motivated by purpose

I know what motivates me. This is exciting because yesterday I was stumped and asked for some thoughts on how to answer the question. Lots of great thoughts and ideas were offered, and I tucked it all in the back of my mind for pondering. My brand of pondering tends to let the thoughts alone back there to work things out a little with others, and I let them come out when they are ready. Possibly because some of those ideas challenged me - something I've been missing in my life for a while - the creative part of my mind seems to have jumped in to assist. I digress....

Today I was asked to take an assessment as part of an application process. Fairly similar to one I completed a few months ago for another company, as I answered the questions I thought about my verbal response to the results when the time comes, since I was unprepared the last time. Many of the questions lacked context that could change my answer dramatically, and I made mental notes of them, more for my own analysis later than anything else. Since I spent that 40 minutes essentially preparing for an interview question or two, the motivation question came to mind. "What does motivate me?" I asked myself as I curled up with a cup of hot chocolate. I closed my eyes and chuckled. One of my friends said yesterday that there are only two real motivators: Love and fear. When the hiring manager asked, my first thought was to say, "Well, it's not fear!" But I didn't know what it was. Then the images came to me.

Faces filled with gratitude. With understanding, new found knowledge. Delighted at having a new idea, a new skill, a new future. Some were faces of people I'd actually met, worked with, or encountered. Others were strangers from ads or marketing materials, but not models or actors; actual delighted people. Still others were faces I've not yet seen, made up in my imagination years ago or just now it's hard to say, but the answer was clear. I'm motivated by helping others, I thought, but realized there's more to it than that. All of it is wrapped up in my first memory of life goals in addition to being a mom. I then remembered details of my dream of having a job that required me to wear a hat and carry a clipboard - a cap, a hardhat, a uniform hat of some kind - and that my mother was mortified by the thought. (Which amused me as much tonight as it did back then!) But it's what I always wanted to do; that much I remembered vividly as I thought.

One Christmas while I was in high school, I read in the paper about the Arctic League and asked my dad if we could help. At the time, I was surprised at how readily he agreed (as a mom and former youth minister, I now know that if a kid asks to do something like that, you make it possible!) and on Christmas morning, we got up at some ungodly hour to drive a half hour to the warehouse and stand in a tremendous line in the cold and snow, and it was so worth it. The world was so quiet, between the hour, the darkness, the foot or so of snow everywhere, the hats, scarves, mittens and down enveloping all the volunteers. It was Christmas morning, but even more magical than usual, because we were going to be Santa. I was awed, touched, humbled. The line moved quickly, efficiently, and cheerfully, with hot chocolate handed out while we waited, maybe cookies, some friendly small talk among strangers. At the head of the line, we were given our deliveries and our map: 5 bags of treasures to deliver to areas I didn't even know existed. Dad found each address expertly, and together we would take the bag to the door, knocking quietly as we were instructed, so the sleeping children would have no idea we'd been there. I was profoundly affected that early, early morning by the faces of each person answering the door. No words were spoken, other than a whispered "Merry Christmas" and the corresponding "Thank you." But the faces. A picture may speak 1,000 words, but those faces, those eyes, they spoke ever so much more. Shortly thereafter I began looking into the Make-a-Wish Foundation and Habitat for Humanity, and even the Peace Corps. For reasons I neither remember the details of nor understood even at the time, I was discouraged from pursuing careers in such organizations.

But I held tightly to the tail end of the dream, like the end of a kite string.

It all came back to me tonight in that question: "What does motivate me." Love, yes; not fear. Good, that was cleared up. Helping people, yes; but in what context? Can sales goals motivate me, given the right argument of helping someone? Maybe - if some donation to a cause I believe in is involved, perhaps. I knew there was more brewing. What did all those faces that played like a movie in my mind have in common - in a concise, interview answer way? What did the jobs that meant the most to me have in common that I saw in those faces? And how did that relate to the jobs that I didn't like so well - what was missing in them?

And I realized the Love that motivates me is Purpose. Habitat, Wishes, Arctic League, youth ministry, Reading with the Lions, teaching dance and making choreography -- all of them gave me, or have inherent in them, a sense of purpose; a specific goal of helping people with something in particular. That's what motivates me: knowing without a doubt that the intent of the job is to help someone in some defined way, with a project flow to make it happen. I'm motivated by purpose that allows my process-oriented mind to get creative and find the map, and bring life to the journey. Because life is about the journey; the journey is the purpose, and the purpose is Love.

grains of sand

Today I was asked a question. It was a simple question, really, about a word. One that ordinarily should have been easy or fun for me to think about, turn over quickly, and respond to. But lately it's the small things that stump me. And in that place of being stumped, mentally confounded, I become mired. 

Yesterday it was a dark hallway. I simply didn't have the wherewithal to flip the switch - the two switches - ahead of me. Instead we sat on the floor in the hallway for our meeting. The day before I couldn't even see the label on a dial - one that I've used in the past, but couldn't for the life of me recognize. 

I hurt, and in that place, I am finding the most incredible comfort. But each time I first need to recognize the tiny grain of sand that has caused my gears to grind to a halt. Often I've read the saying about the caterpillar becoming a butterfly; heard that a seed must first endure crushing pressure before breaking open to grow into stem and leaf. The hurt I feel is the hurt of anticipating something wonderful; that of labor. The uncertainty mingled with surety; the clear purpose of the moments that stretch ahead for an indeterminate amount of time. The mental understanding dueling with the desires of the heart, and the natural tendencies of nature and body. 

In my hurt I sometimes forget that I do wait surely for the Lord (Ps 40) knowing that He will reach down for me, lift me up and place me exactly where I belong. And until I get there, He is holding me - sometimes in His arms as a swaddled baby, and other times on His shoulders in unadulterated joy. 

I did ask Him into the boat this week. I've spent the days since wishing I could paint the image I felt. I revisit it like a favorite YouTube video, waiting for the right time to paint it in words. 

In my hurt, I feel joy, gratitude, hope - Love like I've never known from any person. The hurt from persons is pale, this hurt is overwhelming goodness and faith, which may sound paradoxical, but has no other explanation. Despite all, I still wouldn't trade a minute. This life is the one I am to live for a purpose I may never understand, but that I am willing to give to Him, completely. 

In the meantime, I pray those around me continue to remind me of the anchor of God's love. In gratitude I will forever point to their patience, support, understanding. In fact, their very presence. The hugs - virtual and physical - the laughter, the occasional tears I am able to release, the acceptance of my repetitive times, and the distractions. 

Lord, I thank you for the grains of sand that make my world grind to a halt each day. They give me a moment to pause and reflect on Your place in my heart. Break my resistance to You that I might better become Your pearl. 

a shared space

The purpose of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land is not to visit a place; it is to find a God: the God made visible in His Son Jesus, who walked these lands; and with each step made not only this place, but the whole world holy.
~Fr. Chet Snyder, A Sabbath Shared

Perhaps this is why I still have a hard time knowing what to say when people ask about my trip. There was a priest I spoke with on the roof of Notre Dame, overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem, who told me that he preferred Jerusalem to Rome, not because of the sites and location, but because of the people who visit. He told me the disposition of the heart seemed different: those visiting Rome tended to be visiting the place, while those visiting Israel were looking to know a Man.

Not long ago, my pastor asked where I would go back to, which site, which spot would I choose to go to and stay for a few hours. Without hesitation I replied, "The hotel lobby in Jerusalem." I knew it seemed an odd answer to him, but I had been considering the question since our return (without thinking I'd ever be asked), so I had a ready explanation. Jerusalem was our last hotel, and we stayed there three nights. Each day when we returned to the hotel, I'd go up to the room and drop off packages, freshen up, and go to the lobby. Sometimes alone, sometimes with others, always with a glass of wine or a cup of espresso. And I would unpack the day, the sites, the sounds, the very air. Whether I was engaged in conversation or sitting alone, I truly pondered how everything was fitting together. In that lobby is where we saw the group come in wearing their Purim costumes, heading to a party, so we Googled Purim and wondered at the marvelous timing of our trip. We watched and heard interactions in a language and custom we didn't know or understand. That lobby is where I began to really know some others on the trip; where we shared feelings, doubts, questions, personal histories. But all the while, I was very aware that Christ was in our midst, sitting with us, listening, laughing, sharing.



Reading Fr Snyder's words this morning, I was again sitting in the lobby, only my physical self was in Pennsylvania at our dining room table. Lately, when I think of God, of praying, of finding comfort, I am sitting in an armchair in the Leonardo in Jerusalem. Actually, that was the point of the question from my friend. We were talking about prayer. His advice was to ask Jesus to join me in the lobby for a glass of wine or a cup of espresso, and spend time together unpacking the day: the good and the bad, the challenges for the next day, and the celebrations in my heart. And I do. Not every day, as I probably should, but certainly more often than I had been reviewing, preparing, praying with Him as a Friend. My laptop won't recognize my phone since my return, so the nine hundred or so photos I've taken are in limbo. As I think of sharing them, I email them to myself, or pull from Facebook something I've posted there. I've wondered why this inconvenience doesn't bother me terribly. And I've wondered, too, why I'm not more frustrated by the technology. The thing is, what's most important about going to Israel, being there, is in my heart, not on my phone in digital photographs. Eventually I will manage to get them to my computer and print a few. In the meantime, I have the clearest pictures in my mind, because I'm still there most days, for at least a little while.

dig in

So, here's the thing -- I've been needing depth. Depth in conversation, depth in faith, depth in learning. I feel stuck. Questions come to mind about all kinds of things, and I want to dig in. Trouble is, I don't know where to go, I can't afford to go back to school at the moment, and I can't do it alone. I need some fellow diggers. People with questions of their own. People who want to talk about their questions; not just to find the answers, but the explore the possibilities. To laugh at the ridiculous, while also realizing there's no such thing if the heart is pure. This need for depth, this need for exploration and inquisition, has me off-kilter. When I'm off-kilter, I fixate on things, and lately that fixation is the questions.

Who's in?

time and time

The strangest and most wonderful thing that happened in Israel -- and the most puzzling -- may not even be believable. If you can open your heart, and open your mind, read on. Otherwise, skip ahead to whatever I post next time.

As we toured sites I'd heard and read about, and others I hadn't, there came times when we stood on ground I recognized. My heart leaped or sank, without necessarily corresponding to the details of the location. I remembered people there, what they wore, how they looked, expressions on faces. And each time, I felt at home. It's difficult to explain, and when I look at the pictures now, I can't tell you which places held me so. All I know is that I know. And never once did it seem out of the ordinary. Not a feeling of deja-vu, or vague memories of movie scenes or well-written descriptions. Rather, what I felt was sure, complete, and vivid. I knew at the time I should have written down where they happened, and what was going on, but I didn't, choosing instead to allow the feeling to wash over me, envelope me, and be in each of those moments.

Usually, it was the women. I was among them, watching, serving, often silent, but smiling, and more than just occasionally laughing. Most of all, though, what I can still feel is the warmth of being with others who knew me, and allowed me to know them -- men and women alike. Interestingly, it's the same feeling I have when I try to imagine myself in the boat with the disciples and Jesus when the storm came up on the Sea of Galilee -- every time, I feel like I am exactly where I belong, with the knowledge that all is well (not 'will be well,' is well). Sometimes I was working alongside someone. Sometimes I was alone with someone. Other times I was sitting with so many others, feeling peaceful and joyful.

All of this only makes sense, I think, in the context of the communion of saints. There are many ways to describe or explain it, but my favorite includes the idea that time, to God, doesn't exist as we know it. Rather, it folds in upon itself in every one of our moments, and because it does, we can be in a moment that happened so very long ago. Once I looked at a friend across the church during Mass and realized we'd been together at the foot of the Cross. We really had. There have been times at Adoration, when I am the only one there, that I've been sitting with Mary while Martha prepared dinner -- sitting there not even noticing that anyone else was around, other than Jesus, feeling his robes against my elbow or my shoulder. But the moments in Israel were longer. And I can only say that I could feel them more than see or hear; the same way I still see, hear and feel Dad and his hugs. The same way I know that many times when I pray, I sit on a rock with Jesus, and toss sticks and pebbles into the water flowing gently by us.

There is a temptation to try to recreate the feeling, to hunt for it in my memory and my heart until I find it and feel it again, exactly the way I did on the trip. I know that I can't force it that way. The best I can do is remember that it happened, and be grateful for the experience, the peace, the joy. And continue to pray, learn, lean, and celebrate the love that allowed me into those moments. Along the way, I think I need to get to know some of the women I 'met' while walking the sands of time in the Holy Land. Who are they? I'm not exactly sure, but I feel certain we will recognize each other when the time is again right.

not just a field

Since returning from Israel, people often ask about my favorite thing, or what made the biggest impression. The most honest answer is "all of it," which very few find satisfying. The next best thing I can come up with is that it depends on the current moment. The fact is, I don't categorize things that way -- I don't have favorites in much of anything. For a really long time I thought that made me fickle at best, and abnormal at worst. In reality, it's just the way I'm wired. I loved the whole place! I can tell you about the one meal and "tour" I didn't like, or the one shopkeeper who made me really uncomfortable, or even about the only church that wasn't to my taste, but none of those things matter much. I was there and got to experience each of those things!

There is a setting on my phone that I haven't found yet. It's the one that makes my phone connect to my computer so I can download my pictures. Before I left, I shut it off, just in case, and have no idea where it is. It'll turn up. But the place I keep coming back to in my heart since we've been back I didn't even take a picture of. I was so overcome by a multitude of feelings, questions, memories and amazement that I forgot to get a picture.

Shepherd's Field in Bethlehem was nothing like I could ever have imagined. As a girl, we lived quite near a farm with cows. (I've always assumed a dairy farm, but I never asked!) They had a field, a pasture, where the cows spent the day. It was open, green, and fairly flat -- a vast expanse, considering the neighborhoods and developments nearby. I knew the shepherds probably didn't have something like that, so instead I envisioned something like Scotland: rolling hills of grass and herb-ey flowers, dotted with rocks here and there. (Mind you, I've never been to Scotland, and even this vision is mostly self-constructed.) What I saw when we arrived at Shepherd's Field took my breath away.

There was very little green; tufts of grass and grass-like vegetation sprouted up among jagged rocks and boulders. Lots of rocks and boulders. And there was absolutely nothing flat about it. The 'field' with all its rocks and bits of green lay at something near a forty-five degree angle. It was steep, stark, rugged, and dangerous. I imagined it dotted also with sheep, maybe a donkey, or even a dog. I pictured how difficult it must have been to see wolves and other predators among the shadows that were everywhere. And I thought about a man leading a donkey with a laboring woman up that craggy slope, looking for shelter. The road we walked in on was paved, wide and smooth, leading us to a pretty park and fountain overlooking the field. Beyond were chapels built into the cave Joseph and Mary were given for birthing a beautiful baby boy.

Perhaps part of my reaction was related to the juxtaposition of the modern road, the traditional, and the very real and unchangeable landscape. The road and park against the backdrop of the field jolted me most especially when a newborn baby was added to the mix. Inside the chapel cave was a baby Jesus statue, about the size of my own boys when they were born. That's when I felt the bewildering sense of where we were. There was nothing safe about that night when He was born, and yet, the cave was cozy, the family together, the promise ahead.

Sitting alone, looking out over the field, I was struck by the danger a shepherd faced out there with his sheep. I thought of the parable of the Good Shepherd, when he goes and looks for the one sheep that wandered off and got lost. In so doing, the shepherd took his own life in his hands to search among rocks -- boulders, really, caves and the associated wildlife. Knowing this, and hearing this, are one thing, but seeing what it looked like was something else entirely.

One of the sites that changed my sight.

pen and ink

Lately I have been writing quite a bit. On paper. With a pen. There are way more spelling errors that way, but the flow of ink has been especially therapeutic. Trying to think things through, and realizing I probably need some guidance, I have been organizing my thoughts on paper.

It's interesting because I've always thought of my blog as a bit of an online journal; someplace I can record my thoughts and feelings and share them with people who want to know about them. Writing in a notebook is a different experience. Whereas I don't particularly wonder who might read my blog, I do find myself wondering who might open my notebook and start to read. While my blog is left out in the open all the time, my journal is frequently very close to me, or in a dark pocket in my bag, safe.

I'd forgotten how particular one can be about a pen. And how attached to specific ink colors and points one can become. A black, fine tip pen (preferably accountant tip) was my prefered tool in high school and college, along with college-ruled paper. Blue ink seemed more dreamy somehow; less serious. Black ink was sure, confident--something I wanted to appear to be. 'Fake it till you make it!' I still like black ink, and I'd love to find an accountant fine pen that won't rip up the recycled paper that often makes up the little notebooks I like. I've added highlighters to my palette along the way, although I use them more often when I read than when I write.

For Christmas, my husband got me a pack of pens, a pack of highlighters, and a notebook. Somehow he was moved to find these gifts for me, even though  at the time I hardly wrote anything. I typed my thoughts. Ever since, I have found reasons to write down my impressions, to make them flow through my hand from my heart and mind.

And I wonder why. Why does it feel good to  shape the words? I use a mix of cursive and printing--often to distinguish specific thoughts or voices. Sometimes I use cursive for the deeper thoughts, the things that feel a little more secretive or private. When I copy down a verse, line, or quote, I print. Why do I do that? Who is it I think will ever want to crack the code? That's the biggest mystery. I am writing for myself. And I know the code.

At least the code for the words on the page.

What I'm looking for is the code behind the thoughts in my head, the movements of my heart. I tell myself I'm looking for patterns, or answers, or bigger questions, but the fact is, I still don't go back and read what I've written. I have a habit of wanting answers now. That probably would be better facilitated if I did go back and read my own words. I think the problem is that I don't value them.

A friend and I were just talking about that. When I have a problem or concern I want to talk about, I hem and haw about speaking up.  Inevitably, just at the point when I am ready to spill it all, someone else drops what seems to me to be a bigger, tougher, or more important problem. Who would want to hear about what's bothering me then? I'm reading a book on brokenness, and this was touched upon. I'll have to see where it leads. And I'll have to figure out how it fits.

who and where

Much of this morning has been passed looking through some old papers I'd written in school, and old emails between my husband and myself. Although I was on a quest for particular information, I've come away with a better understanding of myself. And a realization that I've lost some of myself along the way. Some of the very qualities and traits that I needed and relied on to get my current job have been slowly stamped out by it. Even my reasons for interviewing for it have been obscured and lost in my mind. It's no wonder I've been conflicted recently.

A few weeks ago, I asked for some help with finding balance. I needed the help, the advice and the guidance. Asking was difficult; revealing even harder. But hardest of all has been the homework. Eventually, I went back through my blog posts, looking for that place in my heart that had the balance I was missing. In all honesty, it took me a long time to do the reading. I don't often read my own work. I write, I proof, I submit. Every reading plucks a heartstring, and I get uncomfortable in my own tears.

A dear friend asked me why my spirituality is not represented on my resume. I don't know. I'm still trying to determine how it fits into my life. My research this morning delved into myself, and I see that the problem I have is one of being turned inside out. As my spirituality has grown and developed, I have gotten more and more willing to admit that I have always kept my faith separate from the rest of my life, and I've looked for ways to fit my faith into my life, with varying degrees of success.

I've got it all wrong.

What I really need to work on is fitting the rest of my life into my faith. That's where my disconnect and my discontent stem from. My primary vocation is as a child of God. As that child, I have been called to be a mother. As a mother in today's society, I need to work. While I must give to my work what is expected of me, I must have a position that allows me to fulfill and live the obligations of my motherhood. I was an organizer, an overseer, a thank you note writer and card sender. Now I live for the weekend; the days off, away from work. When did I become someone who doesn't live life every day? Someone who can't even identify beautiful moments throughout the day, unless there is no office in sight? When did I begin to find learning on my own, at home, to be a burden, a chore, something to squeeze in around everything else?

I have a habit of forgetting that God loves me; or, rather, forgetting to see, observe, and revel in that Love in my daily life. Last week I mentioned it at a retreat, and also that when I'm caught off guard by a sunrise, a sunset, Venus shining in the evening sky, I remember, and am filled with a special kind of joy. Throughout this week, despite the fact that I've been avoiding speaking to Jesus as a friend, I have been presented with these moments that I haven't seen myself. Twice this week, people have told me that they thought of me when the saw the sunrise. Last night, just as I was going to tell Guy about them, we turned a corner, and before me was a sunset I was not expecting to see--it seemed too early, and the sky was still pretty bright. It was amazingly beautiful, and brought me to tears. Where have I gone?

held accountable

Accountability comes up often as a topic at work. And at home, there is a certain sense of accountability in the reasons for following our parental instructions when it comes to the boys working together to get chores done, or reporting in as we've instructed them. But accountability in my faith is something I had never considered until recently, and it's been on my mind ever since.

The only reason I began considering it is that I was asked, flat out, to whom are you accountable in your faith. That's quite a paraphrase of the actual question, but captures the essence, as well as the crux of what's been echoing through my mind. I struggled with answering the question--one of a couple on my 'sheet of paper' that had me thinking and praying quite a bit. [As an aside: the thinking and praying on these questions was not like any I had done before. It changed me a bit; nudging my steps on the path before me. Quite a moving experience, if you'll pardon what looks like a pun.]

On paper, after a belly laugh in my soul, I wrote the truth as of that day: Other than wanting to be a good example for my children, I had never even considered external accountability.

I haven't stopped thinking about it, though, and when the subject came up again the other night, I paid close attention to what I was hearing. That conversation was actually about Confession, and a dear friend suggested we could be "Confession buddies." Her husband stated what a good method that is. And what I heard was accountability. I don't know if we'll follow through or not, on that particular 'activity'--I have a whole bunch of questions that I admit amount to excuses, but really need to be addressed, gently and personally. I do see the benefit of that kind of accountability, and the comfort that would ultimately come from it--for both of us.

I'm left wondering, though: where am I actually lacking accountability? Where in my spiritual life would more accountability help me to grow? Do I expect enough of myself, since I am, at present, just holding myself accountable? Or am I on the right track because by holding myself accountable, rather than doing, learning or being in order to fulfill someone else's expectations really puts my journey as something between God and me? I know that in the end, He is the only one I will need to answer to. But I also know that I do not, cannot, have the strength or knowledge to journey alone. If there should be more accountability, where do I find it? In whom?

The answers will come slowly, I'm sure. (It's a 'journey, not a race!') The important thing is the asking, and beyond: seeking the answers.

wondering why

On Thursday, my husband wore a pink polo to work. Pink looks good on him--he has the right skin tone for it--and this particular polo is cut well, and flatters him. (I am not a fan of polo shirts in general , but that is another topic for another time, perhaps. This one looks good on him, and that's what matters to this story.) Whenever he wears this shirt, his eyes and smile have an extra light.

Why mention it? Because at the end of the day, he mentioned that when he wears that shirt, he gets many comments. All of them questioning his motivation. "Why are you wearing pink today?" "Feeling exceptionally secure in your masculinity today?" "Did your wife buy that for you?" And the ever popular, "Why would you want to wear that?" For the sake of clarification, and because now you may also be wondering, I rarely buy clothing for my husband. Heck, I rarely buy clothing for myself! I do not like shopping for clothes, and both of us are particularly hard to fit. I was, however, with him when he bought this particular shirt, and I believe all I had to say about the purchase was a reminder about my aforementioned dislike of polos in general. Also, if you take a look at my husband, and have a conversation with him, you will discover that not much affects his masculinity. (His name, Guy, fits him like no one else I've ever met!)

Why did he wear the pink shirt? He likes it, plain and simple. It's also comfortable, well made, and fits and suits him. It does happen to have a breast cancer ribbon embroidered on it, but that isn't even why he bought it. It was on the sale rack, and fit the criteria in the last sentence. (That was one of the comments he heard, "Well, it is for breast cancer, so I guess it's okay.") My question is, why do people feel the compulsion to comment on it in so personal a way? He's a New England sports fan in Central PA--Steelers country--and will get questions and good-natured jabs when he wears shirts and caps representing "his" teams, but none are personal, questioning his very being. Those questions are general and global, with the most personal being along the lines of "How come you like New England/Boston?" (His accent is now mostly imperceptible to most of his friends and co-workers.)

Telling me about his day, he said that it seemed that everyone had an opinion on his shirt, and the opinions were quite polarized. Everyone either loved it or hated it; no comments in between. I found myself wondering--are there any colors that a woman might wear that would cause that kind of response? Is there any other color that would elicit that kind of strong response? And why would the fact that "I would never wear that color" make it okay to judge someone else wearing it?

I have, for myself, a rule about wearing colors that are close to my skin tone. I avoid it when going out in public. No nude to tan shirts for me, or certain shades of yellow, cream, grey, and even pink, but I would never consider saying "Why on earth are you wearing that shirt that blend in with your skin and makes you look like you're not wearing anything? You must be feeling very secure in your skin tone." Nor would I say, "Why are you wearing a polo? You look like everyone else." Mostly because I recognize these aversions as my own personal quirks, not anything I feel compelled, or even able to express vocally. That said, I have offered fashion advice to our sons to avoid colors that blend into their skin, particularly on bathing suits. And I have been known to mention to my family, out of earshot of the wearer, and when the wearer is someone I do not know, that I could not wear that [shirt or dress] that blends into my skin. I don't mention anything at all about polos. They all seem to like them.

Why is pink -- or rose, salmon, shrimp, coral, or any other variation -- on a man so controversial that people, both male and female, find it necessary to point it out? "You're wearing a pink shirt." I just don't get it.

paper and pencil

I find myself looking at blank piece of paper. When I realized it, I almost laughed out loud, but had to contain myself in that moment. Instead, I laughed right out loud in my soul, expanding the very walls of my being. The laughter, and the paper, cleared some cobwebs from my mind, and pushed away some anxiety that has been lurking in the corners of my heart, constricting it and keeping me from opening the windows of my self wide to allow the gentle breezes of joy and mercy to blow freely in.

This paper may or may not be the one that haunted me as I asked for answers a few months ago. It's quite possible that it is the answer I was seeking; but it is equally possible that this is one more challenge to face, embrace, and ultimately use as a stepping stone on my journey. This paper is literal, where the other was a vision in my periphery: a frustration borne of trying a wee bit too hard to see what I should wait patiently to discover. This paper honestly paralyzed me for a moment when I saw it, lying on the table in front of me where I had dropped it. How can a piece of paper have this effect? Essay questions. Short answers. About me. About my journey, my hopes, my self.

The thought of answering them was almost a deal-breaker. For about 20 seconds. Then I recognized the anxiety--the No--that had stopped me from taking so many steps that should have been easy when taken with trust. I realized in that moment--well, after the 20 seconds, anyway--that trust is what had been missing so many times when all I needed to do was say Yes.

Tonight, I changed the question, and only just realized it. Once again, that seems to be the key. (I believe Merton said as much somewhere in No Man Is an Island!) Where I had been asking, "What is the answer?" I today asked, "Please, help me with the answers. Guide my hand in writing the words. I am just your little pencil.*" That's when I realized, when my soul laughed, when I saw smiles in front of me, and a nodding head.

I have come to a new place. And recognized it for the beauty, and for the miracle that discovery is.

*Mother Theresa described herself as "God's little pencil." I fell in love with the metaphor!

goals and expectations

Earlier this summer, I went for the weekend to a friend's for the weekend. She was having a party, and it was pretty neat to meet so many of her similarly "uncool" friends. There was a whole lot of laughter, good food (especially peanut butter cookies!), good wine, and even party favors for some of us. I felt very at home with my friend's friends, and along with all the other good stuff, and a few stray raindrops, there was great conversation. After all these weeks, there are still a couple of comments and questions that have stuck with me.

Two people, at separate times, when talking about family life, expressed surprise at how long I've been married. In fact, I actually was asked by one man, "You've been married since 1991? To the same person? For real?" I smiled and thanked him. I didn't even bother mentioning that it was early in 1991. It occurs to me that perhaps it's interesting to note that this comment and the other ("You've really been married for over 20 years?") were presented by men. I have no idea what that might mean, but I do know that for most of my life, I've been far more comfortable and relaxed talking with men or boys.

The other question that has stuck with me, making me think more than almost anything else this summer, was asked by another dear friend of mine who was there. She asked how we managed to get our teenage boys, four of them, to go to church with us regularly. The simple answer is that we just take them; we wake them in the morning, make sure they get dressed, and load them in the car. Afterwards, we pick up doughnuts or muffins, if we go in the morning, and sometimes go out for pizza, if we go on Saturday night. The simple answer regarding being married, to the same guy, for over half my life, is similar: there's not really been a choice in the matter.

Reality, however, is not always so easy. There have been plenty of mornings that we've all wondered what the point is in getting so frustrated herding the six of us out the door to pray and find peace. And a good many times when I have not really felt like I was going to get any message out of Mass because of being stressed. And despite the fact that I do make a choice each day, at some point, that I am still, and will remain, a happily married woman, there are times when I have to think a little longer about that question before I arrive at the same conclusion. Occasionally, being happy and/or pleasant is a difficult choice; throwing in the towel would be easier. You know that feeling, when you just want to say, "Why does it matter?"

The fact is, in my mind, there isn't really a "choice." I ask myself the question without ever expecting that the answer will be no. I wake up in the morning, and we wake the boys, without ever considering that there is an option about going together as a family. The interesting thing is, frequently when the morning push is particularly trying, and I figure there will be no room for anything to enter my heart, I end up being especially touched by the music, the readings, the homily, seeing a friend.....It's possible that on those occasions, I let my guard down so that I unknowingly let myself hear more in my heart. I certainly wouldn't recommend this as a "method," but I'm grateful for the persistence. (And not just mine.) Likewise, in our marriage, the stressful, cranky, or just plain frustrating times have often turned out to be the times when we've found the most strength. By choice. My point is, marriage and parenting are not easy, or simply defined, or predictable. Marriage and parenting require having a goal, and working toward that goal, consistently and constantly.

I've been married for over half my life, and been a parent for close to half my life. In that time, we've been to Church nearly every weekend, and had dinner together nearly every day. We've been to more concerts, shows, games, meets and matches than I can count. I've also broken up or gotten into the middle of more disagreements, arguments and fights than I care to remember. The goals, though, have always been the same: to raise these boys to be good men, and to love, honor and cherish each other as husband and wife. Each day dawns new, and our lives are our own; no one else can, or should, expect the life we live. Honestly, when I think about how many years, or days, or decades we've been married, I am just as surprised as those guys early in this story. But at the same time, I am proud of our perseverance. (And, truth be told, our competitiveness!) And quite thankful for those who have been our examples.

Goals and expectations.

know no know

A dear friend of mine tells me from time to time, "You know more than you know." Although I don't think I've ever heard him speak these words to me (he usually tells me via text message or email), I hear his voice saying the words. And they echo in my mind, sometimes taking on various forms and meanings:

You know more than you know.

You no more than you know.

You know more than you no.

Each is equally uncomfortable.

I've struggled at times with "no-ing" without thinking. There are times, as Momma, that I have been caught in a No battle, saying the word before really thinking about it. Then I would be stuck in a conundrum of either backtracking or holding to the automatic response when I realized that No was not really the best answer. More recently, I realized I was using the tactic to avoid giving the most honest response: I was asked if perhaps I could be called to lead a Bible study, and my first response was a series of Late Night Top Ten reasons why it would be a questionable idea. I left off Reason #1, though: I've read so little of the Bible it's a bit embarrassing to admit. In the end, after a whole lot of searching and a number of things hitting me right in the head, I had to admit that I No'd too automatically: the real answer was "It's possible." I do No more than I Know sometimes.

And last night, I was at a youth ministry informational meeting, the leader, in response to something I didn't hear, said, "How many theology degrees did St. Peter have?" It was just what I needed to hear. I blurted out that I feel like I don't know anything.  Our pastor, sitting next to me, said that I know more than I think (something that, under different circumstances, would have really bugged me), but there was a chorus of others who said they felt the same way. A discussion followed, about hearing and listening, learning and growing, resources and comfort levels. All the while, I heard my friend's voice in my ear.

I don't think it's any coincidence that the story of Jesus on the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35) was presented to me twice yesterday. I story that I had heard of, but had never, to my recollection, heard. In a nutshell, Jesus appears to these two guys walking along, and asks them what they are talking about. They tell him the story of Jesus' death and resurrection, and they they all have communion together, at which point they realize to whom they are talking. The point being that Jesus will come to us, where we are. On my journey, I am right where I am supposed to be, at this moment, and where I am is where He will be, if I let him travel with me. I've read a number of times over the past few months that the key is to travel with, not ahead of, and not behind.

How do I ever know what I know? It's funny, because I recognize when I no what I know, and when I know what I no, but knowing what I know is harder to see. It's far more nebulous than even I care to admit. Frankly, it frightens me to think about. I wish I knew why. I wish I knew where to start thinking, contemplating, pondering. I wish I knew how, or when, or who, or if I should ask for guidance, or if it's just something to figure out on my porch when I'm alone.

You know more than you know.

Tell me what it is.

ups and downs

I find myself less solitary lately. Instead of feeling anxious about going to new places, I’m willing. Not necessarily excited, but willing. The interesting thing about this is that I feel more myself; an odd development, as for so long being around people meant trying to be someone other than myself. There were precious few people who could ever see the real me. This had as much to do with them as with me—I was traveling in circles that were not my own; where I did not feel welcome for reasons beyond the people and personalities. In all honesty, “myself” was someone with whom I was not well acquainted. At least in certain situations. And, of course, there were also those times when I had let my true self shine through, and had been burned in the effort. I recoiled, and allowed myself to curl in, tighter and tighter.

I’ve found that the more myself I am, the more myself I can be. True hearts will accept and appreciate my many facets and faces, my faults and frailties, my strengths and dreams. True hearts connect on a heartfelt level—not on the superficial level I had been avoiding for so long. Spirit is the connection, rather than simply enthusiasm. The people I share my life with—my heart, my mind, my laughter and tears—are concerned more with others than with themselves. I fit better with that mindset. It’s far more uplifting than worrisome. The amount of energy is similar, but far more energizing and rejuvenating. Whereas in groups I had felt isolated and alone, I now feel together with, even when I am by myself.

Still, in the past week or so, I realize I have been turning inward a bit. I’m not quite feeling lost, but I am starting to think the directions may have changed. Construction is underway, it seems, and I’m in the middle of it. There is noise, and a mess all around me. The temptation to blame my stress on the interior noise has been great. Then I read this line tonight, “At moments of great stress, we reach for what comforts and sustains us.” (Sweeney, The Pope who Quit, p.202) It made me curious about chicken and egg thoughts, cause and effect relationships, comfort and discord. In the instance Sweeney was referring to, Peter Morrone was returning to a life of prayer as a hermit. My personal stressors are nothing like those he experienced as Pope, but then again, my stressors are my own, and cannot fairly be measured against his, or anyone else’s. Nonetheless, giving up everything I have and do to head for the hills is not an option for me. I may be feeling the need for some hermit time, but really, what I'm looking for is the root of my angst. It's there, hiding. Knowing that, realizing it, is what makes it possible to fight that demon.

Oddly, the best way is often to spend some time with a friend or two.

notebooks

When I was a teenager, Dad frequently gave me blank journals and diaries. He said it might be good for me to write things down, to work things out; that writing in them might help me to better understand myself. Occasionally, I would start writing on the blank pages--mostly about boy troubles--but only about ten of those pages remain. Most of them were torn out and burned in the woodstove within weeks of being written. There was a part of me that suspected that Dad really wanted me to write in journals so he could better understand me. Every time I wrote the kinds of things that I thought diaries were for, I was quite concerned that someone else might read them. There was quite a chorus of "if no one should know...." in my head when I was a teen.

This past week, I was reminded of those journal gifts when I pulled out my notebook as part of my routine when reading. I've kept notebooks for years--lines from books that touch my heart, notes on lectures, thoughts on what I've read, heard or seen. And the fact that this blog is, as Anna Nalick says, "my diary screaming out loud," is not lost on me. I had forgotten about all those journals, though.

When the memory caught me, I was (am still) in the midst of pondering a question posed to me. Pieces had been falling into place, slowly--as they do, and probably should, but the picture was still unclear. Many times when I'm feeling particularly befuddled, I think of Dad. At times, he comes to me, with that feeling of an arm over my shoulders, a glimpse of his thoughtful eyes, and once his clear voice speaking in my head. More often, though, there is something much more subtle: I come across something he'd given me, whether concrete or abstract. Pulling out the notebook brought him to mind, which, of course made me wonder why. As I opened my book to read, I found my answer--another piece to my current puzzle. Possibly the most important piece so far--and, interestingly, a lesson I now know Dad had been trying to teach me since those days when he gave me the journals.

One of my goals is to get my notebooks in order, and consolidate where I can, to make a cohesive order. My notebooks are all over the place, and sometimes even consist of loose sheets of paper stuffed into books that may or may not bear any reference to the notes. It'll be quite an undertaking, but worth the lessons about me I will learn. Ordering the notes will not necessarily order my mind, but that is quite all right. If nothing else, the consolidating will unclutter my heart.

Anxiety is fatal to recollection because recollection depends ultimately on faith, and anxiety eats into the heart of faith. Anxiety usually comes from strain, and strain is caused by too complete a dependence on ourselves, on our own devices, our own plans, our own idea of what we are able to do.

~Thomas Merton, No Man Is an Island, p. 224.

for many reasons

This entry begun on January 18, 2013. I don't know why I didn't finish it, but I suspect because the direction was not quite right, although the content is quite precise.


"Why are you here?" was the question, and was meant to be contemplative. The question, while directed at a specific person to help clarify another question, struck me as the one I needed to contemplate and pray on.

Why am I there? At first, my presence was a by-product of my desire to do something for someone else. And I got hooked and found myself learning more about myself and my religion than I thought I wanted to. Before long, I was there for me, and the someone else was a nice addition to the evenings. At some point, my focus shifted, and I felt peace. That was a different gathering, or class, if you will. A study.

This one is different. This one is about history, too, but not in the same way. This one is also about self--self-sacrifice, contemplation.

together and apart

All day long, I knew what I wanted to say. Now that I can sit with my laptop, I don't know how to begin. Ordinarily, this moment would have me humming from the Sound of Music, and starting at the very beginning. Trouble is, part of the words that have now escaped me spin the beginning to now, and the now back to before.

Reading Thomas Merton has been an interesting experience, to say the least. Most of the experience has had me looking forward, and there has been plenty of soul searching; all of which I expected. Some of that soul searching has been direct, with essays about finding self, being self, giving self, and losing self. But yesterday, I read something that made me stop and remember. A chapter on sacrifice had me lost until the first steps toward deeper explanation were taken. (Where Ignatius Loyola uses repetition, Merton seems to use spirals, I think.) Somewhere in the explanation, he talks of Baptism, our names, our selves (yet again!), and the way that Baptism draws us in--to faith, to community, to Christ himself.

"But every sacrament of union is also a sacrament of separation." (p. 82). This is where the memory blew into my mind in full color.

When we got married, there was quite a hullabaloo regarding our unity candle. Of all the things that could have caused arguments and/or issues, who would ever have thought such a ritual could be so BIG, for lack of a better word. First, we chose a set of candle holders that were not attached to each other in any way. They matched, but I wanted to be able to use the candle holders regularly and often. To be honest, I didn't understand why we needed a set in the first place. Mom and Dad's unity candle was just one candle. They didn't use tapers to light it; simply used wicks to transfer the flame from the Easter candle to the unity candle. Simple as that. I figured if we were going to use tapers, we might as well be able to burn them, and we both loved eating by candlelight. The idea that I might ever separate the pieces of the set was the first issue.

The bigger problem, though, came with the actual lighting. We said we wanted to keep the tapers lit, having three candle flames, rather than one flame and two dead candles. For one thing, I thought that would look silly, but the more important reason was that we didn't want to extinguish our selves because we were married. This was the point that hit me yesterday, and I hope I can express it. All those years ago, we may or may not have had a memory of yesterday. We were ahead of ourselves: we stuck to our guns and kept three candles lit. In the years since, we have been strongest as a couple when we are both truly ourselves, and when we each have supported the other in that effort of being individuals. Any time one or the other of us (and occasionally both of us) has tried to conform to some ideal we thought the other wanted, the entity that is us has suffered. Worse, there have been times when we've tried to conform to something outside of us; something worldly.

Continuing from the line above: "In making us members of one another, baptism also more clearly distinguishes us, not only from those who do not live in Christ, but also and even especially from one another. For it gives us our personal, incommunicable vocation to reproduce in our own lives the life and sufferings and charity of Christ in a way unknown to anyone else who has ever lived under the sun." I think it's true of marriage, too. My life, his life, our life together--none are like anyone else's, no matter how much aspects of everyone's lives and relationships are similar. No one will ever experience exactly the life--with its ups and downs, joys and sorrows, sufferings and gratitude--that has been set before me. The truest wife, mother, daughter, friend I have ever been has been when I am the me I am meant to be. The more separate I am, the more connected I feel, and in this instance, the separateness I'm referring to is not insular!

There's a good chance I'll spend a few more days on this paragraph, thanks to some good advice I was offered. Although I've moved ahead in the chapter, I have begun and ended my 'reading moments' with that paragraph. It seems to encapsulate the bits of self I've been working on realizing.