Motherhood is a bit like living in Narnia. Parts are amazingly beautiful. Parts are a bit scary and unpredictable. There are strange little creatures all around doing equally strange things, and every now and then you feel like and are treated like a queen.

I truly love being a mother. I know that being a wife and mother is my vocation. I heard the call and listened. And those who know me well know there is a lot that goes into the statement.

I am grateful for having experienced a special (yet minuscule) glimpse into God’s awesome mystery of creation, but I know that giving birth does not a mother make.

I know this especially as I see my friend and her five adopted children. Or when I experience the hope and anticipation of adoption with my little sister. I see mothering in my dear friend as she loves and spoils her nieces and nephews. I mother my spouse when he’s ill or needs my care. I so vividly recall my mother mothering her parents as they advanced in age. And I recognize that I am fortunate to be mothered by many amazing women in addition to my own beautiful and wonderful mother.

I guess that’s why mother is a verb, a noun and in my life a very important adjective (as in Holy Mother Church).

It doesn’t matter how you get here–whether through a magical wardrobe, with an enchanted ring, by birth, courtroom, relationship, friendship or just by chance. You got here. Welcome to the hood.

God bless you and happy mother’s day.

A few days ago, dear 17-year-old Helen asked me if I would consider allowing her to wear a bikini this summer. An interesting and surprising request. One that follows a long history of discussion in this very household on that very subject.

“I would choose something modest,” my daughter said. (Is that an oxymoron? Modest bikini?)

Apparently my contemplative look was quickly misinterpreted.

She jumped in with, “You know…in six weeks, I’ll be emancipated. I’ll be 18.” I’m not sure if she thought that would give credence to her request.

Emancipated? What does she think she is? An indentured servant?

Then for the cherry on top she added: “You know, then I could run away.” She was joking, of course.

I reminded her that if she indeed was going to be emancipated, then it wouldn’t be called running away. It would be called leaving or moving out.

Then she asked the question that got the “yes” she desired.

“Mom. I guess I am asking for permission to make the choice for myself.”

Yes. Of course you can. Permission granted. After all…she’ll soon be emancipated. As quickly as I agreed, I told her I was sure she would make a good choice. Because she will.

When I shared this little story, I was reminded by more than one friend that I wore bikinis regularly. And I did. I also remember one day at 17 or 18, my big brother stopping me, telling me I couldn’t go to the beach in a bikini.  And that I wasn’t leaving the house. I remember thinking he was joking, but then realized he wasn’t. Oddly, I don’t remember the outcome of that moment, but do very clearly remember the moment. In a split second, I became much more conscious of how I presented myself.  I saw myself differently that day. Now, of course, as a mother–especially of daughters–I see it all very differently. I don’t want them wearing burlap sacks, and I certainly understand the desire to be fashionable.  But I do want them to at the very least consider their modesty and what it means with regard to making choices on how they dress.

To top this off, I was going to put in a Bible or Catechism quote about modesty.  Even though I found many truthful and meaningful quotes … they all were a bit too radical in their wording. So instead, I’ll translate: God wants us to respect our bodies and be modest. And he means it … because it’s in the Bible a bunch of times. Popes have written about it and so have a bucket load of saints. Amen and cover up.

Nuggets from a hectic Holy Week and a glorious Easter.

Palm Sunday

The children’s choir joined the adult choir for 10 a.m. mass. They did an awesome job. A fourth-grade boy sang the psalm bringing tears to my eyes. (No surprise there. I think I cry every time the kids sing.) Hosanna in the highest!

Wednesday

The Passion Play.

The children’s choir added their beautiful voices singing, among other things, “I Think I Heard Him Say” while Christ carried his cross. I let them take their shoes off so they could move quietly in the choir loft when they weren’t singing so they could stand at the rail and see the whole play. Watching them watch was as precious as hearing them sing.

Helen and Mary Claire joined together in a very moving song.

Henry missed his cue for wind chimes at that the beginning of “And God Cried” but got it at the end. After, when he realized it, he said, “I was watching the play, and I couldn’t even think about the chimes. Jesus was dying and I was going to cry.” Enough said.

Good Friday Stations of the Cross.

With a short notice of cancellation for the second presentation of Passion Play (due to a nasty flu working its way through the cast and school at large, including Sr. Play Director), we put together a morning Stations of the Cross for children led by that trusty children’s choir. God bless those singing readers. What a capable bunch.

Easter Vigil

Our pastor sang his way through the beautiful Exultet. As a singer, I think I was holding my breath in support. It was lovely, and I let out an internal “woot” in silent approbation.

Standing in a candle-lit church hearing a 6’7” man’s voice ring through, “join me in asking God for mercy, that he may give his unworthy minister grace to sing his Easter praises” is indeed humbling.

After communion, we listened to a father and son play guitar and sing Resucito. Truth is, musically speaking, for me this is one of the highlights of the Easter season. I can’t begin to express how beautiful, amazing and fitting it is after all we just witnessed and celebrated during the vigil mass. This year, the son sang a kind of contrasting melody or echo or something. The combination of the father’s smooth and full voice with the son’s almost raw higher voice made the song even that much more moving if that is even possible.

It is such an honor to witness and be part of that mass.

And Helen, who was the cantor for the mass, said, “I’m pretty sure that was the most Jesus-filled mass experience I’ve ever had.” As the cantor you have the best view of everything that is happening at that mass. I was grateful she had that experience. (And she did a lovely job.)

Easter Sunday

We unwrapped the Alleluias we hid away on Ash Wednesday. We found Easter baskets and eggs. For Lillian, it’s all about that bunny. We read about the Easter story, but unlike the understandable idea of Jesus’ birth, the mystery of his resurrection is hard for a three-year-old to wrap her mind around. Henry told her that without Jesus there wouldn’t be Easter. But she reminded him it was the Bunny who brought the baskets. Hmmm.

After 10 a.m. mass, we spent a beautiful day with family.

Alleluia, Aleluya.

I had the great fortune of being backstage with Helen and Mary Claire during last night’s performance of the Music Man. It was fun watching the scramble as all the kids changed costumes and waited for cues. Slipping in tap shoes, adjusting glue-on mustaches, reapplying lipstick.

What I’ll treasure most is the mere fact that Helen and MC got to do the show together. Almost five years apart in age, these opportunities don’t often present themselves.

Mary Claire’s excitement throughout the week was palpable. She was counting down the days. She enjoyed watching the backstage and onstage snafus get worked out with each practice. I’ve loved her daily run-down for me of technical issues and costume and hair worries. She couldn’t wait for me to see her sweet costumes and kept asking Helen if she was delivering her lines clearly and in character.

There's no business like show business

Helen had a few other challenges. She had to pull a Milli Vanilli and sing for the Marion Paroo character backstage during the dress rehearsal (with audience) because the dear girl playing the part was sans voice due to strain. She had to do that and still come onstage as her own kooky character as the mayor’s wife.  The extra day of rest paid off for Marion, because she sounded just lovely last night. It was a great experience for Helen who got a first-hand taste of that ever-famous saying: the show must go on.

It was especially fun watching Helen in a comic role, because quite frankly — she’s a hoot. She reminded me (and many others — based on comments) of me. A nice compliment.

It’s hard for me to believe this is Helen’s last big high school show. It’s time to move on. Which is all good. She’s made her college decisions and is ready for the next set of challenges that lie ahead. I can only wonder what’s in store for her.

In a little more than a year, it’ll be Mary Claire’s turn at high school, and she, too, is already busy making her plans. And likewise, I can’t wait to see how all that unfolds.

It’s times like these that make me grateful for the gift of faith. The complete realization that I really have to surrender to whatever it is God has planned for my kids. And that isn’t always easy. I recognize that believing in God’s plan doesn’t mean I don’t have to participate in this plan. Actually, it’s just the opposite. I have to do my part — with Him as the focus. There’s labor involved (a lot of labor). God says, okay, here’s faith, now do something with it. And with each child, I see that something. Differently, often surprisingly and with joy and hope for the future.

So here’s the analogy … the curtain never completely closes. The Lord is always there to open it again. Each stage of life is just that: A stage. And there’s always another show, whether it’s here on earth or in heaven. That said … this earthly life isn’t a dress rehearsal, and no one is singing behind the curtain for any of us. We have to get out there front and center and truly become our characters as servants of God. And we can remember our lines because the script is in the scripture. (Ba-dum-bum.)

Amen. Now let’s get on with the show.