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Nevertheless many even of the authorities believed in Him, but for fear of the Pharisees they did not confess it, lest they should be put out of the synagogue. For they loved the praise of men more than the praise of God.
John 12:42-45 This rings true now. What do I believe that I’m afraid to confess for fear of being cancelled or worse? In my silence am I loving the praise of men more than the praise of God? If Jesus were standing in front of me right now and he asked about my inaction, what would be my answer? “I’m afraid of losing my ‘friends’” - but are they my friends if they drop me because we disagree? “I’m afraid they won’t read my book” - but would they even be interested in a book about prayer and Adoration anyway? “I’m afraid of being called names” - but didn’t Jesus bless those who are persecuted because of him? Why am I living in fear of the Pharisees? I see the sadness and brokenness being perpetrated by the lies disguised as truth. I see the anxiety and depression, the ruin of family, the searching for more. I see the division and anger and hate. These are not of God. These are not true, good, or beautiful. No, silence is not violence. Silence is fear and until we break free from this fear and say what is true, the hate will continue. As Christians, as Catholics, we are called to love people and reject sin. If I celebrate someone’s sin, if I encourage it’s continuation, then I am not loving that person. True love is hard, not enabling. True love doesn’t take pride in that which hurts the soul of another. Deep, deep in our hearts, we all know the truth. Do we, do I, have the strength to speak it or am I afraid? Whose praise do I love more - man’s or God’s?
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Dear Mothers of Young Children,
Thank you for coming to Mass today. We know how much work it is. You have been awake for hours feeding, dressing, cajoling. It is only 8:30 am and you are tired. You made it here just in time and hoped no one noticed as you shuffled everyone into the pew while the priest walked down the aisle. You try to keep them quiet as they shed their jackets, hats, and mittens and you admonish them to keep their wet boots off the kneelers. They wiggle and whisper and squirm and you worry that the people behind you will be annoyed. You try to appear calm and patient, gently instructing them on how to behave when inside you want to cry, disappear or yell “Knock it off!” You may briefly consider cuffing them up the back of the head except there are so many people behind you. They pester each other and you. You hope for a quiet moment to pray; to find the strength and peace to get through one more week before you return to ask again. They do what children do and you hope it will be enough that you showed up. It is enough. It is more than enough. You are an inspiration to all of us and a reminder of our own experiences lest we judge. We were there once too and when we see you valiantly working to bring your children to the Lord, we offer up a prayer for you. You may not have the chance to pray, but we pray for you. “His heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd” (Matt 9:36) Know that his heart is moved. He feels compassion. He knows what you do each week to bring your children to him. He knows how hard it is. It is not unnoticed. You are not alone. Know that it is worth it. You are building up the next generation. You are building the Kingdom of God. It is never wasted and it brings Jesus joy. This time will pass and your children will sit quietly next to you and you will have the moment to pray for them and we will all be better because of your work and sacrifice. For today, what you are doing is good. It is very good. Thank you. Written spring 2015
Soccer Sundays He sat beside me seething. His hands were tight balls; his face granite. The negative energy flew off him. He loathed me at that moment. Steam was coming out of his ears. If I turned into a pile of ash, he would be happy. There was nothing I could do that would make it better, short of giving him what he wanted. We had climbed a mountain together and I was willing to die on it. He was in church, not on a soccer field with his teammates. That weekend my son’s soccer team had a tournament with games late Saturday afternoon, Sunday morning and, if they won, late Sunday afternoon. There was no option to get to Mass in the area unless we missed a game. While I had no problem telling his coach he would be gone because of church (I felt it an evangelization moment), my son was not in agreement. He had passed anger about 18 minutes earlier and was now in full fury in the pew. I prayed for my boy that morning. I prayed that one day he would understand. I prayed that despite his outrage, some nugget from Our Lord would reach him. I knew that at the Sign of Peace, he would pull away from my proffered hand but I prayed for peace for him. I love soccer. With two boys playing, I sat through countless games. Sometimes it snowed, sometimes (the worst times) it was cold rain, sometimes it was blazing hot. I was willing to drive them to practices, games, scrimmages, tournaments. I was willing to hold dinner until 7:30 pm or later and if necessary attend Mass at a different church. I was willing to let our family life all but stop for the three month soccer season. During World Cup summers (both men and women), we huddle around the computer streaming Univision listening to rapid fire Spanish speaking announcers, excited to hear them yell GOOOAAAALLLL in their trademark way. We keep the tournament bracket on the fridge and though it is derpy for someone my age, I do sport a Messi jersey at times. Soccer brings the world together. It is the perfect sport. I love soccer. And I love God more. While I was willing to make those concessions, I was not willing to skip Mass. So on this particular Sunday morning I had a very unhappy 12 year old sitting next to me. Being the parent is hard. And not just when the baby isn’t sleeping or the toddler is on an all day barf binge. At those times my kids liked me. I brought them comfort. I was not the root of all things bad in their lives. At this time, my son did not like me one tiny bit. Sigh. The weight of it was heavy. And even though he did not care, I explained it to him. You are a gift from God. My job, my duty is to do everything I can to get your sorry self to heaven. I am not making you go to church because I want you to suffer. I am not happy that you will miss your game. I am trying to be the best mother I am able and I cannot, with a clear conscience, let you miss Mass for a soccer game. He didn’t understand, nor did he want to understand. He was 12. But that’s why God gives kids parents. He expects us to make the hard decisions; to go right when the world is pulling us left. He expects us to keep pulling back when the culture is trying to push them forward. He expects us to drag everyone out of bed, argue about appropriate clothing choices and answer yet again, “Yes. Yes we have to go to church this week. No. It doesn’t count that you went at school on Friday.” While soccer is a great sport, the soccer culture, along with the Irish dance culture, club sports and many other kid activities is doing us no favors when it comes to being parents. It convinces us that our children’s success rests on that tournament or competition. It robs us of the things that will create joyful children: regular family dinner, unstructured time at home and weekly church attendance. It provides opportunities that are valuable and important, but it is selfish. It demands all the family time. We get sucked in thinking that it will pay off in the long run through placement on the high school varsity team and a college scholarship. We lose sight of what we are really trying to do: raise faith filled children who are able to make a difference and who prioritize God over things of this world. We don’t want to be that parent and our kids certainly don’t want us to be either. We don’t want to be seen as religiously freaky. We think one missed Mass is okay but that just makes it easier to miss another and another and soon we haven’t visited Jesus in a month and our family life is suffering. Healthy families know that praying together is a must. It would bring me great joy if our society made Sunday mornings off limits for sports. It wouldn’t solve all our problems, but it would be a step forward. In the meantime, parents need to resolve to protect the Mass. We have to be okay with missing a game and dealing with an irate child. We have to teach our kids that God comes first. Period. No negotiations. No exceptions. We have to be consistent and we have to support each other. And most of all, we have to pray that God will give us what we need to handle it. It will be hard but not impossible. My son entered the church that morning one angry dude. He left with a smile. Jesus touched him somehow. The Lord answered my prayer, as he always does when we are praying for our children. We were off to the game and all was ok. I was grateful for the graces God gave me and the strength to make and stick to the decision to forgo a soccer game for church. I was thankful that my son left Mass feeling good. He may not have been able to articulate what happened but I know in my heart that the Lord came to him and softened his heart and squelched his anger. God is so good! Amen and alleluia! This was written in June, 2017.
Planting Day is one of my favorite days of the year. It’s not found on any calendar other than my own. This past winter when a late snow storm knocked over our backyard fence, my first words to my husband were “That has to be fixed by Planting Day.” I didn’t care how it got rebuilt or who did it, but by golly come Planting Day, dahlias were going into the ground and woe to anyone who disturbed them. After 23 years of marriage, my beloved knows how deeply serious about this I am. Planting Day is both the culmination and the beginning. One might say the Omega and the Alpha. In late January, the dahlia catalog arrives in the mail and thus begins several reflective weeks of pouring over lovely photos of all the dahlia possibilities. Over the past few years, in an effort to de-materialize my life, I have conquered my catalog compulsion. Scads of catalogs arrive each week full of alluring pictures of things I certainly don’t need but wouldn’t mind having. Cute outfits, handy kitchen gadgets, decorative trinkets abound. They don’t enhance my life and carry some weight of guilt so I have taken to walking them from the mailbox to the recycle bin in one smooth motion. The dahlia catalog however, is exempt because growing dahlias is an almost holy experience. After a few weeks of gazing, the selection process begins. Being someone who fancies herself laid back but is secretly delighted by order and symmetry, I start sorting the flowers by color and size (dinner plate size AA to 2 inch pom pons) lest I end up with a yard full of yellow size B plants (boring) or worse yet, too much variety. What follows is the first list which is culled to a second and then a final list. The order is placed, the delivery date noted. Then, the green garden binder comes out and the pictures of each individual flower are cut out and glued in. Lastly, I draw a map of the backyard and, using the pictures as a guide, lay out where they are to be planted. Dahlia Arrival Day is a great day but it comes about four weeks before Planting Day can safely happen so the box of goodness hangs out in the garage for a bit. Ideally, Planting Day coincides with Mother’s Day which is a beautiful notion. In pregnancy, a seed was planted where it grew for months until it emerged as a fabulous human being. I had to (patiently) tend to its care all the while having faith in the success of the endeavor. Realistically, Planting Day has to wait until a week later. Not all metaphors work. When this auspicious day arrives, the brown turd-like tubers are lovingly and gently planted. A little sign marker is inserted near the hole and a wire support cage is plunked in lest an errant boy mows over a baby plant. After this, it is all water, sunshine and faith. I check the ground every few days until a tiny green leaf pokes through. It never stops being a miracle. How does that ugly tuber know what to do? How can such a fragile thing as a leaf push through several inches of hard earth to emerge? I welcome each shoot and throughout the summer care for them. They grow remarkably fast, getting from four to six feet tall. In late August come the flowers which bloom through mid October. They are nothing short of glorious. Flowers are a constant reminder of how amazing God is. I am convinced that no human being could ever create something as resplendent as a flower. One may try, but in a contest God will win every time. So I appreciate my dahlias. They are generous plants. My windowsill overflows with them in a variety of sizes and colors (an ordered variety thanks to winter planning). I give them to friends. I take them to work. They are an unending source of beauty. I think this gives me a tiny glimpse into God’s experience of us. Thanks to his genius, two microscopic cells come together and after time, food and a whole lot of love grow into an adult human being about four to six feet tall. And while we can scientifically show all the wondrous phases this creature goes through from beginning to maturity, we cannot replicate it. We cannot create life. Only God can. We can participate in it. We can nurture it. But only the God of the Universe can create it. This makes it even more special. Every life, from the humble dandelion to the Virgin Mary, was created intentionally by God. Every life. Mine. Yours. The dude on the corner who asks for money. The best friend who laughs at all your jokes. Like flowers each person is unique and beautiful and needs love to thrive. And just as those ugly tubers become something breathtaking, our sinful selves become something beautiful thanks to the love of God. He knows we are awful sometimes but he keeps loving us and feeding us and if we let him, makes us exquisite. I bet, that to God, we are an unending source of beauty. So the fence is rebuilt and the dahlias planted. They are several inches high and I anticipate an abundant crop this year. I am thankful God created flowers and allows us to participate in their growth as well as the growth of our fellow humans. He is so good. We played together today, my youngest lad and I. It was an impromptu game of kitchen soccer. There was laughter and lightness. This wouldn’t have happened two years ago. He had to leave for school in order to be present. I remember another time of play in the front yard while we waited for the others to come home. He asked me to cut out a heart and he wrote his name and Mom on it. It hangs in a special place I see daily. I remember the boy he was, bright eyed and big hearted, and that boy is emerging from the teenage cocoon. I have to remember to hold on loosely.
It was a flash. Less than a second. The girl she was eight years ago splashed across her face. Her now straight snaggle tooth was crooked again. Her hair had bangs. There was a whisper of awkward in her smile. And then it was gone. The instant vanished; but I still gazed at her, because for that brief moment, it was 2012 again. She's a young woman now but she is still my beautiful girl. The essence of who she is will never go away but sometimes, despite the fact that she has exceeded all expectations and hopes, I miss that middle school girl
I'm glad she's still in there. I saw a glimpse of the boy he once was today. It may have been the way the toes of his left foot were lifted as he concentrated or the way his fingers scratched his head. Most likely, it was a look that crossed his face reminding me of the innocent he used to be. It was a flash of his former self that moved so quickly that had I blinked at that moment I’d have missed it. I kept watching him, reading glasses perched on the end of my nose, hoping he wouldn’t catch me staring as I searched for that little boy in his face. It was gone though and the man that he is becoming returned.
“Passports please!”
“What do I do?” “Pray!” Remember O Most gracious Virgin Mary that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection… In planning our family visit to Vienna, we noticed that Bratislava, the capital of Slovakia, was just an hour away. We must go! When else will we get the chance to see Slovakia, a country that is not on most people’s top 10 list of tourist destinations? Slovakia is a young country founded just 30 years ago after the Velvet Revolution ended communism in Czechoslovakia. Bratislava has existed for a thousand years though and has an old town area full of beautiful buildings, pokey cobblestone streets, and a hrad (castle). The day we visited, the city was enshrouded with fog and Bratislava castle was a faint outline in the cloud. We climbed up to explore. Inside is the Slovak National Museum where we learned history from the ancient Celtic ruins to the Velvet Revolution in 1989. I knew Slovakia was young but I didn’t realize just how young until we got to the exhibit showing the overthrow of communism. Here were images of students protesting the communist government. Voices chanted loudly demanding democracy and free elections. Rooms were arranged as communist offices: stark, empty, cold, with floor to ceiling file cabinets I can imagine held intelligence on local citizens. There were barbed wire topped chain link fences with photos of revolutionaries tucked between them. One could envision what life under communist rule was like: oppressive and fear filled. I looked at the faces of the protestors,noted the date - November 1989 -, and realized these people are my age. In 1989, while my husband and I were courting, kids our own age in Eastern Europe were trying to build a free society. While we bounced around carefree, they risked their lives for a future of freedom. They were my age. ...implored thy help or sought thy intercession was left unaided. The fog had lifted when we exited the castle and from the top we saw Old Town on one side conjuring romantic images of the past and on the other side, under the same gray sky, the sharp edged, poured concrete utilitarian buildings of communist era Bratislava. Thirty years isn’t long enough to erase decades of oppression. These thoughts were fresh on my mind when we learned that passports were required to travel back to Vienna. My daughter hadn’t brought hers but we weren’t stopped on our way into Slovakia so we didn’t worry. The lady at the bus ticket booth was worried though and she probably knew more than we did. Inspired by this confidence I fly unto thee O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother. The bus driver did not ask for passports so we thought all was well. Twenty minutes into the ride, the bus stopped and the border patrol agent boarded. It was dark, we were in a strange land, and I was thinking about communism. “Passports please!” “What do I do?” my daughter whispered. “Pray!” I replied. Never have I been so direct in my prayer. I usually pepper my requests with lots of “pleases” and “if it is your wills.” Not that cold January night on the border of Slovakia and Austria. “Mary, this is only going to work out if you intercede. You’re the only one who can make this happen.” To thee do I come, before thee I stand sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petition but in thy mercy hear and answer me. I launched into St. Teresa of Calcutta’s flying novena (9 Memorares followed immediately with a 10th in Thanksgiving, so confident are we in the answered prayer). It is a prayer that has never failed and I knew, I knew, it wouldn’t fail this time. Reflecting back I realize I remained calm. Mary’s prayers gave me the grace not to worry. My heart didn’t race and my hands didn’t shake. My daughter had a photo of her passport on her phone. When the agent got to our row I showed him mine, he nodded. She showed him the picture of hers, he nodded and moved on. I was filled with gratitude and awe at the power of our Lord and his Mother Mary. I finished the novena and spent the remainder of the ride contemplating how good God is. Skeptics might say it was luck that got us through or maybe a lazy border patrol agent or maybe because we were traveling as a family, but I know that it worked out because Mary prayed for us and her Son answered. “What gives?” my sister in law asked.
“They packed themselves,” I replied. The kids were maybe 4, 5, and 7ish and had spent the weekend at their cousins’ house. Someone’s “pajamas” were more accurately considered play clothes, my daughter didn’t have a single outfit that matched, and few socks had pairs. We weren’t a traveling family but when we did go somewhere, my solution to the packing was to set up a command center on my bed. Like a five star general I barked out what they needed and they ran to collect it. “Go get four pairs of shorts.” They would scamper off and return with the goods. I made a pile for each kid. “Now, get four shirts.” “Four pairs of underwear. Go, go, go!” And they went. I’d scoop the piles up, tuck them in the suitcase and pat myself on the back for a job well done with minimal effort on my part. My daughter didn’t have a matching outfit because she’d picked out her favorite clothes to show her cousins. My son simply grabbed something that could pass as p.j.s and tossed them in the pile. Socks were never sorted in our house so no one even considered pairing them up. The clothes were clean and the right size. I could have gone to each closet and packed them myself. But I didn’t. I wanted them to have choices. Also, I was lazy. Why should I do it when they are capable of doing it? I adopted the same attitude toward school lunches. In first grade, when they started all day school, they also started making their own lunches. I was nearby guiding but they did the legwork while I leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee. “You can have a pb & j or a turkey sandwich.” “Pick out one piece of fruit.” “Pick out one non-candy snack” I directed. They complied. Their ride came. I had another cup of coffee. Lazy? Maybe, but the children learned how to make a lunch. What I considered lazy mother behavior was also an attempt to teach them to take care of themselves. I did not want to be the mother who did all the things for her children, thus rendering them useless and a potential burden on someone else. I’ve met young adults who don’t know how to flip a breaker switch when the circuit gets overloaded and it’s sad. When I heard “Mom, can you wash my jersey for my game tomorrow?” at 10:00 pm, I realized someone needed to learn how to wash his own laundry. When that happened multiple times someone needed to take full responsibility for his own laundry. I needed to go to bed. “Mom, can you get yogurt from the store?” I sent them on their bike with my debit card which I taught them how to use and to never, ever lose. “Mom, can you make some mac & cheese?” I pointed them to the cupboard and fridge and directed them. When we walked into the pediatrician’s office I gently pushed them toward the counter to check in. It taught them confidence. When they started babysitting I told the moms to talk to my kids directly instead of going through me. The kids still had to run it past me in case we had family plans but it taught them to manage their time as well as politely decline if they didn’t want the gig. When the college search came around I placed the challenge of researching and applying to schools on them. They needed to find and use the resources available through their guidance counselor. If they couldn’t manage that process, perhaps they weren’t ready for college and for one of our kids that turned out to be true. Gradually, “Mom, can you…?” became “Mom, can I…?” I guess I could feel as if I’ve lost my usefulness now, but what I actually feel is pride because as young adults they are doing a fine job of managing their lives. They can travel on their own both here and abroad. They attend universities that are the perfect fit. They have clean clothes and can find food. My work isn’t done but now what I’m more likely to hear is “Mom, can you give me a hug?” That’s a task I’m always happy to do. There are different ways of being approached by a nap. All of them are equally hard to resist. Sometimes, one is pursued. The nap is a distant, nebulous idea. It is wispy. In and out of one’s consciousness it moves, like a cirrus cloud on a summer afternoon. It slips slowly by and rests gently on one, lulling, whispering, coaxing the individual to lie down and close one’s eyes for just a moment. The nap has arrived. Sometimes, one is snuck up on. The nap of this sort is more assertive, sometimes even aggressive. It is persistent and strong. Eyelids droop. Shoulders slump. One may try to rearrange one’s body or even drink coffee, but rarely is this nap ignored. It overcomes and it isn’t until one awakes that one realizes the nap had, indeed, won. Other times, the nap announces itself early, perhaps even upon waking in the morning. The nap is imminent, confident it will triumph, wielding a patient power. It is convenient and welcome. One can integrate the nap into the day’s schedule and embrace it, lying down and covering up in front of the fireplace or a sunny window. The nap invokes a cat-like response complete with a yawn and a sigh. The softness of the blanket against the cheek is noticed. The toes are tucked under a cushion for extra warmth. The phone is turned off and the pillow is fluffed. This nap is intentional and desired. All parties are satisfied.  |
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