There are times when I feel alone on this journey, simply by virtue of the fact that I am the one who is at home. The morning was peaceful, lovely, mild--for a couple of hours. Then all hell broke loose. (I exaggerate, but there is no phrase that I know of that means that Purgatory was invoked!)
I reminded our youngest, who was hoping for a friend to visit, that he would need to clean his room first, and reiterated (an exaggerated understatement, but parenting advice has told me that saying that I've said it a hundred times will scar them for life) that if he and his brothers, all of us, really, would just put things away when we are done with them, cleaning up would be so much simpler. (In reality, it would have a different meaning, but it would also garner fewer frustrated outbursts from me.) I remained very calm in this explanation (I've grown!!), and told him that I need to clean my own room, too. His response: "Then Padre needs to, too."
I paused.
I could have just agreed with him, but that didn't seem honest enough. Instead, I told him that the reality is, I make more of a mess of our room than his fatehr does. "Padre's better at putting his clothes away than I am." "That doesn't make sense. Then why is it that he isn't the one that's always telling us to clean up?"
There's the rub. There are so many reasons for that--some of which are so complex I am only just beginning to understand them--but the simple answer is, "He's not home as much as I am." Ironically, it matters more to him than it does to me, and the reasons for that are probably as complex. Our frustration thresholds are pretty similar, and getting higher (thankfully!) as we explore what's in our singular pasts. Yet I am the one who tends to take the mess more personally. It's not that I think the house should be spotless because the menfolk had the day off yesterday, and I did not. And it's not that I'm jealous at how they spent the day. On the contrary, I wish I had the capacity to put it out of my mind, the cleaning and tidying that needs to be done.
The trouble is, it gets in my way. I just had to arbitrate between two sons who cannot work in the same room at that same time, even though they both live in the same space. One is neater than the other in some ways, but the problem is that one is far more emotional than the other. The arguement at the beginning of the project they chose to undertake at the same time was not a surprise. The results of the ensuing temper tantrum, however, tested a new limit of my patience. Although I handled it as best I could, without having a tantrum of my own (a not-so-small victory), I found myself saddened that I had to deal with it at all. That's not entirely true--I was saddened that I had to deal with it alone.
The job is still not done. And I decided to write so I would not continue to build upon the situation in my mind. [This is, after all, my therapy. Mine, and you can take from it what you will, as long as you keep in mind that it is my mind I am cleansing.] The untidy (another understatement!) dormitory then became related to the bathroom door that has been broken for a few years now, and the replacement door that is still standing in the dining room, waiting to be stained or painted so it can be installed. To the living room that was painted even more years ago, but has not yet been finished. To the travel items from Christmas that are still on the porch......The list was growing, and I could feel my loneliness and frustration growing in proportion.
Truthfully, more would not be accomplished if he was at home this morning instead of working. That's only because there is always something, and because we enjoy each other's company, and because the priorities are always a little different when we are both home. The building of pressure to do (for want of a better phrase) is completely internal--it is pressure I put on myself. I'm learning to accept it with grace and serenity, but not as quickly as I am learning patience.
"...Although I must have Martha's hands, I have a Mary mind...." (Klara Munkres)
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
answered prayers
This morning, as I climbed the stairs to work, I said my usual morning prayer to Mary. After my prayer, I usually have a little conversation with Mary, asking for her guidance, offering my day. Today, Good Friday, my prayer was a little different.
"Good morning, Mary. Today I want you to know that I wish I could console you. I wish I could be a shoulder for you. I cannot begin to imagine what it is to lose a child, let alone a son who is put to death. If I could, I would be there for you."
I went about my day, but got to head home early. When I arrived at home, and found no one home yet, I decided to take the quiet moments to say the Rosary. Friday: Sorrowful Mysteries. I have a new devotional book for the Rosary, but I had already been through the Sorrowful Mysteries in it, and knew what to expect, to a certain extent.
After four decades, I arrived at the Fifth Mystery: the Crucifixion. During the first Hail Mary, I noticed a catch in my throat; it puzzled me. By the third bead, my breathing was difficult, and by the fifth, I was crying. I finished the Rosary sobbing. (At the seventh bead, the meditation was, "I thirst," and I involuntarily let out a wail.)
After I finished, I thanked Mary for allowing me to share in her pain, her grief, and her sorrow. Never have I had such an experience. I was amazed and awed--as much by the sudden onslaught of emotion as by the sudden disappearance of the emotion afterwards. I was left with a feeling of calm and peacefulness.
"Good morning, Mary. Today I want you to know that I wish I could console you. I wish I could be a shoulder for you. I cannot begin to imagine what it is to lose a child, let alone a son who is put to death. If I could, I would be there for you."
I went about my day, but got to head home early. When I arrived at home, and found no one home yet, I decided to take the quiet moments to say the Rosary. Friday: Sorrowful Mysteries. I have a new devotional book for the Rosary, but I had already been through the Sorrowful Mysteries in it, and knew what to expect, to a certain extent.
After four decades, I arrived at the Fifth Mystery: the Crucifixion. During the first Hail Mary, I noticed a catch in my throat; it puzzled me. By the third bead, my breathing was difficult, and by the fifth, I was crying. I finished the Rosary sobbing. (At the seventh bead, the meditation was, "I thirst," and I involuntarily let out a wail.)
After I finished, I thanked Mary for allowing me to share in her pain, her grief, and her sorrow. Never have I had such an experience. I was amazed and awed--as much by the sudden onslaught of emotion as by the sudden disappearance of the emotion afterwards. I was left with a feeling of calm and peacefulness.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
moving mountains
Mustard has been quite a topic over the past week. An odd thing, really, since we really only ever say the word mustard when we have hot dogs. And we haven't had them since summer, that I can remember. Earlier this week, we had meatloaf for dinner, which involved putting it together the night before, and then having one of the boys turning on the bread machine, and then adding a glaze. (Yes, the meatloaf is cooked in the bread machine, and it is soooooo good!) Son #2 helped me with the shopping list before he mixed together the meatloaf. (Raw meat is something I try to avoid whenever possible. Maybe someday I'll work through that.....) Combing through the recipe, he asked, "What's 'prepared mustard?'" I explained that it's mustard like we put on hot dogs; mustard that is made into the condiment, rather than mustard seeds or mustard powder.
In the morning, I told Son #3 and Son #4, individually, that we would need them to help out by turning on dinner, and making the glaze. Each of them asked, in turn, "What's 'prepared mustard?'" I explained to each of them, getting the same result from each of them: "Ah. I see."
I thought nothing of it. They had never seen the term before, and I always chuckle a little when I see prepared mustard listed as an ingredient. I would only think that I was using mustard powder or mustard seeds if they were specifically listed--unless I was making pickles. Then I would know that I need mustard seeds.
Last night, I was at the vespers discussion group at church, and somehow the discussion came around to depth of faith. As we talked, and I told about the faith I viewed versus the faith I felt, pieces started to fall into place. Talking about the promise I made to learn about my faith, to ask and seek answers to the questions I come across, I pointed out that I always knew my faith was there; it just seemed to me to be smaller than that of my father, my husband, some of my friends--all people whose faith I had always admired. People whose faith, in all honesty, I envied (ironically!). Suddenly, I saw a connection to last week's Lenten struggles, and the mustard questions of the week.
"My faith was always there; it was just small--Like a mustard seed!" Grins and nodding all around. And I realized I'd had the gifts I needed all along.
Those questions I have are questions I should ask. Asking questions, seeking knowledge, is something I work toward in my secular life. Why I would resist asking, learning and wondering in my spiritual life is something I don't yet understand. My husband and I are exploring that together, though. Nine months or so ago, I made a promise to God that I would put my faith and future in His hands, and that I would, therefore, learn. And I have learned so much, but most of all I've learned that there is far more to learn than I ever will.
And that's a beautiful thing. One of the most beautiful things about faith.
Then this morning, I was reading my book (The story of a soul, by St. Therese of Lisieux), and she mentioned her mustard seed faith. And tonight, the meditation I read on the Luminous Mysteries mentioned mustard seeds.
Coincidence? I think not.
In the morning, I told Son #3 and Son #4, individually, that we would need them to help out by turning on dinner, and making the glaze. Each of them asked, in turn, "What's 'prepared mustard?'" I explained to each of them, getting the same result from each of them: "Ah. I see."
I thought nothing of it. They had never seen the term before, and I always chuckle a little when I see prepared mustard listed as an ingredient. I would only think that I was using mustard powder or mustard seeds if they were specifically listed--unless I was making pickles. Then I would know that I need mustard seeds.
Last night, I was at the vespers discussion group at church, and somehow the discussion came around to depth of faith. As we talked, and I told about the faith I viewed versus the faith I felt, pieces started to fall into place. Talking about the promise I made to learn about my faith, to ask and seek answers to the questions I come across, I pointed out that I always knew my faith was there; it just seemed to me to be smaller than that of my father, my husband, some of my friends--all people whose faith I had always admired. People whose faith, in all honesty, I envied (ironically!). Suddenly, I saw a connection to last week's Lenten struggles, and the mustard questions of the week.
"My faith was always there; it was just small--Like a mustard seed!" Grins and nodding all around. And I realized I'd had the gifts I needed all along.
Those questions I have are questions I should ask. Asking questions, seeking knowledge, is something I work toward in my secular life. Why I would resist asking, learning and wondering in my spiritual life is something I don't yet understand. My husband and I are exploring that together, though. Nine months or so ago, I made a promise to God that I would put my faith and future in His hands, and that I would, therefore, learn. And I have learned so much, but most of all I've learned that there is far more to learn than I ever will.
And that's a beautiful thing. One of the most beautiful things about faith.
Then this morning, I was reading my book (The story of a soul, by St. Therese of Lisieux), and she mentioned her mustard seed faith. And tonight, the meditation I read on the Luminous Mysteries mentioned mustard seeds.
Coincidence? I think not.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
progress
This past week of Lent has been the most challenging for me. While the weeks prior have had their own challenges, this week was filled with additional interruptions of various sorts. When I realized I had missed a day, and was on the verge of missing a second, my first inclination was to justify by telling myself that I had done something else, made some other sacrifice that would even out my original promises. The difference this year, is that I realized how futile the justification truly is. I can rationalize all I want, but the fact is, I made the promises to God; personally and privately, to be sure, yet a vow, nonetheless. In almost the same moment that I tried to excuse myself, I was filled with the understanding that I could start again, then and there, and get back on track.
As I'd hoped, my Lenten sacrifice feels far less so, and is becoming a habit that I enjoy, and that brings some peace to my day, and my heart. I'm imperfect, and will forever struggle to keep up with my new good habit. For reasons I have yet to understand, good habits are harder to continue than bad habits. Or, put more simply, good habits are easier to break than bad habits! Goodness is quieter, less noticeable. Why is that? Goodness brings more of a sense of well-being.
Why does temptation draw us in so?
As I'd hoped, my Lenten sacrifice feels far less so, and is becoming a habit that I enjoy, and that brings some peace to my day, and my heart. I'm imperfect, and will forever struggle to keep up with my new good habit. For reasons I have yet to understand, good habits are harder to continue than bad habits. Or, put more simply, good habits are easier to break than bad habits! Goodness is quieter, less noticeable. Why is that? Goodness brings more of a sense of well-being.
Why does temptation draw us in so?
Monday, March 25, 2013
the little things
Peace and happiness, from what I can tell, is found in the subtleties of life, rather than in the extremes. Yes, our trip to Hawaii was amazing, our wedding day was unforgettable, the births of each of our children are indelibly printed on my heart--but the common denominator, the part that gave me the most happiness in each of those things, is the simple fact that I was sharing them, and feeling the little things that made them special. Like seeing my husband and my brother play in the waves like little kids. Shopping with a fellow un-shopper. Dancing the polka with my little brother. Knowing that when we directed the kissing stuff to our attendants, they would be more than happy to oblige. The look of wonder on my husband's face as he first gazed at each of our boys.
While these events were momentous, I find these feelings in my average, everyday interactions. Just now, I hear the voices of my husband and two of the boys, coming home from practice. They are laughing and sharing stories, and my heart warms with the reality of the beautiful relationship they have. Even the times when I get into heated discussions with our rather vociferous son, I can see the beauty in resisting frustration (and failing, frequently! But we are getting better at it!) and maintaining a level head to have a rational discussion. The feeling of accomplishment when the menu for the week is made; the groceries bought and put away.
At one time, I believed that the high points of life were what makes the low points bearable. Yes, they help, but in all honesty, what gets me through the rough times is the knowledge, and the trust, that tomorrow, or maybe the next day, will be fairly normal, with little joys, minor grumblings, lots of love, and a houseful of noise (for now). Having four boys makes for some wide differentials. Without this discovery of peace within, I'm pretty sure we'd be looking at some pretty empty-feeling days later on, when they all move on, as they should. Instead, I'm confident we will have the tools we need to build our "regular days" into the special days that begin with each sunrise.
While these events were momentous, I find these feelings in my average, everyday interactions. Just now, I hear the voices of my husband and two of the boys, coming home from practice. They are laughing and sharing stories, and my heart warms with the reality of the beautiful relationship they have. Even the times when I get into heated discussions with our rather vociferous son, I can see the beauty in resisting frustration (and failing, frequently! But we are getting better at it!) and maintaining a level head to have a rational discussion. The feeling of accomplishment when the menu for the week is made; the groceries bought and put away.
At one time, I believed that the high points of life were what makes the low points bearable. Yes, they help, but in all honesty, what gets me through the rough times is the knowledge, and the trust, that tomorrow, or maybe the next day, will be fairly normal, with little joys, minor grumblings, lots of love, and a houseful of noise (for now). Having four boys makes for some wide differentials. Without this discovery of peace within, I'm pretty sure we'd be looking at some pretty empty-feeling days later on, when they all move on, as they should. Instead, I'm confident we will have the tools we need to build our "regular days" into the special days that begin with each sunrise.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
as myself
Earlier today, I was stuck. I had thoughts, ideas, wonderings, concerns, questions that wanted out, but I wasn't quite sure where to begin. I'd been spooked a bit, and agitated by that, and as a result, I felt stuck and even a bit angry about it. I started to write, but it wasn't going where I wanted it to, so I drafted it. Sometime I might revisit the words and rework them into something that feels more coherent.
In the meantime, we attended vespers, and something I heard there struck a chord closely related to what I wanted to say. The reflection was presented by a judge who did a wonderful job of explaining how he lives his faith while hearing cases of law. In his talk, he pointed to Jesus' words in Mark's Gospel: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:31). Something clicked in my mind when he soon after paraphrased the Golden Rule: Love your neighbor as you would like to be loved.
Many times I've talked about the time when our son, as a toddler, got in trouble at pre-school for a minor infraction--something like poking a particular classmate. When asked why he would do that, he said, in all seriousness, that clearly the other child wanted to be poked, as he had poked others. Obviously, the other classmate was treating others as he wanted to be treated himself. If that kid pokes, he wants to be poked. It took us quite a long time to adjust this interpretation--especially since his point was spot on, though skewed!
This memory only flitted through my mind, as I thought that the two 'rules' do not equate. Loving someone as you love yourself is not the same as treating someone the way you want to be treated. That revelation added perspective to the thoughts I'd had earlier. Consider this: If I do not love myself, if I have pain, sorrow or anger in my heart, things from my life, my past, the forgotten parts of my heart and mind, how can I appreciate that someone else does not have some level of self-enmity? If I dislike myself, do not trust myself, do not love myself, how, then, will I treat others. Still, I could keep that commandment by treating others the way I see myself.
I've been there. At times, in my life, I have felt trapped, closed in, under appreciated, lonely, faithless. During those dark times, I truly believed that I was treating others as I wanted to be treated, but in reality, I was not loving them as I loved myself. Most people, I was loving far more than I loved myself. Others I was treating as I wished they'd want me to treat them. I remember actually thinking these things; actually wishing that someone would ask why I thought more of them than I thought of myself. Thankfully, I am far from that place now, but hearing the reflection tonight, I realized again that some of the people I had previously admired for having what I thought I didn't have are likely stuck in their own internal struggles.
That sounds obvious, and, yes, I have always known that what happens inside my heart is not completely unique to me. If that were the case, psychology and sociology would make no sense whatsoever. We think inside our heads, and that tends to make us think that what's in our minds is ours alone. However, when we open our hearts to share our thoughts, we realize how united we really are. That's where I am now. Yesterday, I read, "...the more ways we discover to express, share, and be loving, the more we find ourselves surrounded by the feeling of love" (Carlson and Carlson, c1999, Don't sweat the small stuff in love, p.36). Love is reflexive. Giving love is getting love, but wanting love is different. Just wanting it doesn't make it so.
Our speaker this evening pointed out that neither loving others as ourselves nor treating others as we'd like to be treated is easy. But the effort, for me, has been worthwhile. I fall short. Everyone does. But I get back up, take a deep breath, and start again, asking for help every step of the way. This post may or may not be coherent to you, as the reader; but I know just what I am saying.
In the meantime, we attended vespers, and something I heard there struck a chord closely related to what I wanted to say. The reflection was presented by a judge who did a wonderful job of explaining how he lives his faith while hearing cases of law. In his talk, he pointed to Jesus' words in Mark's Gospel: "Love your neighbor as yourself." (Mark 12:31). Something clicked in my mind when he soon after paraphrased the Golden Rule: Love your neighbor as you would like to be loved.
Many times I've talked about the time when our son, as a toddler, got in trouble at pre-school for a minor infraction--something like poking a particular classmate. When asked why he would do that, he said, in all seriousness, that clearly the other child wanted to be poked, as he had poked others. Obviously, the other classmate was treating others as he wanted to be treated himself. If that kid pokes, he wants to be poked. It took us quite a long time to adjust this interpretation--especially since his point was spot on, though skewed!
This memory only flitted through my mind, as I thought that the two 'rules' do not equate. Loving someone as you love yourself is not the same as treating someone the way you want to be treated. That revelation added perspective to the thoughts I'd had earlier. Consider this: If I do not love myself, if I have pain, sorrow or anger in my heart, things from my life, my past, the forgotten parts of my heart and mind, how can I appreciate that someone else does not have some level of self-enmity? If I dislike myself, do not trust myself, do not love myself, how, then, will I treat others. Still, I could keep that commandment by treating others the way I see myself.
I've been there. At times, in my life, I have felt trapped, closed in, under appreciated, lonely, faithless. During those dark times, I truly believed that I was treating others as I wanted to be treated, but in reality, I was not loving them as I loved myself. Most people, I was loving far more than I loved myself. Others I was treating as I wished they'd want me to treat them. I remember actually thinking these things; actually wishing that someone would ask why I thought more of them than I thought of myself. Thankfully, I am far from that place now, but hearing the reflection tonight, I realized again that some of the people I had previously admired for having what I thought I didn't have are likely stuck in their own internal struggles.
That sounds obvious, and, yes, I have always known that what happens inside my heart is not completely unique to me. If that were the case, psychology and sociology would make no sense whatsoever. We think inside our heads, and that tends to make us think that what's in our minds is ours alone. However, when we open our hearts to share our thoughts, we realize how united we really are. That's where I am now. Yesterday, I read, "...the more ways we discover to express, share, and be loving, the more we find ourselves surrounded by the feeling of love" (Carlson and Carlson, c1999, Don't sweat the small stuff in love, p.36). Love is reflexive. Giving love is getting love, but wanting love is different. Just wanting it doesn't make it so.
Our speaker this evening pointed out that neither loving others as ourselves nor treating others as we'd like to be treated is easy. But the effort, for me, has been worthwhile. I fall short. Everyone does. But I get back up, take a deep breath, and start again, asking for help every step of the way. This post may or may not be coherent to you, as the reader; but I know just what I am saying.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
home sweet home
"There's no place like home." Iconic dates and phrases were part of the topic this morning. At first, I wondered how it would relate to the story of the woman who was brought to be stoned.* Ingeniously, and yet so obviously, it was stated that she must have been thinking something like "there's no place like home" while waiting to hear her fate. The homily went on to talk more about the importance of home. It was hard, but I managed to wait until after the sermon was over to mull things over (ponder them!), and find the connections in my own life.
It's St. Patrick's Day: another one of those days that make me think about Dad, and the relationships each of us had with him. A day that marks my first time standing up, too, and becoming the honest-to-goodness oddball I have always been meant to be. (And not minding in the least, since I'm no longer working so hard at the impossible: fitting in.) That's a good story, but not one for today. I'll just sit here and smile about that first small victory.
Thinking about Dad, and hearing Dorothy's iconic words brought me down a memory lane that has brought me to where I am today. An unnecessarily curvy, windy and bumpy road, in all likelihood, but my road nonetheless. When I think of Home, I think of a place where there's Love Overflowing...
For a long time, home was far away. I would get stressed, upset, lonely, dark, I would say, "I just want to go home!" Probably at least 90% of the time when I'd say that, I'd be standing in my own living room. Why I had a need to "go home" I didn't understand. That I was likely hurting my family saying it, I realized. It wasn't until we returned from Dad's funeral, and Guy said to me, "Now you won't ever be able to go home. I'm so sorry." At first, I was confused: Mom still lived in the house I'd grown up in, and I didn't think that I really meant the house anyway. Then he said, "Dad was home to you, wasn't he." It still brings tears to my eyes, because of how true the statement, how painful the realization--about home, Home, and me.
So much has changed since then. I used to cry every time I listened to that song from The Wiz. More because it hurt to think that Home meant Love than anything else. I didn't realize Home is not about a place or a space on this planet. "Living here, in this brand new world/Might be a fantasy/But it taught me to love/So it's real, real to me" The Home I have now is certainly not a fantasy (it's taken far too much work, vulnerability and honesty to be anything but Real and True Love), and it is certainly not a place or space that anyone else can touch or see on their own.
There really is no place like home, and it really is a place where love overflows and is filled with affection. Home, now is not only where my heart is, but where Guy's heart is, too.
*That whole stoning story is more amazing every time I hear it. Every time, I realize some other reason that there was no way stoning was the answer. Long ago, I realized what the priest today said: "Donde es hombre? It takes two...." Today, I realized that Mary could well have suffered the same fate. In between are many small realizations. Read the story. Wonder at the amazing power of the simple action of writing in the dirt.
It's St. Patrick's Day: another one of those days that make me think about Dad, and the relationships each of us had with him. A day that marks my first time standing up, too, and becoming the honest-to-goodness oddball I have always been meant to be. (And not minding in the least, since I'm no longer working so hard at the impossible: fitting in.) That's a good story, but not one for today. I'll just sit here and smile about that first small victory.
Thinking about Dad, and hearing Dorothy's iconic words brought me down a memory lane that has brought me to where I am today. An unnecessarily curvy, windy and bumpy road, in all likelihood, but my road nonetheless. When I think of Home, I think of a place where there's Love Overflowing...
For a long time, home was far away. I would get stressed, upset, lonely, dark, I would say, "I just want to go home!" Probably at least 90% of the time when I'd say that, I'd be standing in my own living room. Why I had a need to "go home" I didn't understand. That I was likely hurting my family saying it, I realized. It wasn't until we returned from Dad's funeral, and Guy said to me, "Now you won't ever be able to go home. I'm so sorry." At first, I was confused: Mom still lived in the house I'd grown up in, and I didn't think that I really meant the house anyway. Then he said, "Dad was home to you, wasn't he." It still brings tears to my eyes, because of how true the statement, how painful the realization--about home, Home, and me.
So much has changed since then. I used to cry every time I listened to that song from The Wiz. More because it hurt to think that Home meant Love than anything else. I didn't realize Home is not about a place or a space on this planet. "Living here, in this brand new world/Might be a fantasy/But it taught me to love/So it's real, real to me" The Home I have now is certainly not a fantasy (it's taken far too much work, vulnerability and honesty to be anything but Real and True Love), and it is certainly not a place or space that anyone else can touch or see on their own.
There really is no place like home, and it really is a place where love overflows and is filled with affection. Home, now is not only where my heart is, but where Guy's heart is, too.
*That whole stoning story is more amazing every time I hear it. Every time, I realize some other reason that there was no way stoning was the answer. Long ago, I realized what the priest today said: "Donde es hombre? It takes two...." Today, I realized that Mary could well have suffered the same fate. In between are many small realizations. Read the story. Wonder at the amazing power of the simple action of writing in the dirt.
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