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My opponent was fierce and formidable. As the conference defensive player of the year, he knew his job well - prevent the ball from crossing into the goal at all costs. I had two concurrent objectives: keep from getting nutmegged* and guide the ball into the 4” by 30” goal.
I was beginning to sweat and my heart rate was elevated after 20 minutes of play. Because my foe was larger than me, I had to be fearless in blocking him out and keeping control of the ball. My slippered feet were an advantage over his stockinged feet. It was the inaugural game of kitchen soccer, and while maybe I shouldn’t be, I am proud to have beat my son in this match. The wood floor served as a fine pitch, the lower cupboard was my goal, and we took turns fishing the tennis ball from under the stove. It was an impromptu blessing of competition and laughing that a year ago would have been unthinkable. It’s a strange truth that we have to hold on loosely to those we love. The words of 38 Special are catchy and worth remembering: “Just hold on loosely / But don’t let go If you cling too tightly / You’re gonna lose control.” When our children were newborns, we discovered their strong desire to be held 24/7 and complied by wearing them for 12 weeks. We alternated with the carrier and even slept with them in our arms. I’m certain that constant contact created a deep bond between each baby and parent. As they grew out of this need, they were nonetheless never far from our arms. As a stay at home mom, I had many opportunities to hold my kids from our morning reading time, to post-nap waking up, to comforting them in times of hurt or sadness, to post-time out hugs. Even though my love language is not physical touch, I loved having them in my arms. I loved that a hug from me fixed their problems. I loved that in times of stress they’d crawl onto my lap. They felt safe there and I felt control. With them in my arms, I could protect them from the world when it became too much. I snuggled them after dinner while we lounged around the table. When they woke up from a bad dream, my arms made them feel safe. Despite times of desiring to not have someone on me or touching me for just a little bit, it was good. As they again grew out of this phase and ventured off to school there were hugs good-bye and hello. My arms still longed to contain them and they allowed it. Time continued to march forward and they became too big to sit on my lap and too cool to snuggle up close. They had boney elbows that got in the way and they sometimes smelled bad. In their growing up they necessarily shed things they no longer needed. They were managing their interactions with the world. They were exploring and becoming independent. They no longer needed my warm and willing embrace to feel safe or content. These were signs I was succeeding in my role as mother. I’m successful if they become independent, self-sufficient adults. It’s a win that they don’t need me any more. I’m okay with that. Actually, I’m really good with that. But, and there’s always a but, I miss those hugs sometimes. I still want to hold tight to them and keep them close. Two remain generous with their hugs but one, like his mother, does not count physical touch as a love language. I’ve learned to settle with a walk-by head pat or shoulder tap. I’ll put my arm around him at Mass when he is unlikely to push it aside. I’ll straight out ask for a hug and on rare occasions, he will offer one. I will rejoice internally while maintaining my cool mom facade and say a prayer of thanksgiving. This is especially the one to whom I must hold on loosely. Now two of them are flung across the country to places far enough away that an airplane is required for visits. They need to spread their proverbial wings. If I cling too tightly to them, it won’t keep them near. I am reminded of God’s gift of free will. He doesn’t want us to love him as automatons who have no other choice. He wants us to choose to love him. I feel similarly about my children. My great prayer is that when they are done getting educated and exploring the world, they settle nearby but I want it to be their choice, their desire, not an obligation. The advent of kitchen soccer was also the advent of a new stage in my relationship with my youngest. I had to let him go, to fly away to college several states away. I don’t know what’s caused the softening but it resulted in kicking a tennis ball around the kitchen for a half hour one December evening. I don't know if, in the long run, the kids will return home. I have to let them go for a while and become the people God wants them to be. I do know that while I shouldn’t cling too tightly, I can - and should - hold on loosely because even though they are exploring and becoming, they still desire to be tethered to a family that loves them and welcomes them with an embrace. *a nutmeg is when the player kicks the ball between the opposing player’s legs
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It’s not you, red wine. It’s me. It’s been some time coming and I tried to deny it but the evidence is clear. Even just a little glass, a half glass, and I experience regret in the morning. I’m sorry, red wine. I’ve enjoyed my time with you but now I must move on. Farewell good friend.
It’s not you either, sleeveless dress. Fun sleeveless dress with the swingy skirt. I feel feminine and girly in you but alas, my upper arms belie my age. Maybe I can still get by with cap sleeves… Black converse all stars. Cute black converse all stars. The go-to shoe of my twenties. So sporty. So fun. So flat. So painful. These knees cannot take you anymore. And these knees are connected to everything else. These knees make the rules now. Sitting “Indian style” on the floor is a no-go. Really, sitting on the floor at all is ill-advised, as is sitting on a bleacher or a folding chair. Why does sitting get painful? I’m mostly okay with being a couple whispers shy of 50. It seems that the world keeps ticking by and other people grow up but I’m still mostly the same. If I make it to Coco on a regular schedule I can pretend my hair isn’t getting grayer every year. I’m blessed with good skin so wrinkles are thankfully not an issue. If I am strategic about what I wear I can ignore the extra 3.5 pounds that have taken up residence on my stomach. There’s some mild arthritis and it’s confirmed I will never be able to do a push-up but overall, my body still does what I ask it to do and my brain, while a little forgetful (what were we laughing about at lunch? It was only five hours ago.) keeps track of the myriad things orbiting my life. With age comes wisdom. It is true. Conventional wisdom is that we get more of it as we age. Perhaps it is compensation for the ways our bodies start to slack off on the job. There is a settled-ness in thinking; a certain confidence that experience affords. The knowledge that things worked out previously gives assurance they will again. The thing that historically caused trepidation has been outed as innocent. Where I once would fret, I now am fret-free. I used to rush through life. I don’t know what the hurry was. I organized my errands with the precision of a war tactician, precisely planning the route to maximize gas consumption and time usage correlated with expected busy-ness of the stores. Now, after living with babies who became toddlers who somehow morphed into teenagers, I have slowed down. My yelling “chop chop” is not going to speed them up. I would have to light them on fire to get them to move more quickly and since that is not good parenting, I have learned to be okay with being not early. I used to be more concerned with personal presentation. I would select my outfit hoping that I looked like I just happened to end up this together and polished. I expended mental energy on earring and shoe selection. I briefly bought into the “it’s better to look good than to feel good” philosophy. Now, while I do admit to still trying to look nice (and probably still caring too much), I tend to grab whatever is on top of the pile and if the shoes aren’t knee-friendly they don’t get worn. I’ve begun to believe myself when I say that if someone is going to judge me it probably wouldn’t be a successful friendship. I have learned that if I don’t listen to my voice mail for two weeks, 14 of the 15 messages will no longer be relevant and won’t merit a return call. If I continue to feed my husband cilantro he will begin to like it. My son will not die if he refuses to eat the dinner I prepared and goes to bed hungry. Every summer my daughter is going to disagree with me about the length of her shorts. If I do not clean the house for three weeks, it will still function successfully as a house and if I do not close the bread garage door all the way, no one will and the dog will eat the entire loaf. These are little snips I have collected. I did not used to have them. I was early, never squandered gas or time, always had clean toilets and felt bad when people didn’t want to be my bestie. But now, I have wisdom and wisdom has allowed me to let go of things that do not matter. So I am okay with saying good-bye to red wine, sleeveless dresses and converse shoes. When I look at it from this vantage point, this place of knowing what is and is not worth being concerned about, I prefer the wisdom. Even if it does come with sensible shoes and longer sleeves. p.s. - Since the writing of this piece I learned that red wine that doesn't come from a box doesn't give a headache so red wine and I are reunited. Written September 2020.
Malaise is the best word I can think of to describe what many people I know are experiencing, myself included. Dictionary.com defines malaise as “a vague or unfocused feeling of mental uneasiness, lethargy, or discomfort.” When asked how they are, I hear answers such as tired, bored, exhausted. People tell me they struggle to concentrate. We collectively feel unsettled and unsure. There are many question marks right now and we all agree that 2020 has turned out to be a third-rate year. Lamentably, we are barely 75% of the way through so we can expect more surprises in the fourth quarter. Malaise. As humans we desire control and predictability. We have had none of that. A pandemic alone would be enough for one year, add in quarantine and economic deterioration, protests and riots, an ugly election and it makes sense that we feel mental uneasiness, lethargy and discomfort. Mass and community, the places where we usually find consolation were stripped from us. For a long time we couldn’t receive Holy Communion which gives us grace to persevere. Many still haven’t been back to Mass. We couldn’t gather with our loved ones where we can laugh and find some emotional relief. Some days I’m tempted to stay in bed under the safe covers but this nonsense has crept into my dreams. Malaise. As adults it is challenging enough and blessedly kids are resilient but I am beginning to hear from parents that they are struggling to explain all of it to their kids. Some kids are back to school full time, some part time, some just virtually. Some kids are playing their sports; others are side-lined. Kids can’t see their grandparents or play with each other. The class of 2020 was denied their senior spring semester and many of them are starting their freshman year of college at home. Malaise. I was seeking solace with a friend one sunny afternoon on my front porch and she shared five remedies for sadness from St. Thomas Aquinas. I share these now because they are simple and work with all ages. These remedies can help us manage the malaise but are also an excellent reminder of something that has not changed: God. God is constant. God is with us. God has it under control. This is where our faith must sustain us. Things feel nut bonkers because much in our world is nut bonkers but God has not abandoned us. Now is the time to lean on him more. We must throw ourselves and all our good and not so good feelings in front of him and he will accept us and help us regain the peace we miss. He’s got this. The prophet Isaiah instructs us to “take care you remain tranquil and do not fear.” (Is 7:4) The remedies from Aquinas help us achieve that tranquility.
Try these five remedies if you’re struggling. Then offer up a prayer to your heavenly Father and invite him into your malaise. Believe that he is there with you holding your hand and that he has it all under control. Parenting is hard. Sleepless nights, barf, tantrums, food wars, rainy soccer games, bickering, carpools and endless pairs of new shoes. There is exhaustion - physical, mental and emotional. Questioning my decisions. Falling into the comparison trap and the fear that climbing out is impossible. The sadness of knowing they will leave one day and sometimes hoping that day comes soon. The hardest part hasn’t been the weekly hill of laundry I must summit or the meals no one eats or even the arguments about how short that skirt can be. It’s not the thermoses and water bottles abandoned on the kitchen counter for days or that I didn’t see my dining room table for seven years because it was covered in homework.
The hardest part, without a doubt, has been the child whose hero I once was, who used to come to me with every joy and pain, who drew a pictures of a heart labelled with our names. The hardest part is that this child has become a near stranger. This child saves his best for others. I see the disdain cross his face. I see the eyes almost roll. I sense that I am deeply lame and know nothing about everything. I “don’t understand.” I should just “forget it” and “never mind.” What a dolt I am because I still don’t know what a meme is or why I’m salty. I don’t want to actively parent for the rest of my life. I’m getting tired. But I haven’t tagged out yet. My head knows this is normal behavior and I shouldn’t take it personally. But sometimes my heart is sad because I miss the love and the hugs and the drawings. I miss being the one they love best, trust most and come to when they are sad, scared and happy. I miss when the world wasn’t quite so much a part of our family; when we were cocooned in. They were sometimes long and lonely days but they were safe and full of love. I miss getting hugs and kisses I didn’t ask for. Parents with grown children have told me kids come around and are nice again. I don’t want to wish away time but it will be good to be in that place one day and know that it wasn’t in vain. These are the times I turn to our Mother Mary. I imagine her wrapping me in her mantle and gently reminding me to trust. It’s going to be okay. Parenting is a marathon, not a sprint. I know she understands how it is to have a heart so vulnerable. I know she understands how something can be so joyful and heartbreaking at the same time. I know she prays for me and it makes me feel better. So, I’ll grab some water, tie my shoes and get back in the race knowing I am not alone. I have a mother in Mary who is alongside me the whole way. It’s a pretty great race after all. I’m prefacing this with a note to my sons. Boys, I love you very much but I’m afraid I’m going to sell you down the river with this piece. You’ll be ok. The truth is hard but often makes us better.
My daughter is a person whose love language involves gifts. She loves to give them, she loves to watch others open them, and her enthusiastic way of receiving them is satisfying for the giver. One Christmas when she was young, she wanted to give her brothers presents of her own. She gathered some matchbox cars and beanie babies, found scrap paper typically reserved for drawing, borrowed tape, wrapped each item, and tucked them under the tree. It was then I knew we had a special one in our midst. Her gift giving joy continued as she grew. She always made sure she had birthday, Christmas, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day gifts. Prior to having her own money, she would make gifts fashioned from items found in the house. For one Father’s Day she asked me to take her to the hardware store to get large dowels. She then took an old pillow case and asked for help sewing pockets for the dowels and voila! - a firewood carrying sling that served us well for a long time. Another year she desired a pair of Ugg boots. Her feet were still growing and Uggs are costly so we broke the news that Uggs were not in her future. She researched her options and found fake Uggs - or Fuggs. My husband hatched a plan. On Christmas morning she and I had the same sized packages under the tree. She opened hers first to find a pair of the long awaited Fuggs and was delighted. Several minutes later I opened my package to find my own pair of Fuggs. “Mommy, you got Fuggs!” is what I heard moments before she leapt across the room to land at my side on the couch and enjoy my receipt of the beloved boots. “That’s what I was going for,” my husband said with a smile. She’s turning 21 soon and still puts thought and care into the gifts she gives her friends and family. It’s how she loves and she does it well. She pays attention to those around her and she remembers. I always feel cared about when I open a present from her. So, the girl who loves to give, the girl who made chocolate chip cookie dough and left it in the freezer when she went to college so her younger brother could have the cookies he loves, is going to celebrate her birthday at school. What this means for her parents and brothers is that we need to plan ahead. Being full fledged adults, my husband and I collected the items for her gifts and mailed them so she would receive the package prior to her special day. Her brothers? It seems that despite many years of being treated like princes by their sister, the boys are not quite to the point where they understand that we give gifts to people to express that we remember them before the gift receiving day, not that we remember on the day. We don’t order the gifts and present a print out of the item being delivered two weeks hence. Maybe it’s because this is only the second time she is spending her birthday away from home or maybe it’s because she’s had an emotion filled semester or maybe it’s just time for her brothers to step up. It’s hard to know, but this year is the year I am nagging them. History shows they need it. Christmas 2020/November/Text #1: “Guys, your sister sent you a link to a sweatshirt she’d like for Christmas. Please get it for her. You may need to plan ahead. Apparently the drop only lasts for a week so maybe do it today.” Christmas 2020/December 21/Text #2: “You two boneheads are on my list. You disappoint your poor sister every stinking year and she is so good to you. All she wanted was the sweatshirt and you didn’t get it. I need you to make sure you have wrapped gifts for her under the tree so get yourselves to a mall and be generous.” Brother #1: “I was very busy the week she told me about it.” Brother #2: “Respectfully this is on Brother #1. He said he’d buy it and we’d split it. Not to throw anyone under the bus.” Me: “Please work it out and make sure she has legit gifts under the tree - not gifts that are on their way.” I was disappointed that it came to that. Ten months later, her birthday is upon us. One week before her birthday/to Brother #1: “Did you get your sister the ring she asked for?” Brother #1: “No, I’ll do it right now.” To Brother #2: “Did you get your sister a present?” Brother #2: “I’m getting her the ring with Brother #1.” Me: “Does he know this?” (A surprisingly important question. Always ask this of your children.) B2: “Yes” Me: “You need to do more. Just Venmo-ing cash to your brother isn’t enough. I’ll send you some ideas. Get them and put in a note saying ‘Happy Birthday.’” The next morning to Brother #1: “Did you get the ring for your sister?” B1: “Oh fart. I forgot. I’ll do it right now.” Later: “When will the ring arrive?” B1: “The first week of November.” Me: “That’s after her birthday.” B1: “I know.” Me: “Get online and get her something so she has presents to open on her birthday,” These boys are 19 and 22. They make me tired. Yes it is better to give than receive but what I didn’t realize is that kids must be taught how to give. Giving isn’t merely handing something over. It requires forethought. Online shopping has made the process easier but planning ahead is essential. Gift giving isn’t so much about the gift itself as it is the thought and effort put into it. To know that someone cares enough to take time to procure a meaningful gift is a nice feeling. I will admit I stink at this so I can’t be too hard on my boys who are actually very sweet young men but the three of us have to do better. The wise men travelled long and far to bring gifts to Jesus. With Christmas coming my plan is to be more thoughtful about what I can give to my family members not because of the gift itself but because I want them to know I am thinking about them. That’s a big part of what gifts embody. They are a tangible way of saying, “I see you” and we all desire to be seen. It was a time of Lasts - one I didn’t see coming and another I knew about - and I reflected on which is worse: knowing this will be a Last time or not knowing.
On Oct 31, 2020, we sat in their driveway giving out candy, warming ourselves by the firepit and laughing. It was something we’d done often over the years, the fire and laughing part at least. We were surprised when five hours had passed, and we only went home because it seemed like the proper thing to do. We’d listened to Toto’s Africa, nibbled on more kit kats and twixes than anyone should, and dreamed of our next vacation together. It was a beautiful night with beautiful friends. We’d no idea that Dan’s comments about his achy leg and sore back meant anything more than the average aches and pains we all experience. We’d no idea that it was the last time the four of us would be together free of the specter of death. We’d no idea that Dan’s body was already overrun with a cancer that’d been silently, maliciously growing. We just had no idea. Hope and optimism for the future are not sentiments reserved for just the young. We had dreams to go to Ireland, drink dark beer in a dark pub and practice our Irish accents We had dreams of going to Africa and making our own video a la Kristin Bell and Dax Shepard. We had dreams of growing old together while sitting around more fire pits and fireplaces, listening to Dan’s eclectic playlist and singing along, pausing to laugh until it hurt. We had dreams. We didn’t know it was our last happy time together and had we known, it would have tainted the whole evening. That night we lived. We lived for the moment and in the moment. Had we known, we wouldn’t have felt the freedom of being present. It would have laid heavy over us. After Dan’s diagnosis and valiant fight, it came time for another Last but this one we knew about. Having never lost someone I’m close to, I very nearly didn’t attend this Last. What are the words to be said? How could there be any words? But out of love for my friend and our friendship I went to this Last - my first Last of this sort. And even though we knew we were saying goodbye for a very long time it was necessary and important and needed and had I not gone I’d have regretted it forever. At the end of the peaceful visit that even included some laughing, I said the words I didn’t think I’d know, words I didn’t think I’d have to say to a friend for at least another 25 years. “I love you. I will miss you. I expect you to welcome me at heaven’s gate with a boombox on your shoulder playing Africa. Loud. I’m thankful I’ve known you. You are a good friend.” It was a Last I knew was coming. A few days later he died and now it’s All Soul’s Day and for the first time I’m praying for a friend in a real way and thinking about Lasts and death and heaven. I believe my friend Dan is heaven bound but I’m wrestling with what that means. I’m wrestling with the “where” of it because a few months ago his soul was housed in his body. Now his body is gone and his soul has gone on and I’m trying to visualize something that can’t be visualized. This All Soul’s Day is different for me. It's the first one to be meaningful but only because it comes after two Lasts. This All Soul’s Day I'm leaning on Jesus because the supernaturality of all of it is hanging over me like summer clouds that blow briefly by blocking the sun on their way east. Every so often it gets grey and I wonder about souls. I know God brings good things out of really crummy things. I have no idea what good can come of this but God knows and I trust him. I also know that there is much mystery in a life lived with Jesus and it’s not mine to know the answers. Maybe someday. Maybe not. Maybe one day I’ll look back and see a lesson learned or an insight gained. Or maybe not. Today I don’t have any lessons or insights. I know there is goodness in the Lasts, both those we see coming and those we only know about after they happen. The Lasts provide an anchor. There is the before, the Last, and the after. Those two Lasts will anchor me to a time and place and people that are good; gifts from God that I will savor. God was there for the before, the Lasts and the after. Despite the awfulness, he’s been there. We are not alone in this mystery. We are not alone in not knowing. Maybe one day it will make sense. Maybe one day we won’t care if it does. One day we'll be together again and this time of questions and sorrow will be a tiny blip, an infinitesimal point on a long line of happiness with God in heaven which is a place with no Lasts. The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them. They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead; and their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction. But they are in peace. Wisdom 3:1-3 My niece is a lovely young Christian woman who, with her husband, has decided to be a stay at home mother. They believe this is the best choice for their three boys. Despite being an extreme extrovert who finds the long days of being home with littles a challenge at times, she is filled with gratitude at the blessing of these three souls entrusted to her care and knows that God is with her daily. She knows that the days are a series of moments: some of which are cherishable and some just need to be discarded - mothering is hard. But at the end of each day, when the boys are safely tucked in their beds and she takes a deep breath, she knows she is doing God’s work and that through caring for her husband and children, she is serving the Lord in a particular and important way.
I remember those days. I remember being so enchanted with my children that all I could do was gaze at them in awe. I remember the day my husband came home to find me on the front porch, an open beer in hand and my comment was, “It’s been a day. Your children are inside.” I remember being shocked that God would entrust me with these amazing souls while terrified that I would mess it up. I remember praying for one more week of patience at Mass each week and the grace to be the mother they deserved because I knew that without that grace, I would surely fail. I remember how good it felt to care for them when they were sick, knowing that my presence made them feel a bit better. I remember how glad I was that it was me who was dealing with someone’s rotten attitude and not a stranger because, on that day that kid needed to be loved through the awful. I remember being grateful that it was me who was able to call someone on his crap because I loved him enough to not let it slide by. I remember that when they were sad or hurt or frustrated it was my privilege to have the loving arms they ran to. Yes, staying home with my children was the best - and hardest - thing I ever did. I regret none of it. I believe that it is what we women are designed to do. Lots of people have and will love my children. Not one of them loves them in the particular way I do. A mother’s love cannot be duplicated. So why then, do women still receive criticism when they decide to stay home? When I was doing it twenty years ago, I wasn’t too shocked when my “friends” gave me the look that clearly expressed that my job as a stay at home mom wasn’t as important as theirs doing whatever it is they did outside the home. I wasn’t too shocked to hear the comments that I wasn’t working as hard. I wasn't even too shocked when their kids got sick at daycare and they called me to take care of them until their workday ended. Given the cultural narrative my generation grew up with and that feminism came of age during our childhood, it made sense in my head that I would hear these things. I thought that we were moving past that though. I hoped that our culture had matured to the point where women had the freedom to make the choice to stay home and still be respected by other women. Listening to my niece experience the same looks and comments I did, makes me realize we are far from understanding what true womanhood is let alone respecting and celebrating it. There is a movement called feminism masquerading as something that is good for women. We need to be liberated, they say. We need to discard the chains of male oppression that have kept us from being more, they say. We need to be like the men. We need to demand to be equal. We need to cast aside anything that suggests gentleness or nurturing and get ourselves out there. We can do it all! We can be successful in our male dominated career while raising idyllic children and keeping everyone mentally and emotionally happy and adorably dressed in our perfectly decorated house driving our luxury SUV. It’s exhausting to think about. My goal each day was to keep those chicklits of mine alive and for them to know deep in their hearts that not only were they loved, they were liked. My house was decorated in a little known style called Early Childhood. It involved failed toy organization systems and lots of clutter. Each room held toys and books and dog hair. Their clothes were clean and they fit, but the outfits rarely matched because I let them pick out their own clothes. We ate three meals a day but couldn’t afford organic fruit and veggies or hormone free milk. We moved from room to room as a little clot of humanity trailing a wake of legos, matchbox cars, and doll clothes. I relied on the dogs to keep the floors clean, I threw the dirty diapers by the back door, and when they napped, I did too. The feminists would have been appalled and we were happy. The “war on women'' isn't what the media tells us it is. It’s not a systemic effort by men to suppress women. It’s a diabolical plot to destroy the essence and purpose of women and weirdly, it is led by women. If women were truly being attacked from without, we’d unite. But this attack is from within, from other women, tearing us apart. It is misguided, illogical, and mean spirited and will lead to a destruction of the family and ultimately society. Women like myself, my niece and scores of others who have decided to stay home with children are a threat to this narrative because we are doing what the feminist movement is trying to free us from. Somehow in the cultural cacophony, caring for others and raising children to be decent humans became something to be rescued from rather than rejoice in. We are being fed a pack of lies. But we don’t have to accept them and we shouldn’t because what God, our heavenly Father has to tell us is so much more life giving and loving. Over the next few months I'm going to take a look at those lies and what the truth is. I hope you’ll join me. It began in 2016.
In the fall. I participated in a Called & Gifted workshop to discern my charism. The Holy Spirit gives each of us charisms - special gifts - to help build the kingdom of God here on earth. The inventory identified writing as a possible charism. This didn’t surprise me. I’ve always enjoyed writing and in fact have a bachelor's degree in journalism. Charisms, however, are different from talents so the task is to figure out which it is. This is done through the three Fs - feelings, fruitfulness, and feedback. Feelings: When working in a charism one feels joy and satisfaction, as if this is where you belong. It can feel like prayer or an expression of your relationship with God. I’ve often used a prayer journal and often used writing as a way of sorting out my feelings and experiences. It’s not uncommon for me to spend a decent amount of time getting lost in writing. I also often feel like God is guiding me or talking to me as I write. Sometimes I start to write, not sure of where it’s going or what I’m meant to say only to have it come together in an unexpected way that I could not have imagined. It’s like diving into a sea of words and emerging an hour later surprised. Feelings: check. Fruitfulness: This involves being effective at the task with little struggle. I’ve often taken my ease of writing for granted. I felt that if I could do it, everyone could. As I explored this more, I came to realize that’s not true. There are lots of people for whom writing is a chore. A chore! How could this be? For me it’s a joy and when I’m not in a season of writing a lot I miss it. So fruitfulness: check. Feedback: Gulp. Feedback meant I had to let other people read what I wrote and that was a scary level of vulnerability I wasn’t sure I was ready for. Sometimes the Lord calls us to challenges. So, I accepted. I enlisted my daughter for help in setting up a free Wordpress blog site and named it Mariamore (“Maria” because I love our Blessed Mother and “amore” because it is Italian for “love.” Mary Love = Mariamore) I slowly added pieces of writing and invited people to read them. I then girded myself - writing is supremely personal however I thought there was a charism there and I desired the confirmation of feedback so I had to put my babies on the interweb. That confirmation came. Over the past five years God has offered me some beautiful opportunities to write for him and I’ve received some kind, kind words from my readers. Feedback: check. I am humbled that the Holy Spirit chose this path for me and continues to guide me. I’m not trying to be modest when I say that all of this has come from the Holy Spirit. He is allowing me to be his vessel. Which leads to this website.... A sweet young adult friend was telling me about her wedding plans. The ceremony will be traditionally Catholic and her reception will be a beautiful reflection of her and her future husband. They are being intentional about creating an experience that will meet the needs of guests with young children and their own desire to have quality time with family and friends. It sounds lovely and I admire her creativity.
But then, she said, the “anonymous they” lurched in and she doubted. She wondered what they will think if she doesn’t have a sit down dinner but instead offers a pizza bar so young children can eat when they get hungry, making the experience more enjoyable for friends who are parents. She was concerned what they will say if she doesn’t do a traditional registry because they already have the stuff they need. They want people to feel comfortable and welcomed, and to dance with them. It’s their day but true to their personalities, they are considering the needs of others. Happily her fiance and a good friend reminded her that the "anonymous they" aren’t their friends and won’t be invited to the wedding. She took a deep breath and pressed on with planning. The conversation resonated with me. I am haunted by the "anonymous they" as well. I have wondered if they will think my house is nice/clean/decorated enough. I’ve been concerned about what I was wearing to an event and labored over shoe choices. After talking with her, I asked myself, Who is this "anonymous they"? and Why do we care so much about what they think? The “anonymous they” are just that, anonymous, yet they exist for most of us. They are the culture around us and the ideas reflected in the media, both social and regular. They are the values that our time in history will be remembered by. The “anonymous they” can have a powerful hold on us because humans are pack animals and we don’t want to be left out of the pack. If we dare to operate counter to them, we risk withering looks, whispered criticism and, in the extreme, social isolation. They may be real or imagined, subtle or obvious but they are there and they creep into our psyche. My head says it doesn't matter what they think. If they come to my home and are appalled at the shoes by the door, the kid art hanging on the walls, and the hair monsters tumbling across the floor, if these things make them think less of me, we probably weren’t meant to be friends anyway. If they don’t like my shoe choice or skirt or top or hair, if that is a friendship deal breaker, we most certainly won’t hang out again. My head knows all this. My heart though. My heart seems to care what they think and wants everyone to like me. My father’s wise words (“not everyone is going to like you and you are not going to like everyone”) get lost en route from my head to my heart. I don’t want to have to live up to standards of dress or house that, for me, are impossibly high, yet I still weirdly care. I wonder why someone wouldn’t like me. I’m pretty likeable. Then the effort gets confounded by faith. The me that I think is pretty likeable is in God’s fan club. He’s done some pretty amazing things in my life. The "anonymous they" often don’t approve. I read it in the media and I see it on people’s faces. I feel like I have a secret and if people knew how I feel, if the "anonymous they" got word of it, things would change. Most of us wage war with the "anonymous they.” We say we don’t care what others think but if we take a look deep inside and are honest, we do care. It’s not a healthy way to be in the world. Even though as Catholics we are not called to be of the world, we still need to be in it and that brings challenges. So I ponder these things. It goes deeper than appearance. It goes down to the deepest part of me. Jesus warned us that we would be persecuted for love of him. Persecution doesn’t have to be physical beating. It can be derisive looks. It can be social exclusion. I realized I have to take my sensitive heart and strengthen it with love. I have to protect it with prayer and buttress it with the Bible. Then I have to remember the thing that gives me courage: when I die, the "anonymous they" will have no say in whether or not I get into heaven. God gets to make that decision. When worries about the "anonymous they" start making me doubt the truth or perseverate on trivialities, I will remember that here on earth we are playing a long game and the stakes are high. I will ask the Lord for the grace to make him proud because, really, he’s the only one whose opinion I care about. |
AuthorI write because God is good and life is funny. Archives
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