Monday was All Souls Day. It follows All Saints Day, and commemorates the faithful departed–those who die in God’s faith and friendship. At our parish, it is always marked by a mass and simple reception. Family of parishioners who died during the year are invited as well as anyone from the parish who may want to attend. It’s solemn and beautiful. I was fortunate to be asked to sing at the mass. Along with Holy Thursday, it’s really my favorite.

In addition to my participation, about a month or so ago, our pastor asked if I would bring the baby. He wanted to use him as a “prop” during the homily. I agreed, but with the disclaimer that I could not make any guarantees regarding the level of cooperation of my six-month-old son. Actually, the exchange was more like, “Are you sure you know what you’re asking?” He assured me he did, and that he could roll with it. And I knew he could, so I said, “Okay.”

My parents sat with the baby during mass, since I was in front singing and Richard was teaching religious education. My dad’s magic touch made Clifford very relaxed, and when it was time to hand him off to Monsignor, the baby just nuzzled and got cozy.

Monsignor stood in his white vestments and gave his entire homily holding our son, who comfortably nuzzled securely in his arms. Monsignor reminded all of the many sad people in the congregation that they should find peace knowing that their loved one is being held by God, much like he was holding Clifford. To help you understand the visual impact, you should know that our pastor stands just shy of 6’8″. His large hand covers almost all of the baby’s back. It was easy to picture God’s strength and loving care.

His homily was comforting and wonderful; the baby remained so calm and pretty much moved on cue. It seemed he was responding to what was being said. At one point, when Monsignor mentioned heaven, Clifford even looked up and all around at the ceiling of the church. He also seemed completely unfazed by the hundreds of people in attendance. Occasionally looking out at the people, then back at his tall protector, then at me. I was afraid that he would see me and cry, but he didn’t. He did just what God needed him to do in that moment.

A day after the mass, I received this note from a dear friend from church

I am still in awe of what we all witnessed at the Memorial mass. I know a lot of others are too. I’m sure there were many in the church who, in their grief, have doubted God’s real presence with us. If Fr. Mike’s and Clifford’s homily did not dispel those doubts, I don’t know what could. I felt His presence so strongly I wanted to shout it to the rooftop!

Thank you for sharing your beautiful son. ( I want to say that he could be a great actor someday, but I have a feeling God has something better in store for him!)

It has always been my wish for all of my children that God use each one for the purpose for which He intended and created them. I just often foolishly think of it in terms of them when they grow up. Thanks to our dear pastor, the Holy Spirit and my  bouncing baby boy, my eyes have been opened … once again.

Reader Beware: The contents of this message are rated PG  (Thanks to my 4-year-old son)

Preface: Richard’s dad’s name is also Richard. But he goes by Dick.

Henry the VIII the Artist – Chapter One.

On Mother’s Day, my dear niece Elizabeth informed that my angelic son, Henry, called her a “dickhead.” I was shocked. I had no idea where he would have heard such a thing. I apologized on his behalf and assured her that he did not know what he was saying. I decided to let it go. If you know Henry, like I know Henry, it is sometimes better NOT fuss about things he says – because the bigger the deal you make out of it, the more charge he’ll get out of it and well … you get the picture.

The next day I was folding laundry and out of the blue my son asked me if dick was a bad word and what it meant. I cautiously explained that it was a bad word, one a Hass child does not say. And as a simple matter-of-fact, I  told him the meaning of the word and that we do not call people bad or even proper names that refer to our body parts. He chewed on that for a moment.

“What about Grandpa Dick?” he asked, then proceeded to remind me that sometimes I even call Richard “Dickie.”

True, I told him. I explained that Grandpa Dick is not a bad word because the name Dick is also short for Richard. But that’s not the same as calling someone–who is not named Richard–dick. He seemed satisfied and told me he understood.

Two days later, I heard Henry say to Mary Claire, “You’re a Grandpa Dick.” Foiled on a technicality.

Chapter Two.

Yesterday Henry decided to test his luck again and within earshot (in the minivan), he called Mary Claire a dickhead. Realizing that I heard him, he immediately tried to back track.

“I don’t remember what that word means,” he quickly defended, trying to disappear from site in my rear-view mirror while held captive in his car seat.

“I believe you do,” I reminded.

“No I don’t know no I don’t know no I don’t know,” he blurted. He thinks if he talks fast enough he can erase time (and bad deeds).   I informed him (calmly) that when we returned home he would have a 20-minute time-out, and we would have to have a serious conversation with Daddy. His choice of language was not befitting a Hass child and was totally unacceptable. He shed a few tears. After a few moments in silence, he quietly confessed.

“I do know what it means. I do know what it means. Let’s not talk to Daddy. It’s okay. I know, I know, I know.”   Nice try boy.

We arrived home as Richard was pulling up the driveway. Richard and I sat down with Henry and I explained the situation. I tried to enlist Henry’s help, but he pretended he couldn’t remember what the issue was – the whole time he kept nuzzling up to me and showering me with smooches and hugs.

I stood my ground, and he was not able to charm his way out of his punishment. He finally stood still and listened to what Richard had to say and agreed he would change his ways. After our conversation, he willingly headed upstairs for his 20-minute sentence. On the way, he apologized to Mary Claire.

After about 20 minutes of quiet (something which with Henry is always worrisome), I went up to check on him. He had picked up his entire room and greeted me with a proud smile. “Look, I even made my bed all by myself,” he boasted. I got down on my knees and told him I was proud that he could do that. He shows me all the time what a big boy he is becoming. I asked him to connect that wonderful brain power to his mouth, so he can learn to stop himself from saying things that are not acceptable. He made a cross on my forehead (we do that as a blessing) and genuinely said he would try.

Then he showed me his chalkboard. On it was a work of art.

“That’s Mom smiling at me,” he said. I admired the drawing. Then I asked him what was supposed to be on my shirt in the drawing and he replied:

“Oh. I drew you naked!” Oh! Henry!

In the photograph, Henry is meditating. Don’t ask.

This has been a weekend filled with joy, angst, wins, losses and lots of love.

Powderpuff team charges into the gym.

On Friday morning there was a rally kicking off homecoming weekend at my eldest daughter’s all-girls Catholic school. To thunderous applause, the senior class powederpuff football team burst into a glow-lighted gym. I was in tears before they shut off the lights. Actually, I was fighting them back the moment I entered the gym. In part, reminiscing about my own high school experience, but also the shear emotion connected to recognizing the finality of this phase in my daughter’s life.

This is the year of lasts. I also recognize, it will be the year of firsts for her. But that’s another post.

Helen is not an athlete, but she embraced powderpuff the same way she embraces so many things: completely. And that made losing painful. Not just for her, but for all of them. But they will forever be bound in the battle.

For the many weeks they practiced, they learned not only about football, but about themselves and each other. They share the war stories, the wounds, the weariness. As much as they would have shared the win, they share the loss. Still they lost nothing in the experience that led up to that final score. The devastation of defeat is equally as powerful as the jubilation of victory. True to form, not long after the game, Helen was already reflecting on the meaningfulness of the whole experience.

After yesterday’s grueling defeat on the grid iron, she shifted gears to the other part of homecoming: the dance. Dolled up and looking lovely, we sent her on her way to her last high school homecoming dance. After I watched her drive away, I once again found myself fighting back the tears.

All the crying aside, I am happy to be where I am. Burning my finger as I hot-glue Lillian’s dollar store tiara for the third time. Reviewing college applications and changing diapers. Inspecting Lego creations and artistic masterpieces. Cheering at swim meets, football, soccer and baseball games. Applauding in the audience and celebrating first steps and next steps. I am happy to be here to wipe away the tears of tantrums, frustration, sorrow and defeat. (Even if at times they are my own!) 

When I find myself occassionally dwelling on dispair in this often challenging world, I try to keep focused on my family and doing my part: completely. I also recognize and find strength in the fact that I am part of a greater Christian team that will forever be bound in the battle. I hope that with each setback faced proclaiming the word in our world, I too can reflect on the fact that Christ won the victory over darkness for all at the hour when He freely gave himself up to death to give us his life.

Just a week into Montessori school, Lillian declared her love for her new friend.

“I want to have a party with her,” she told me. Then she pleaded: “I want to eat with her!”

It brings me joy and fills me with wonder, the fact that our three-year-old daughter relates eating together as the most intimate form of love and friendship.

I think of the communal act of sharing the Eucharist at Mass. We share together the most intimate form of love and friendship with and of the One who loves us and whom we should love above all things.

And there it is, out of the mouths of babes.

I know that’s cliché, but I occasionally I need to remember to embrace that sentiment. I’d be a lot more relaxed.

Today we set out for the dentist with Henry. Without going into the gory details of past visits, let me sum it up simply. Henry + Dentist = PHOBIA. (Notice the all-caps emphasis.)

I had originally planned to start the day with mass because for the first time in two weeks, thanks to baby, I had a decent night’s sleep, and Richard was going to drop off Lil. We were ready but then I opted out. I decided that expecting Henry to sit still when he was facing “the chair” was just too much. In my world, an hour with the Lord at mass can do wonders. In this seven-year-old boy’s, it’s not a realistic expectation.

On our way to the office, Henry sat nervously in the back of the van only once asking, “Could you please turn around Mom?” Which was already much better than our last experience. At about the same time, I noticed the car ahead of us traveling rather slowly. It was an old mid-80s model Pontiac Sunbird. The driver and passenger appeared to be wearing hoods. That’s sketchy, I thought. It was a little early on a Monday for casing Mack Avenue, but you know, these times they are a changin’.

With my attention back to my boy, I told him I would not turn around, but I was proud of the way he was facing this appointment. Then I changed lanes, sped past the turtle-paced Sunbird, glanced in my side view mirror to see closer than it may appear that the gangsta ride I was passing were really two older religious sisters. Not casing, but being cautious. Not hooded, but habited. The old car was actually very tidy. And not what I expected.

Richard met us at the appointment, just in case. We said as much of the St. Michael prayer as a one-flight elevator ride would accommodate and then proceeded down the hall to the office. And I didn’t expect this: Henry faced his fears head on.

He asked for an explanation of every tool and every procedure. The dentist and her staff were great. They were there with him at the other appointments. They too were anticipating a different experience.

At one point, when they left the room, I reminded Henry it was all about making choices. He could make the choice to be brave. Of course he quickly reminded me that he could also choose not to be brave. True. But he didn’t. He held on and jittered his way through what just two weeks ago would have been unthinkable for him. He asked Richard to hold his hand, but then let go whenever he felt confident he could handle it. And at the end, while still reclined in the chair with two pairs of gloved hands working in and around his mouth, he gave us a discreet two thumbs up.

Like my surprise with the slow-drivin’ gangsta sistas, I need to remember with my children to look beyond my expectations. Although I clearly set up with them how I expect them to behave, what I expect them to accomplish, I realize it’s not really up to me. I certainly never expected my son to be so afraid of the dentist in the first place. But then, I also never expected him to turn around, face his fear and in spite of himself be so strong. Pretty soon maybe in a G. Gordon Lilly moment he’ll be strapping himself to a tree during a lighting storm or eating a rat or something …

Now I only need to work on a way for Lillian to overcome her fear of loud toilets.

Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle;
be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.
May God rebuke him, we humbly pray:
and do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host,
by the power of God,
thrust into hell Satan and all the evil spirits
who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls.
Amen.