Category Archives: Faith

Fighting temptation

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When Helen was a toddler, we instructed her that if she was tempted to touch something that might be off limits, she should just come and get one of us so we could help her through making the right choice.

Our big girl.

One day, while shopping in Ann Arbor, we were in a store full of breakable eye candy. I was busy admiring one thing, Richard another, when above the mellow harpsichord Muzak track, our two-and-a-half-year-old Helen stood beside her stroller, paralyzed, bouncing in place bellowing, “Help me! I’m tempted! I’m tempted!”

Now, soon off to school, we won’t be there to help her through all the trifling and tremendous moments of  temptation.  She surely will face many lures and promises of this world that we’ve tried so hard to balance through our faith and family life.

We’ve all been in the position of confusing a temptation with an opportunity. And the reality is, sometimes by giving in to those temptations we’re bound to make mistakes. But by the same token, we should never be bound to our mistakes, understanding that it is through our mistakes we discover more about ourselves and grow. There are many mistakes in my life for which I am grateful. It is through them that I’ve grown closer to the Lord, with the extra-added benefit of knowing myself better and gaining wisdom through the process. Wisdom that I hope I’ve shared with our daughter.

We can only hope that we’ve done what we can and given Helen the tools to sort things out. We can only hope and pray her decisions don’t paralyze her and that she will do her best to make the right choices. Although we won’t be there in person with her, we’ve taught her that God will.

Our pilgrimage on earth cannot be exempt from trial. We progress by means of trial. No one knows himself except through trial, or receives a crown except after victory, or strives except against an enemy or temptations. — St. Augustine

Who do you say that I am?

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An acquaintance from church asked if we could babysit her youngest daughter in a pinch.

“Of course,” we say. She’s a spunky, strawberry-blond not-quite-three-year-old.

Said acquaintance drops off said child complete with baby-care paraphernalia. Good-bye acquaintance. Hello strawberry-blond toddler.

The big girls and Lil are going to take her downstairs to play dollhouse.  Then big girl number one asks, “What’s her name?”

Oh no.

It occurs to me. I have no idea. None. Can’t come up with a guess. I know I heard it when she was born. But since? Nope. I don’t have that kind of memory.

So, we ask the nameless child. She’s articulate. We know she wants to play. Her answer does not match the question. Again. And again. She’s cute. But nameless. So for little while, we call her a generic Sweetie. Which isn’t very effective. She doesn’t respond to “Sweetie, don’t throw the blocks.” It would be helpful to actually know her name.

Brainstorm. I remember my dear friend is her godmother. I laugh, because I realize it took this particular friend years to remember my name. This little child is only three. I’m not sure that’s been enough time for it to stick. Even though she’s godmother. (But I am confident she is doing her godmotherly duty and praying daily with all of her wonderful heart for the strawberry-blond nameless child.)

I make the call. No one is home. Call her cell. She answered AND remembered. And we are victorious.

And she is Victoria.

Getting trashed

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Clifford is obsessed with throwing things away. And we’re pretty sure we realized this kind of late in the game. Who knows what has been set out at the curb at the hands our our little man.

Following a four-day vacation away from home, the very first thing that baby boy did after walking in the door was seek out things he could throw away. We all have our comforts of home, apparently this is his.

When I opened the lid of the trash can to put in a new bag, I found this. (Try not to get too distracted by my ultra cute shoes. )

Getting Trashed

If he’s not throwing things in this trash can, he’s pushing it over for the pleasing effect the loud thud initiates. (You’d scream, too.) Or he’s trying to reach in it to see what treasure he can fish out. All too often, the can is relegated out of practical use and perched towering over all of us on the counter top.

As much as analyzing the trash several times daily is a rather arduous process, I actually appreciate his interest.

Today he spent about five minutes trying with all his might to throw a mop away. He’d lift the heavy long stick high over his head, put the handle in, only to have it swing back up and out of the can. He tried again and again. Finally, he switched ends and got it to stay. You know, until, he pulled the whole can over and down, startling all of us. Again.

Clifford’s continued interest in the trash demonstrates that at16-months old, he does not lack perseverance. As I watch him hunting and seeking things to put in his beloved shiny can, or trying over again with the mop three times his height,  I can’t help but wonder how this will translate into the kind of little boy, then man,  he will become. (I like to imagine it means he will naturally gravitate toward cleanliness. I can dream, can’t I?)

Getting trashed, again.

It’s true he’s a boy a of few words. Okay, almost no words. But he certainly is a little man of action. During the day, he rarely sits. He just goes. And goes. And goes. I would love to strap a pedometer on him just to find out what kind of ground he covers running back and forth in this house all day.

I do get to sit down with him a few times during the day, since recently he has taken a liking to books. He will happily sit through a story or two. Oddly, he’s not interested in the point-and-name type of picture books (unless it has something to touch). He much prefers Curious George’s adventures and will sit still through that or (help me) a Berenstain Bear story or two before he’d let me name or count pictures of butterflies in a board book.

Admiring his work

Like his big brother, he’s interested in how things work. On his first ride on a carousel, we could barely get his attention to snap a photograph. He was so focused on the mechanics of the machine. Who cared about the horse and the music? He just wanted to see those gears turning. And as he watched, his gears were turning, too. Richard and I joked that we could see the smoke coming out of his ears. Cliff did acknowledge that the experience was fun with a short clap and a smile at the end of the ride. Reminding us, oh yes he is, after all, just a baby.

Another added joy is watching my husband so naturally respond to Cliff’s interests. Safely in his daddy’s arms, Clifford pushes the button to grind my coffee in the morning. He watches with interest as the dishwasher is loaded and unloaded, often with Richard’s direction, reaching in to spin the moving parts. The boy can’t get enough of the vacuum cleaner and its retractable cord, and there’s not enough time to explain his apparent fascination with electric tooth brushes. And Richard patiently demonstrates each item of interest to Clifford, all while wondering–like I–what goes on in that silent boy’s mind.

What this all means for this little baby boy is a mystery to me. I pray that we, as his parents, can nurture what truly interests him as he grows. In the mean time, I’m enjoying the discovery of yet another unique and miraculous gift from God, in the form of a little boy who I am blessed to call my son.

So, we’ll see what happens in the story of Cliff, still yet to be told, but one that is truly a joy to behold. (Oh no, too much Berenstain Bears!)

There is hope

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Helen didn’t want a graduation party, she wanted a weekend with me in New York. So, I happily obliged. (You know, you just have to give in to their demands every now and then.)

We decided instead though to put the effort it would take to put on a party into a cause. So we chose the Tree of Hope Foundation.

We’re holding a concert Songs of Hope at St. Joan of Arc at 7:30 on Aug. 5. We have some really talented folks with us. It’ll be cool. We’re singing mostly contemporary Christian music. All songs with hope at the theme.

The Tree of Hope Foundation was conceived as a result of a tragedy. In 2005, a young mother in our parish took her own life and that of her five-week-old infant daughter as a result of a postpartum mood disorder. On the day of that tragic event, her family vowed they would do what they could to prevent that from happening again. They began the Tree of Hope Foundation which promotes research, education and awareness of postpartum-related mood disorders. Check out their site to learn more of the good work they are doing.

A few years ago,  I was asked to sing at a prayer service for the foundation. When I arrived, the pianist asked if I had a suggestion for any songs, and I suggested one called O God You Search Me and You Know Me, based on Psalm 139 with music by Bernadette Farrell. It was fairly new to me but spoke so plainly of God’s providence.  As it turned out, that particular prayer was the central prayer of the service. And I didn’t know in advance. And it just seemed so … well … providential.

I was very moved by the service and have been moved by all the work the foundation is doing. This is a way for our family to support their good work in the best way we can. We can’t run marathons and such. But Helen and I can sing. So, there it is. So if you can come on the 5th, please do so.

Freak of nature

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So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll blame nature.

I hate freaking out. But it happens. Although I like to stay sane, every now and then, that thing called frustration just reaches blood-boiling point, and I’m sorry to admit, I loose it.

Yesterday started out fine. Left the kids with The Lists, and took Henry to a swim meet. When I got home, many things on The Lists were yet to be completed. And, I should note, The Lists were neither out of the ordinary, nor were they long. They were our regular Saturday-morning lists. The same old Saturday-morning lists that, for the past few months, my capable children have pretty much been blowing off.

I take some blame for that. I had stopped being so diligent with actually creating the lists, instead just dictating. Therefore the directions were often lost. To the wind, so they say.

But why print them? I would ask. They are the same every week.

But here’s a little known fact: Apparently, some children (namely those who reside in my household) can’t accomplish certain tasks unless those tasks are formally instructed to them on a piece of paper, in full color. In the form of The Lists. And even then, especially recently, completion of said certain tasks can still be illusive. Fleeting. Mysteriously scarce.

So, I blame myself. My bad parenting. I haven’t taught my children to follow through. I say to myself. I haven’t given them the skills they need to succeed in daily life. I shake my head. Or I, you know, on occasion, freak out.

One child suggests I make a whiteboard for the lists. That would help.

What is the difference? I inquire.

Because that’s how so-and-so’s mother does it, and their house is in order. That way, we will always see what needs to be done, the child challenges.

I explain that wouldn’t help. Then I would just have a posted reminder of all the chores around the house that didn’t get done. And that would just perpetuate that lack of cooperation in the house was acceptable. So acceptable that it is displayed on a wall. At least I can throw the undone paper list away, for a moment pretend it didn’t exist, and hope for better results when I print it again (slightly modified) the next weekend.

Then I think: Wait a minute. Maybe my freak out today can be like The Lists. Maybe I can hope for better results for myself next weekend. And I can, for the time being, pretend that I never actually freaked out. I can, throw my freak out away, so to speak. I don’t have to have it staring at me on the whiteboard of my life. But then I thought, oh no, instead it will be festering or decomposing in a landfill or recycle center somewhere.

Maybe I should reconsider the whiteboard. For the chore lists and myself.

Maybe I should be reminded of what hasn’t been done so that I actively seek to do it. And then, when I have, legitimately wash it clean.  After all, it’s not the whiteboard that keeps things in order, but using it to remind everyone what needs to be done or changed.

So, there you are. Apparently, the tools are out there.

We can shove our undone list in a landfill, but it’s still there. Still undone.

Or we can post our failings for at least ourselves and God to see, and strive to change our ways. We can seek the opportunities (and the sacraments) that help wash us clean, realizing that soon enough we’ll have more to-dos on our whiteboards again. But because of God’s grace, we will live remembering what it was like when it was clean and (hopefully) seeking that peace and order again and again.

Heartfelt

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This morning, when Lillian and I were looking at a book about the human body, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the picture of the heart.

“That’s what my heart looks like?” I’m sure comparing it to what she knows as a heart shape.

“Yes, and those are veins and arteries that carry your blood to and from your heart,” I explained.

She said, “But Jesus is in my heart! How am I supposed to get him out of there?”

You don’t say

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Our little baby doesn’t say anything. Okay, he says, “Dada.” But that’s about it.

He spends a lot of time carrying on indecipherable conversations. Talking with his hands, mumbling nonsense as he looks right into you eyes with a you-know-what-I-mean kind of nod. It’s adorable. But the fact is, I have no idea what he means.

That’s pretty much how I feel lately. I have so much I want to write about. So many stories to tell, but the order of my words makes it all indecipherable.

I just lived through the most joy-filled Vacation Bible School week and have so much to tell. But my mind can’t even get around it. The joy was immense. My heart is full from watching and witnessing God’s amazing love and power. And I think the words for expressing all that have been used up. Spent. I can’t find any that can tell of  my experience without sounding like the gibberish of my little buddy.

Here is what I can say: VBS profoundly leads me to see the goodness of God in people. I see His endless generosity through the unbridled joy of the children; the growth and leadership in the teenage helpers, and the positive example and overflowing love of the  adult volunteers. I am ecstatic to witness all that energy coming together for one purpose: to share God’s love.

I’m still feeling like I’m recovering from having one long and wonderful party, at which God was a guest, and everyone (including Him, of course) had a great time.

That said, during the same time, people I know and love are suffering some serious hardships. Profound loss. Serious illness. Complete (not necessarily hoped-for) life changes.

At those brief moments when our  lives seem big, we need to remember we are so small in the eyes of God. And that He calls each of us in many different ways to help us share His love. Whether that be with joy and loud song or with quiet, peace and private prayer. And even if we don’t actually have the words.

Since our knowledge of God is limited, our LANGUAGE about him is equally so. We can name God only by taking creatures as our starting point, and in accordance with our limited human ways of knowing and thinking. (CCC 40)

Three years

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May 24.

Three years ago today, a dear, dear friend died. It’s hard to believe that much has time has passed. But then, at times, the memory feels so distant because of all the stuff of life that has occurred between then an now.

My thoughts went to her all day today. Her smile, her laugh. Her huge brown eyes. Her innocence and understanding. She knew she was a child of God. And I loved that.

I will cherish the time we spent planning vacation bible school the summer before she died.  I was 8.5 months pregnant. She had cancer. What a motley couple. We laughed hard and worked hard. After that, we talked every day, that is, until she lost her voice. An unnecessarily cruel side effect for a woman who loved to chat on the phone.

Her death brought so many to their knees. She was so young, so faithful and so alive.

I will forever hear her voice ring in my left ear saying, “God is good all the time. All the time, God is good.” She was right, you know.

Pray for me, Saint Danalee. XO

LORD, my heart is not proud; nor are my eyes haughty. I do not busy myself with great matters, with things too sublime for me. Rather, I have stilled my soul, hushed it like a weaned child. Like a weaned child on its mother’s lap, so is my soul within me. Israel, hope in the LORD, now and forever.

Psalm 131

Who’s the fairest?

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Well we are. Of course.

It’s time for our parish fair, and the smell of cotton candy and gasoline generator exhaust is in the air. It’s always amazing how the space surrounding the church, school and parish office is transformed into our own little (yet action-packed) fair ground. The rides are major and so is the fun. The kids are running at a fever pitch. Lillian will be so excited to wake up tomorrow and realize that it is THE day.

Good weather predicted. As is a good time. Come on down!

Say what?

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Two things I hear all the time.

One.

“Are you done?”

Direct, to the point. That’s the question people often ask about my reproductive future.

Two.

“I’m so glad I’m past that stage.”

Always indirect, but equally to the point People don’t say it to me, but say it in earshot. They say it for me. It usually occurs when I’m chasing Cliff or Lillian, or excusing myself to change a diaper.

_____

No one who reads this should feel singled out should you be one who has said either of those things. Because, I can assure you, you are not alone. You are among very good company. And don’t worry, I’m not keeping track or keeping score.

I usually don’t answer the first. I just smile and let the question hang there.

When I hear the second, I admit, I always feel a little odd. I also feel a little old. Then I remind myself as I chase after my newly toddling boy, that although I may (technically) be old enough to be this baby’s grandmother, more importantly, I’m young enough to be his mother. And for that I am infinitely thankful.

Would I rather not be chasing him? The answer to that is the same as to a whole slew of other questions that go along with having a baby in the house … Would I rather not hold him and cuddle with him as he points to pictures in his books? Would I rather not hear his hearty laugh as Henry pretends to trip and fall? Would I rather not see him fold his sweet baby hands in prayer as we say these simple words, “Bless Us O Lord?” Would I rather not stare into his enormous brown eyes and be filled with the wonder and awe of the gift of creation that has been so graciously placed in the care of my unworthy hands and heart?

I’m happy for the chasing. I’m happy for the sleeplessness. I’m happy for the extra laundry and the carseats and even the diapers. I’m happy for the food on the floor, the baby proofing and the runny nose. I’m also happy for the growing, the wondering, the caring, the nuzzling, the learning and the loving. And I’m especially happy for that precious gift of life.

Life is an opportunity, benefit from it. Life is beauty, admire it. Life is bliss, taste it. Life is a dream, realize it. Life is a challenge, meet it. Life is a duty, complete it. Life is a game, play it. Life is a promise, fulfill it. Life is sorrow, overcome it. Life is a song, sing it. Life is a struggle, accept it. Life is a tragedy, confront it. Life is an adventure, dare it. Life is luck, make it. Life is too precious, do not destroy it. Life is life, fight for it.

Mother Teresa