me it was a legitimate health concern, but in truth, it wasn't. The express purpose of taking the medication was to ensure I wouldn't get pregnant, so I wouldn't jeopardize my larynx with the possibility of a trachetube. It wasn't curative of the problem, it was preventative of a possible situation by eliminating being open to life.

Being a new mom, I was eager for a break, fearful of the possibilities and took the package with the approval of said priest. It didn't occur to me that I was sinning, as the doctor had said I must and the priest had said I could. I took the medication.

For the next year and a half, I took the medication and wondered what had happened to me. Emotionally, I was angry all the time. Nothing felt happy. Everything felt stretched out of proportion. I told myself it was recovery from birth, from becoming a stay at home mom, adjust!

Then we moved to Maryland, and I told myself, it was having to start over. I kept telling myself things would be better, but the romantic passion I'd felt for my best friend, for my beloved had faded to a pale imitation of its former self. I'd tell you that it was just because we'd matured, but that would be a lie. We'd dated for six years and found each other alarmingly interesting, and three years of marriage had done nothing to dim that feeling, but everything had flatlined since. I loved my husband, but there was this gap between my feelings and my desire that honestly made no sense to me. It was a painful time in our marriage, because we both loved each other deeply.

Then, we scheduled a visit to see my parents that summer. My dad's family (Pre-Hurricane Ike) owned a beach house that had been my growing up summer place and I loved loved loved loved loved it. It was also my prayer place, that spot on this Earth where Heaven seemed closer. It didn't matter if there were mosquitoes galore or the fishing was bad, this was my favorite place in all the world to be. I was so excited to go, I packed hastily. I forgot the birth control.

My husband had to work, so he was not on this journey the first week I was there. He fed ex'd the medicine with a note: The only reason I can send you this sad cargo, is I know one day, we won't use it. Reading that note was the "You had me at hello" moment. I threw the "sad cargo" in the trash and that was the beginning of what followed.

I won't say it hasn't been hard, that it isn't hard, or that it won't get harder. I will say, it's been beautiful and rich, it is beautiful and rich and is going to continue to be a luminous experience. I will say, I have no regrets over having ten children. I do have regrets of the lost year and a half of full feeling.

I say all of this not because everyone has to have ten children, but because a lot of people say to me, "I could never afford...or I'm too old...or I can't handle..." and I would say in response:
The solution the world offers to all problems is always less love. The solution God always offers, is always, more love. Children are literally, the creation of the need and the source of more love in the world. Children will require you to love more deeply and to become more loving. They will also love you.  They are the both and that is love, requiring more love, giving more love.

Much has been made of the Church's refusal to dispense birth control or condoms in the poorer nations of Africa. The solution to poverty in developing nations is "Birth Control!" Except we've had birth control here for fifty plus years, we've had abortion since 1973 and killed babies by the millions and we still have poverty. The solution? More birth control! More abortion on demand! Yes, the road to riches, glory, power beyond your wildest dreams is locked up in those little daily doses of estrogen and Planned Parenthood.

Also, the rich need birth control to stay rich. The middle class need birth control to get rich and  the poor need birth control so they can stop being poor. Apparently, there is no point at which one has made enough money that one does not need birth control.

Don't believe me? Watch the Yaz commercial. Advanced degrees, homes, fabulouso trips to Paris, all yours if you just warp your body by super saturating it with hormones for decades.

The message over and over again, in magazines, on television, on radio:

Women...
You can be rich if you don't have children.
You can be successful if you don't have children.
You can have everything you ever wanted if you don't have children.

The funny thing is, the way of the world never works.  Sure you may become richer financially, more polished, more powerful, more important in the world, these are all things that might happen, but none of those ensures that you will have more love or be more happy. All the pill ensures is you will have guaranteed, fewer people to love.

God's way, the way of more love, of being open to having your lives' script rewritten again and again and again, always works.  It may require sacrifice to raise all these people, but it is no sacrifice to be surrounded by people that love us.

Return to the House at Pooh Corner

Written by my sister, Jennifer Sanders

If I close my eyes now, I can go there. The bonfire is massive, tediously constructed from driftwood the family has collected all afternoon. The air is salty and warm, while the evening breeze provides a respite from the mosquitoes. There is an assembly line for s'mores, and the family gathers to hear stories and songs. I pop a freshly made s'more into my mouth, rewarded with a goey, chocolatey mess on my face and fingers. Dad has a guitar, and he begins to play.

"Christopher Robin and I walked along under branches lit up by the moon..."

A Loggins and Messina classic, I smile and sing along.

"Posing our questions to Owl and Eeyore as the days disappear all to soon..."

A song about slowing down enjoying the innocence of childhood...Dad is belting it out, and the rest of us can't help but sing along.

That memory is a beautiful one. I treasure it. It came to me this afternoon as I was nursing my 6 month-old daughter, Lucy. I have been reflecting on the meaning of Advent on this eve of Gaudete Sunday. Gaudete, meaning rejoice, reminds us to wait in joyful hope.

Since my dad has been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease, this type of waiting has become difficult. More often than not, I shake my fists at God. But other times, when I am touched by grace, I grasp beauty in the midst of my families' suffering.

Jesus reminds us that, "...unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven." (Mt. 18:3). Dad is surely becoming like a child again. Stripped of all things, he is humbled and vulnerable, an image of the incarnation.

I think again of my dad playing guitar down at the beach, and the words of that song.

"But I've wandered much further today than I should, and I can't seem to find my way back to the wood..."

All of us wander far from the path God would have us take. God asks us to be like children: docile, humble, innocent, dependent on Him.

Surely, my father is back on the right path. Looking at my dad and this disease with human eyes, he is lost, wandering, aimless. Yet, at the same time that we here on earth are losing him, he draws ever closer into God's mysterious and loving embrace.

I gaze at my sleeping baby as I rock back and forth, and I know that my dad has found his way back home. I pray that God will lead all of us back home into his loving embrace. I will see my dad again. One day he will be whole again.

And we will sing together.

"At the end of the day, I was watching my son, sleeping there with my bear by his side. So I tucked him in, I kissed him, and as I was goin', I swear that old Bear whispered, 'Boy, welcome home.' Believe me if you can, I've finally got back to the house at Pooh corner by one. What do you know there's so much to be done? Count all the bees in the hive. Chase all the clouds from the sky. Back to the days of Christopher Robin and Pooh.

See you at the beach, Dad. I love you.

Impossible

"With all your kids, giving them what they need must be impossible."  my friend observed over the phone after I'd told what I thought was a funny tale about how it had been a long hard and difficult day managing them.   I was caught up short.  Her words echoed my sometimes fears, but as I explained, it wasn't impossible, it was however impossible if I did not sublimate my will.  "And they sublimate theirs." she added.   Again I disagreed, "It's not their job to sublimate to me, it's mine to them. On my best day and in my best moments, I serve them."  What she was alluding to, was my not best moments and I could think of scads just from that day, but the quote, "With God, all things are possible." floated to my head though I could not say it in that moment. 

It was a phone conversation, and what I felt flooded my heart and brain.  I knew whether I had one or ten, I remained inadequate.  I cannot fill anyone completely, for I am a flawed and incomplete child myself and my attempts at service are those of an ungrateful servant at best.  

In that moment, I saw myself plunging into an ocean, not to drown but to be immersed, surrounded, enveloped lovingly by the waters around me.  God was that ocean.  Being pulled deeper by grace even as I sought to drown in the small shallowness of sin was the daily struggle I faced; especially when the cares of the day, the needs of all nine, of the home, of the world required that I act and act and act again.  I kept wanting thanks when what I was doing was no more than what was needed and required.

 "Who among you would say to your servant who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field,'Come here immediately and take your place at table'? Would he not rather say to him,'Prepare something for me to eat. Put on your apron and wait on me while I eat and drink. You may eat and drink when I am finished'? Is he grateful to that servant because he did what was commanded? So should it be with you."  I both love and hate it when the Gospel so closely mirrors my reality that I cannot escape it without denial. 

But how?  What my friend had said had the ring of reality to it; after all it was true, I couldn't do everything.  I tried rattling off the various clever systems or methods we'd devised over the year for laundry, for dishes, for chores, for homework, for schedules, for menus.  They somehow felt like pale weak answers to a strong hard question.   These were methods of providing for needs, but they didn't address the deeper resonating longings that some of my children might be hungry for and I not know because I was so busy trying just to triage through our basic obligations.  

And I remembered another friend who told me, "Whenever you doubt yourself, remember that God really loves your heart infinitely and let that be your guide."  I tried to explain that it isn't impossible, just some days hard and some days, unsuccessful.  But each day, we try again.   

The conversation moved on to other more mundane things and eventually ended, but the image of the ocean, and of my resistance to the word "impossible" and yet it's truthfulness remained.  Hanging up the phone, I looked about at the house, 9 loads of laundry needed doing and the dishes from that afternoon still had to be unloaded so the next run could start and there was paper work to fill out and little available for dinner.  "Impossible" whispered at me, "just agree it's impossible."  There was homework to sign and help a child correct, a squabble over the tv remote in the other room, two boys I'd stopped from making water balloons who were decidedly up to it again, and hour seven of what seemed like an endless number to work on the basement.   "Impossible."  The word lingered like smoke in the air, daring me to agree to breathe in it's toxic embrace, to be smothered rather than surrounded.  To be choked rather than refreshed and enveloped; yet it seemed so reasonable to think it.

And I prayed, for I feared I'd inhale.  "Show me how."

The daughter who struggled so mightily with school that my tale of her troubles had in part prompted my friend's comments, came into the kitchen.  She noticed me wrestling with the dishwasher and began unloading without a request.  In a few minutes, she remarked, "This drawer needs organizing." and began work in earnest.  Twenty minutes later, three drawers were cleared out, cleaned and orderly and she beamed, "I'm becoming good at organizing." She had surprised herself and me with this sudden spurt of clarity.  She went to tackle more and promised to help me get the kitchen in order.  When I asked "Why?" She smiled and said, "Because you're a good mom." and I felt humbled by such praise. 

My three year old came into the room.  "What's for dinner tonight Mom?" she asked.  I remembered we had some chicken.  I'd use the one box of pasta as a starch and could throw together a salad and microwave frozen broccoli.  I rattled off the menu.  She nodded and looked at the table.  "We'll need a few more chairs."  I looked at the table.  We had five, she was right we'd need four more for all who were home and Paul would be in his high chair.  I started cooking.  She left the room.   She came back pushing a chair.  Putting it in place, she left again.  I watched fascinated.  She dragged in a second seat.  I hadn't asked this, this was her gift and I felt a hint of the ocean around me as she brought in the third folding chair and commandeered her brother to get the final one.  She then surveyed her work with satisfaction.   I was floored when she began setting the table with paper plates, forks and napkins.  No one had taught her this; she had simply picked it up from being.

After dinner, it happened again when my oldest daughter unbeckoned began doing the dishes.  I had not asked and it is not her custom.  It was a gift.   As she simply went about the task of cleaning up from the meal while I got the littles dressed for bed, I felt the waves lovingly lapping everywhere.  

And so it is, that to feed these nine and the one not yet born, to keep them on task and well, happy in heart, mind and body is nothing more than part of that list of things which the Master has commanded be done.  And what dawns in my brain is I do not do this alone or in isolation; for they are all with me and we are doing this, not I, not just my husband and me, not just any of us, but all of us in union with God.   God has given this gift of this family to all of us, so God knows there is a way for each of them including me to be nourished if only I would cease trying to carve out my nitch and allow myself to instead be fitted in His heart.