Lent has been quite a subject lately, for very obvious reasons, and has led to some conversations I've never had before, at least outside of my own family. Lent is something I've always had a tough time with, starting back in elementary school religion class. Fr. O'Brien would come in to talk with us before Ash Wednesday, trying to impress upon us the importance of giving up something significant to us as a Lenten sacrifice. And he always promised us suggestions. Unfortunately, the suggestions were always the same: to "give up candy, gum and pop."
As a kid, my first problem with this was that in our family we never called it "pop." A really, really minor problem, even in my kid mind, but it still made me just want to snicker at the whole idea. My second, and bigger problem--heck, my legitimate problem--was that I didn't like gum in the first place, and we hardly ever had candy or soda at our house, anyway. For a few years, I gave up candy, gum and pop simply because he suggested it, and he was our pastor, and so, in my mind, he must know what's best for us. Besides, if success is guaranteed, so are the associated blessings, right? (Remember, I was a kid in elementary school! I could have used some more personal guidance, I think, but I had no idea that I could ask about these things.)
At some point, I realized my flawed logic, and started to try discerning something more "right" to give up. Generally what happened was that I started thinking kind of late, and didn't really have a nebulous idea until about the Monday after Ash Wednesday, at which point, I would wonder if it was worth it if I'd already missed so many days, so I'd second guess what I'd chosen, and try to double up for the rest of the Lenten season. As a result, I usually ended up frustrated, both by my procrastination and the resulting unreasonable expectations of myself. In high school, I gave up whatever bad habit I may have developed in the previous months.
Then I went away to college, and when a friend asked about Lent, another friend and I declared that we were giving up slapping each other on the back. For whatever reason, we had developed the habit of slapping each other by surprise, and we both knew it hurt. It was probably the most difficult -- and beneficial! -- Lenten sacrifice I've ever made. Since then, there have been others that were hard to keep, but did not change me quite as much as a person: the year I gave up saying the words "Stop it!" to my kids; the year I gave up half-n-half in my coffee, and as a result nearly had to give up coffee.
The other day, I was involved in a quick conversation with a friend who said that perhaps his plan for Lent was a bit more than he could handle, so he was thinking of cutting back a little. Honestly, inside, I agreed, as I know through experience how much time he was committing, and how necessarily busy his life is. However, I also know my own track record with Lent, so I told him I'd been in his boots. I usually make my personal pledge, then worry that I've bitten off more than I can chew. Then I find myself negotiating with God to modify every week. In the end, Easter shows up, unexpectedly somehow, and I feel more guilty than purified because I just couldn't make up my mind.
A few years ago, in a homily or a discussion, the idea of doing instead of (or in addition to--sometimes, I admit, I hear what I want to use. I'm working on that!) giving up was presented. I've done much better with that. Instead of avoiding, or denying, or feeling the need to explain, I must find the time, make the intention to do something specific each and every day. These sacrifices of time have changed me each year since. Some stick more than others over the course of the year, but I feel more thankful for the effort for 47 days (that's another story, too! I don't do the whole "Sunday doesn't count" thing. These things I do, I intend and hope will become habits.....don't get me started!) Over the course of the season, I still find myself wanting to negotiate a bit, but I'm more able to tell myself that I should stay the course; that I do have the time and the energy to do what I've set out to do, if I just do it, without making it a production; just be true.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
all for love
On my desk at work I have a little book of prayers, and I choose one to start each day. Usually, the selection is random, but occasionally I look for just the right one to set the tone for the day. Today was a random day, and the prayer was based on Paul's first letter to the Corinthians; the one that begins "Love is patient, love is kind." My minute meditation was also about love, and how loving others genuinely is the only way to true happiness. As I pondered the coincidence, I again saw, in my mind's eye, this morning's sunrise reflected in the river as we crossed the bridge. After a week of heartache tempered by the closeness of our family, this particular message of love was not a surprise, but a welcome shift in mentality. With the love, I felt uplifted, joyful, lighthearted.
Then when I got home, I saw this, and knew I had a blog topic:
There was a day, not too long ago, when I could have let the noise of what get in the way of real and true love. But I made a decision to not only ask why, but to listen to the answer. Interestingly, the more the why, in my case, was determined, the less it mattered with regard to the what. The more I listened to the why, the more the person attached to the why mattered to me. It turns out, the what noise not only blocks out the voice of reason, it also serves as a smoke screen. Visual noise.
Today, love touched a chord, and I know Dad had something to do with it. I've been thinking about the last 8 days, and wondering what the 9th day was. Some of that week I remember, but not all of it. I don't really remember coming back home, for example, but I do, very clearly remember the swim meet that weekend. It was crowded--as in fire-hazard crowded--and I was in no mood to talk to anyone, whether I knew them or not, so I had my earbuds in, and tried to blend in to the wall. I only wanted to see our son swim, and planned to scooch in when he was on deck.
That day I heard a woman complain because her mother wanted to see her child swim. Thinking the idea preposterous, she proceeded, loudly (obviously, since I had music in my ears), to berate everything about her, from the clothes she wears to the fact that she wanted to be involved in her grandchild's life. Disgusted and unable to speak to this stranger, I turned up the volume on my iPod, and cried, remembering the time Mom and Dad happened to be in town for one of the big meets, and drove 20 minutes there, arriving just in time to see the race--which probably only lasted a minute and a half--then drove right back to our house to help with a toddler.
I did push my way forward to see Henry swim that day, and as he climbed up on the block, I was hearing him say to me that he was swimming his races at this meet for Grampa. Determined not to cry so I'd be able to see, I was awe-struck when he crossed himself, then pointed and looked heavenward. That race, and every one since, he has dedicated to his grampa. While tears stung my eyes, I managed to keep them from blurring my vision, and watched as he swam his personal best. All for love.
When I decided to listen to the why and not the what, I had prayed for guidance. I had also asked Dad to tell me what I should do. When my heart calmed, and my mind cleared, and my vision brightened, I knew that I was getting an answer from many directions: God, Dad, Mary, they all were leading me to the importance of why, and the relative unimportance of what. And it has made all the difference.
Love never fails.
Then when I got home, I saw this, and knew I had a blog topic:
Found on "The Marriage Bed" (and slightly edited)...
"Why" something did or did not happen is usually far more important than "What" did or did not happen... but the "What" can be very noisy. Work to get to "Why" if you want change.
I once told this to a newspaper reporter... that the day she learned to ask Why, rather than What, would be the day she became a journalist. Five years later, and she's still writing What stories and has not moved up in her organization. (Soul Mate Marriages)
There was a day, not too long ago, when I could have let the noise of what get in the way of real and true love. But I made a decision to not only ask why, but to listen to the answer. Interestingly, the more the why, in my case, was determined, the less it mattered with regard to the what. The more I listened to the why, the more the person attached to the why mattered to me. It turns out, the what noise not only blocks out the voice of reason, it also serves as a smoke screen. Visual noise.
Today, love touched a chord, and I know Dad had something to do with it. I've been thinking about the last 8 days, and wondering what the 9th day was. Some of that week I remember, but not all of it. I don't really remember coming back home, for example, but I do, very clearly remember the swim meet that weekend. It was crowded--as in fire-hazard crowded--and I was in no mood to talk to anyone, whether I knew them or not, so I had my earbuds in, and tried to blend in to the wall. I only wanted to see our son swim, and planned to scooch in when he was on deck.
That day I heard a woman complain because her mother wanted to see her child swim. Thinking the idea preposterous, she proceeded, loudly (obviously, since I had music in my ears), to berate everything about her, from the clothes she wears to the fact that she wanted to be involved in her grandchild's life. Disgusted and unable to speak to this stranger, I turned up the volume on my iPod, and cried, remembering the time Mom and Dad happened to be in town for one of the big meets, and drove 20 minutes there, arriving just in time to see the race--which probably only lasted a minute and a half--then drove right back to our house to help with a toddler.
I did push my way forward to see Henry swim that day, and as he climbed up on the block, I was hearing him say to me that he was swimming his races at this meet for Grampa. Determined not to cry so I'd be able to see, I was awe-struck when he crossed himself, then pointed and looked heavenward. That race, and every one since, he has dedicated to his grampa. While tears stung my eyes, I managed to keep them from blurring my vision, and watched as he swam his personal best. All for love.
When I decided to listen to the why and not the what, I had prayed for guidance. I had also asked Dad to tell me what I should do. When my heart calmed, and my mind cleared, and my vision brightened, I knew that I was getting an answer from many directions: God, Dad, Mary, they all were leading me to the importance of why, and the relative unimportance of what. And it has made all the difference.
Love never fails.
Monday, February 18, 2013
a missing birthday
Today was Dad's birthday. In emailing with a couple of my siblings, and talking with Guy, I've discovered that this anniversary week has been a particularly tough one for the general "us." Most of the anniversary milestones I've experienced have been more joyful, amazing or awe-inspiring than sorrowful, so I was quite unprepared for this. The first anniversary of our wedding, and the boys' first birthdays were all amazing milestones that almost came as a surprise, as in, "How could this time have passed so quickly already?" Then at five years, we would look back at the major changes we had gone through as a couple, as parents, or as children. This week's retrospection is still painful, still sharper than I could have imagined, though not as constant or throbbing; still an ache like a pebble in my shoe that sometimes works its way into the tip of my shoe so I might almost forget it's there, then suddenly gets jarred loose by a certain step or change of direction. After five years, I would think I would feel different, although I really am not sure why: on my fifth wedding anniversary, I felt like myself, only the changes in my life were shared with someone; as each of the boys turned 5, I marvelled at their development from infancy, and rejoiced that they had some level of autonomy, of independence, their own personalities, but I didn't feel "different."
Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.
Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.
I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.
And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.
Why the expectation today? I wish I knew.
Lately, we've been talking about the future, about careers, and goals and such, partly as a result of an assignment at work, and partly because it's been a while since we reassessed and reevaluated together. It's been interesting, because I've been remembering long forgotten talks I had with Dad. While Guy knew that I had always wanted to be a helicopter pilot, he never knew that I had considered being a social worker or a psychologist. I'm not exactly sure where those ideas came from back when I was 17, as I had no experience with any of those occupations! But never once did Dad question the notions; rather, he and I would rationally discuss the pros and cons, the practical and the wild. He wanted what was best for me, but he also wanted me to be fulfilled--something that is a bit more elusive than happiness, I think.
I hope he knows how fulfilled I am today. I know he is in heaven watching over us, but I often wonder how much he can influence what happens, the "luck," the breaks, the doors and windows. Each time I look to the night sky and see Venus before any other star, I know his love is there, magnificent and shining through God's glory. And every time I see a streak of color in the sky, hear an unexpected bird call, or make that ridiculous hiccup noise he always made (and which I was never afflicted with until 4 years and 11 months ago!), I know he is ever present, and telling me something. Mostly "Slow down and enjoy. Chat and savor the coffee. See as many sides as you can." I remember him as dedicated, committed to whatever goal he set, and I find myself falling short at times. And yet, I do feel fulfilled--in the moment. I know there is more for me, and I plan to seek it out, to work toward my dreams, no matter how oddball they may seem. Somewhere out there is just the right spot for me; I know without a doubt because I have found one of those spots now. Like a cultivated flower, though, I will outgrow my current milieu, and need to be transplanted. Until then, I intend to soak up whatever nutrients I can, reach for the sun, stretch my very cells.
And occasionally water my roots with my own tears.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
as old as you feel
Gramma Katie drove herself to the hospital 25 years ago, probably with no intention of ever going home. She grew up in an era when going to the hospital was at least as dangerous as staying home; an act of desperation. The last time I saw her, over Christmas break, she'd been coming down with a cold. I remember talking to Dad in January sometime, and in an offhand comment, he told me that she still had the cough, it was just hanging on, making her drag a bit. I sent my love. I probably even sent her a get well card. I was a freshman in college, and she'd been a part of my life forever.
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
When we were really little, my sister and I would spend weekends with our other grandparents. We also stayed with them for a week or more while the rest of the family drove out west. We had no idea, really, where "out west" was, or why they went, or even why they left us at home. (Now, after travelling all over the country with my own brood, I've begun to understand why they would have left us home! Still, we all jokingly bring it up every time we can when we are all together!) We were told to be on our best behavior, and we certainly tried, but with no one else to play with, and with only the toys and games Grammy and Grampy had around, after a while, we started to act more like ourselves. Which wasn't particularly "well behaved." Close in age, we fought, disagreed, and pouted often. I don't know how many times we stayed there, together after that. I do know that my parents never went on a long vacation like that again until we were very much older!
In between, we spent many weekends at Gramma Katie's. It was easier to behave there because she made it very clear that if we didn't, there would be no Pepsi with lunch, and there was no way we would be able to stay up to watch Love Boat and Fantasy Island. (I remember once I was sent to bed before Fantasy Island started because I had said something mean to my sister. I have no idea what it was, why I said it, but I clearly remember that she had made a rule, and stuck to it. I sat on the steps and cried before going up to bed, hoping she would relent. I'm proud to say she did not; instead, she ignored me completely. She was stronger than many women I know--including myself.) Lunch meant lively conversation and America's Top 40 on the radio, or Bandstand, I'm not sure which incarnation it was, but it was on, and part of our lives there.
Growing up, we called her "Grammy with the white hair" to distinguish her from our other Grammy, who was "Grammy and Grampy Grammy." It was quite a relief, actually, when in junior high or high school, when interviewing her on the porch for some kind of school project, that she told us about growing up on a farm with her brothers. About being chased and tackled by a goose that pinned her to the ground and started pulling her hair out--her brothers didn't know what to do, and figured the goose would kill her. They finally chased it away. She said they always picked on her and gave her a hard time: about being a girl, about being a baby, about having brown eyes, or scraped knees, or anything else. She laughed, as she did about nearly everything, and said they were pretty rotten, and always called her Katie, which she hated. Then she looked down and said that she missed them terribly. All of them, and everything about them. We asked if it would help if we called her Katie, an idea that she thought brilliant. Thus, she was reborn, sometime in her 70's, as Gramma Katie. It took some getting used to, and to convince our brothers and sister, but it fit her so well.
I asked her once why she never went out to dinner with the neighbor who was always so clearly sweet on her. She said that once, she and Grampa Henry were sitting on the porch talking, and she mentioned to him that if anything ever happened to her, she expected that he would find himself a new wife, and he would have her blessing. His response: Okay. That's it. No, "I'd want the same for you," or "I'm sure you would find someone, too, eventually." Just "Okay." She took that to mean that when he said "Until death parts us," he meant both of them. She said she didn't mind, really, she enjoyed being on her own.
They met on a blind date, that she said went terribly. She was older than him, nearly a spinster, actually, and figured he could do better. At the end of the evening, she told him not to bother calling when he came back to town. He had other plans, he called again, wooed her, won her, and ultimately bought her a beautiful engagement ring from Tiffany's in New York. She loved to mention that fact, that it was from Tiffany's in New York, and sometimes she'd laugh afterwards, and other times she'd just look at it and smile, eyes shining. From her I learned the value of seeing the love enclosed in the stone, the special effort in choosing just the right one. The size, shape and price matter far less than the "why." When I gaze at my own engagement ring, I feel how she looked: special to someone.
She had a way of looking at life that made it fun to be. For another project, I asked her what her nationality was (I knew Grampa Henry was Irish), and she said, proudly, that she was a Mutt, and that I should be proud of that fact, too. I laughed, and told her that my teachers would probably not like that answer, so she went on to explain. It seems the little Eastern European town her ancestors were from had had borders change around it so many times, she had no idea what nationality they were. When some of them were born, it was Austria; others, Hungary, or Czechoslovakia. It was easier, and made more sense to her, to think of herself as an American, a Mutt. (This is, after all, a melting pot, right? And why were those people in school trying to separate us all out again?) To further complicate the national background question, she was raised Eastern Orthodox, and was taught that when a girl marries, she becomes one with her husband: his home, his family, his faith. Therefore, when she married this Irish Catholic man, she became, for all intents and purposes, a Roman Catholic, and a rather unconvincing Irish woman.
One of my personal mandatory stops before leaving for college was at Gramma Katie's house. It was one of the few times I was there by myself. It was the most beautiful late summer day, sunny, breezy, and just the right temperature. We sat on the porch, where we had watched so many thunder storms, read so many books, heard so many stories, drinking lemonade, and talking about futures. She was so proud of me going away to school, moving forward in life, meeting new people, and having new adventures. I told her I would miss her most of all, and I meant it. With her smile, her laughing eyes, her beautifully wrinkled face, her determination, she was an amazing role model--and a fantastic cheerleader, attending dance recitals, school and church events, and always asking about my friends, my classes, my life, and telling me about hers. As I hugged her goodbye, tears in my eyes, she asked me to make her a promise never to get old and boring. (probably paraphrasing George Burns, who probably would have met his match in her!) She told me she was very serious, that so many fun kids go off to college and with the learning they do there, they get old, serious and boring. I laughingly promised, and she knew that I meant it.
On my way home, I stopped and bought a bottle of bubbles. Those bubbles sat on my desk in front of the window in my dorm room, and I would often have to explain them to visitors and roommates. Occasionally, I'd take them outside and blow bubbles sitting on the wall, looking at the Bay (usually meaning that I was thinking through some problem that was threatening to make me feel older), or in the halls just to crack people up. In February of that year, when the phone call came that the doctors and nurses were pretty sure she'd had a stroke because she'd asked how the pain killers know where the pain is (a ridiculous reason to "know" she'd had a stroke--it was a perfectly normal question coming from her! Clearly they did not know her well enough to be treating her!), my roommate and I blew bubbles in Gramma Katie's honor. And again, a few days later, on February 15, we blew bubbles again after another phone call, although my dear, sweet roommate blew more than I did, because I was crying too much to blow well.
We worried while planning Dad's funeral 20 years later that it would change Valentine's Day forever having the funeral that day. Then we remembered that Dad managed to celebrate his birthday, and enjoy it for many years, despite the fact that his mother's funeral was on his birthday. In Gramma Katie style, he told me he looked at that day as an opportunity to visit with his sisters, and spend his birthday with them and their husbands. Through the darkness, he saw light--a faint glimmer, flickering and sputtering at times, I'm sure, but a light nonetheless. I strive to follow their example in my own life: being positive, devoted, faithful, and young at heart. Sometimes I falter, and some of those times are longer than others, but all in all, I think I've been doing well at keeping my promise.
I love you, Gramma Katie!
Thursday, February 14, 2013
your little girl
Dear Dad,
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania
Five years ago today, Guy, the boys and I put a nice, sharp pencil and the Sunday crossword in your coffin with you. This after a good chuckle about choosing one of the readings for your funeral in part because it contained the word "hoary" and we had to look it up. A really good crossword word, hoary. I haven't done a crossword since--not even the easy ones. Come to think of it, I don't think I've really used a pencil much, either; just pens. I can see you, just beyond my eyes, when I look up from my computer. I miss you. We all do.
Five years ago today, we travelled through the worst snow I'd been on the road for in forever. Well, since that time driving home from Rochester, when I figured you must have x-ray vision, because I sure as shootin' couldn't see the road from the back seat! You kept telling Mom that everything was fine, as long as you could concentrate. You could tell those white lies so convincingly! ha! I digress....I have pictures of where the road should be on our way to church that morning. And I told the boys that it was so like you to make sure there was a storm like that! It's lucky we made it to the house in the first place, and then to head to the church--and lunch afterwards! Only you.
Five years ago today, we stood in the snow in the cemetery, huddled together as much for actual warmth as for support. I remember so little of the ceremonies--the funeral Mass or the burial--but I most certainly remember the love, the joy we all share for having had you in our lives, the shared sadness. And I remember the Marines who came, a two and a half hour trip that took them nearly five; how young they seemed, how brave, and determined. In their dress blues, they saluted with rifles as the church bells rang their noon glory. When they folded the flag, they fought the need to shiver, unable to feel their fingers in their dress gloves.
Five years ago today, we invited those Marines to lunch, insisting that they join us, and eat before the long trip back to Syracuse. They agreed, but when we arrived at the restaurant, and they asked me to retrieve the flag for them, I realized they came as much out of a need to properly refold the flag as for the free meal. I was again impressed at the fact that you "survived" the Marine Corps. I wish we could have talked more about your time in the service after Mr. Johnson convinced you that it was something you should be more proud of. All I will ever know is that you were never sure it had been the right thing for you to do. Given that's what I knew from you, why would I be proud of you and so impressed? Because you followed through. You made the best of what you considered to be a less-than-ideal situation, and came through it a stronger man. It was a struggle, but you showed me that some of the important parts of life are just that: struggles. But the result is as important as the journey.
Five years ago today, we all agreed that Valentine's Day would probably always be very different for us. Bittersweet. A beautiful day to share and remember the love we feel for one another, but also a day to remember losing one of our best examples of that love and devotion. A day on which I am deeply reminded how fragile yet strong loving wholeheartedly can make us. Thank you for that gift--something I never thought I'd say. Rose Kennedy said, "It has been said 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, (protecting its sanity) covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessons. But, it is never gone." Dad, I think, somehow, whether because of Paul Harvey afternoons or Reader's Digest magazines, you had something to do with my love of quotes. It could also have been your knack for making up convincing reasons and explanations for just about any question under the sun (or moon!). I believe Rose Kennedy was quite correct, although the scar tissue sometimes gets in the way of other healing, stretching and growing.
Five years ago this week, I faced just how much I was blessed to have you for as my dad, my guardian, my mentor, my first teacher, my friend. I love you still, and can see your spirit in the boys, in my dear Guy, in my siblings, and their families. Your legacy lives on. And yet, I miss you. I will always be your little girl, and will always feel like that little girl when I think of you, and when those thoughts bring tears to my eyes; an ache to my heart. The tears are a bit further between, and my insides feel a bit less hollow, but the love has continued to grow. Continue to laugh with us, and guide our feet on the journey. Remind us to take the long way when we can, and to savor the sights and sounds, the experiences of our expeditions. Lead us to the ice cream and frozen yogurt shoppes of life, whatever sustenance they will provide for our souls, minds and bodies. Guide us in love, hope, and faith, all of which you demonstrated to us, unwaveringly. Thanks, Dad. xo
Love,
Stephania
Sunday, February 10, 2013
peaceful dove
Tomorrow is our Consecration ceremony, the end of our 33 day retreat. This morning, I realized a personal significance of tomorrow being the day: February 11, the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes. For the past 33 days, I have known the date, and the Feast on which it was occurring, but what did not occur to me is that meant today is February 10.
Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.
Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.
This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).
Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."
*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.
Five years ago today, Dad died, while my sister and I sang the Hail Mary portion of Gentle Woman.* As we sang, his eyes opened, and he first looked toward the window, then toward the door, outside of which stood my mother. His eyes locked on her, then closed, and he stopped breathing. A friend of Mom's was there at the time, and "assured" us that it was just a nerve thing; that he wasn't really seeing us, or looking for Mom. My sister and I, however, really believe that he was seeing Mary at the window, and Mom at the door: the two women he would most want to see at that moment. The ICU nurse, when I asked her, said that what science says and what faith says may seem conflicting at times, but that peace is the result.
Dad was quite Marian, I just never really thought about it much. I knew he had what I saw as deep faith, although the more I consider my own faith, the more I wonder how much searching he continued to do. What I know for sure is that he prayed to Mary often; as he drove, in strange cities, as he mowed the lawn. I remember him telling me about Mom asking him what he was yelling about while he pushed the lawnmower in the back yard. He was saying the rosary, but could only hear himself if he said it LOUD! He said that Mom was concerned about what the neighbors would think, with him yelling Hail Marys like that. He kept doing it. (Mom tells that story slightly differently, of course!) Turns out that when he said the rosary, he decided to pray it for all of us, his children and grandchildren. And, in typical Dad fashion, he figured out how to ensure that he didn't miss anyone. In the second stanza of the prayer, he used our names: "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for _______ now, and at the hour of death." The first three decades, at the time, went through thirty of us. The next decade was for Mom, and the last for any other special intentions he had.
This morning, it all tied together for me when I looked at the Order of Mass to see what the opening hymn was to be. My first thought was, "That's one Dad liked to sing." Then I could hear him singing it, long before the organ started playing. The next thing I heard was Liz and myself singing. That's when I realized today's significance. I was somewhere between relieved, troubled and surprised--it's the first time that Dad hasn't been the first thought of the day on February 10. In fact, I had just finished saying an extra prayer for Uncle Flash, whose birthday was Friday, and Auntie Em, who still misses him terribly. But I was also thankful, as I'm fairly certain now that both Dad and Uncle Flash have been guiding me through this retreat: they both have always been reference points for me with regard to faith and spirituality (mostly because they were so very down to earth and silly, too).
Tomorrow will be all the more special for me. And with this realization, this difficult week, beginning with today's anniversary, and ending with Dad' birthday on the 18th, will be easier to bear. "Teach us Wisdom; teach us Love."
*Although this version (and all the versions I checked on YouTube) has the Hail Mary at the beginning of the song, we learned with the "Gentle Mother" verses first. We had sung through the whole song, and were beginning to feel Mary's grace in the room when we began the Hail Mary. Through our tears later that evening, we teased each other that Dad just wanted us to stop singing. I love this song.
Saturday, February 9, 2013
mystery, militia, love
Usually by this time I have done my morning reading (it's 7:23am), but it's Saturday, for one thing, and, the far bigger reason, I have so many thoughts from yesterday's pondering that I want to put "on paper" so I don't lose them, ever. This final week of the retreat, we have three key words that are meant to sum up the reading (and lessons, and prayers) of a week.Yesterday, one of the words was "Love."
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
Maximilian Kolbe tells us, "If you have the will to love, you already have given proof that you love. What counts is the will to love. External feeling is also a fruit of grace, but it does not always follow the will." (p. 96) Just the night before, I had caught up on a blog that someone I know has started. As many bloggers do, he had written a post about what his blogs will be about. Part of it struck me as profoundly true, so that when I read the above from Kolbe, I thought of connections in my own life.
Love can heal the broken world, but love is not a feeling. Love is an act of the will - choosing to "will the good" of everyone we encounter not because of what we can get out of it, or because it feels good or because we want them to treat us well. That is not, primarily, love at all. That's a form of selfishness... it is pride. (Mike Creavey, Willing the Good)
I pondered both of these passages. In fact, I was still pondering Mike's words when I started to read Kolbe's, so they kind of melted together in my mind. (Interestingly, this is not like anything I got out of the week we shared with Kolbe. The other two words to contemplate yesterday, Mystery and Militia, were the ones I "got." For me, they must have overshadowed his teachings on Love. I even just went back and skimmed the week, and I had marked nothing of the sort.)
What I have learned about Love in these weeks of soul-searching, and in the months of undirected soul searching I've been doing, is wrapped up neatly in these lines. And yet, without the discoveries I've made in my own self, about me, about my life, about my past and future, they would be just words, I think. They touched me so deeply precisely because I have been looking at the essence of Love myself. I've given Love a chance to heal me, and my broken world. At one time--for a long time, actually--I did think of love as an emotion, a feeling, something I possessed or expressed. It was not until I thought of Love as something solely to give that I began to understand its power, its sheer magnitude.
This is not to say that I was stingy with my love before. I was loving and giving, and wore my heart on my sleeve, and, because I can't help it, I always will, I'm sure. But I used to pay more attention to how that made me feel than I should have. Yes, I carefully noted how our boys were shaping up, thanks, in good part, to the love we showered them with (and expressed not only with hugs, kisses and kind words, but with curfews, limits, rules and groundings!), but, as Mike pointed out, a part of me was looking far into the future: how would this love come back to me when I am old and they are the caregivers?
If you follow me at all, you know that I have been striving to live in the moment. That does not mean that I run around like my son and his friends, doing silly things and shouting, "YOLO!" [YOLO -- You Only Live Once] It does mean that I try to do what's right for the sake of doing what's right, whether it's related to health, exercise, food, our kids, money, work, whatever. The future does not loom so frighteningly at my door now; I see it on the horizon in each sunrise, in the beauty of each new beginning.
How does this all relate to our retreat? I'm more open, more available, to the Love of Mary, her Son, and our Father than I have ever been before. Even with my frequent doubts and questions, I can move forward. Shoot, for me, the moving forward is probably because of my doubts and questions, since they drive me to learn, to grow, to be. As I typed these last words for this morning, the sun peeked over my shoulder, warming the back of my neck. I feel it is a symbol of agreement; a one-armed hug from above.
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