thank you, dear friend

My dear friend,

Watching the sun rise this morning over my sleeping husband's shoulder, I realized part of the reason words that wanted to flow would not. I often feel this gratefulness wash over me, and this desire to express it. From time to time, I have said thank you to individuals walking this earth, breathing the air I breathe; people that have laughed and cried with me, offered advice, answered questions, or asked them with me. 

On Christmas morning, I was once again overwhelmed with thankfulness, and wanted more than anything to express it. Immediately, I thought of one person, then another. Then yet one more. The list kept growing. How best to thank them for the guidance, the friendship, the prayers they have offered for and with me? How best to tell them that their example both challenges and comforts me? How best to say that without them, I may not be where I am right now, today? 

There was a song running through my head that morning, as I considered and debated composing a letter. Matt Redman's "Your Grace Finds Me" touches me often: "[Forever I'll be] / Breathing in Your grace / And I'm breathing out Your praise." Heart swelling with emotion, I could think of no way to put the words in order, and say what I really needed to say. In the end, I was left somewhat befuddled, but also knowing that when the words were right, when the emotions were right, when the time was right, they would flow, freely and easily. 

Then the sun appeared this morning, between two trees on the horizon, and I realized I was headed in the wrong direction. My dear friend, I've never written to you of thankfulness. I've written down my concerns, my hopes, even my anger and frustration. But never a letter of simple thanks. You are the one who has brought me here, with the help of others who have come to mean a great deal to me. You have taught me about myself, about my family, my faith, my world. You have been there no matter how I've behaved, reacted, resisted. The reason I was having trouble putting the words in place is that I was going to misdirect them. 

It is You I wish to thank. I thank you every day, at some point, but more often than not, the thanks are for blessings I've seen or heard; things that are fairly obvious to me. This thanks is for what is in my heart. Deep, deep in my heart. I am thankful for the place that is there for You. 

For your grace, I thank you, on the day we celebrate Christ's birth, and every day. 

Warmly,

Stephanie

elusive expression

Yesterday, Christmas morning, I awoke with some thoughts in my heart and in my bones that made me want to write. They weren't exactly words, though, and I decided to think on them a bit first. By late morning I thought what I really wanted to write was a letter to a friend; along the lines of a thank you, but a little more related to one of those Christmas letters that get included in cards (of which I am not very fond). Still. Considering the points to include, the realization came that I could reasonably include a number of friends, but realizing that I had no idea how to create a list of "undisclosed recipients," I started to consider a blog post, and just hope that the right people saw it. 

Then it got loud, we went to the beach, I had to start dinner, and my fingers did not find the keyboard; the thoughts did not crystalize into words on a page. 

At long last I sat with the keyboard on my lap, and all of it was gone. 

Not the intent, or the feeling of thankfulness, or the desire to share it all. Not the slight feeling that I had more than one person I wanted to address. What was gone was the tangible feeling of words flowing through my fingertips. Normally, now for instance, I can quite perceptibly feel the words moving through my head, behind my eyes, going directly to my fingertips as they touch the keys. The hardest to write, to release, are the words that make their way to my heart from that space behind my eyes. Those are the words that I fear will take a piece of me with them, leaving my far too vulnerable to the reader. Those are the words that mean the most to me, and that I am usually fairly certain sound like gibberish to anyone but me. Those are the type of words I had playing around inside yesterday.

Until the keyboard sat in front of me. 

There were plenty of other distractions. I knew I was not in the space I needed to be in to write. Truthfully, although I sort of hoped I could lose myself in the blank screen in front of me, I knew there was no way I'd be able to express myself well 'on paper' in the middle of a living room full of people with the television on. In some ways, by then, I wondered if it was too late to share the words. If it would come across as an afterthought, or worse--an obligation. 

Instead, I read old posts: advice I'd been given, but had avoided, and then circumvented. Turns out I may not have seen what I needed to see. Either that, or what I saw with thankfulness in my heart is different from what I may have needed to see at the time. It's funny, because I know that what is taken from the written word is intrinsically related to the reader, and at times I wonder if perhaps that is even stronger than the relationship to the author. I think of my brother who says he used to ask his English teachers if they had spoken to the poet; if they really could say "this is what he meant" without that personal discourse. 

An then I realize that there are times when I finish one of those heart-word posts, and it looks like gibberish to me, but I post it anyway, and someone comes back and says they saw something they needed, or a memory was triggered. Sometimes the words just need to get out. And it doesn't always make sense to me. Yesterday the words decided to stay in to make me think and feel just a little bit more. Indeed, the thankfulness, and the desire to share it is as strong today, as real. 

yes, me

There are some things lately that I have been realizing that I miss. Quite a bit. Soul searching has become something that I am no longer afraid of, partly because it happens in bits and pieces. Increments I can almost handle. There are still overwhelming moments, but for the most part, each 'episode' has left me in a better place.

So, some of the things I miss in my every day, in no real particular order:

~Drinking milk with lunch, and it's corollary: having a bowl of cereal for breakfast

~Physical labor (moving stuff around; standing up; walking distances)

~Interacting with strangers, or the 'outside' (this one surprised me! But it's true. I hate small talk in conversation, but the niceties of greeting and directing are fun, in moderation!)

~Laughing at nonsense, all by myself

~Being in charge of something that I can leave behind once in a while

~Not wanting to leave things behind once in a while (okay, so this one is in order after the last one, but only because I really do miss not wanting to leave the things I'm in charge of behind)

~Creating--with color, with words, with my body in tune with music, with fabric, with paint--with anything!

I'm coming to realize these are all more than just parts of things I've done in the past; they are important to me being me, to me fulfilling my purpose, whatever that might be. That part I'm still searching for, patiently and diligently. 

And I won't give up, no matter how many obstacles I may encounter.

lunchtime

"Mozzarella balls always seem a better idea before I eat them."

"Yeah. It's almost like my memory of them is better than they are. And cheese sticks are just bad when they get cold."

"Exactly.....Pretty much they are bad unless they are burning everything--the plate, your fingers, your tongue. If they are not too hot to taste, they really aren't all that great. Maybe I just don't really like mozzarella, and just never realized it."

"Ha! Maybe. But string cheese is good. Maybe it's the breading that's bad. "

"Yeah. String cheese is good stuff. It's mostly just raw cheese sticks."

Something to think about.

sparrow

Where once I thought
The wall was built of brick and stone,
Mortared and fast,
I now see
An eggshell quality:

Sturdy for a time
But ready to give
At just the right pressure,
With just the right point.
Breakable.

You are breaking through
From the outside.
But from the inside
I must do my part,
With courage.

Praying for strength
Has not been the key.
What I need is courage
To face to light that until now
Has been diffused.

Guide my hand and my heart,
That I might strike through,
Stretch my wings,
And fly.
A sparrow.

you may not know

I finally managed to come up with 10.....

1. I really miss wearing contacts.

2. My glasses are always filthy -- from tears on the inside of them, and from who knows what on the outside.

3. I've never needed a passport. And that makes me a little bit sad.

4. When Dad died, I was in the middle of choreographing a dance for my grandmother. I promised at his funeral to make one for him, but never did. All of it was in me, and I still watch it in my head, sometimes.

5. I used to want a tattoo. The argument with myself over visible vs hidden got to be unwinable, so it'll likely never happen.

6. I'm still trying to figure out what else I want to be when I grow up--I'm closer, but still not there.

7. In high school, I wanted to major in International Law and Languages, and work at the UN. My guidance counselor talked me out of that, and every one of my dream jobs. My favorite class at college was Hospitality Law. Go figure!

8. Zip lines are my favorite way to fly.

9. Favorite place I have ever been is Hawaii. Arizona is a close second. St George Island, Florida, is third.

10. My only real phobia is auditioning, which is related to being talked out of dream jobs when I was 17.

to let go

Yesterday I came to realize that there is quite a difference between a scar and a scab. A subject came up that I never thought I would be able to talk about matter-of-factly, and there was no pain, no discomfort, no anger or frustration. What I felt was compassion, understanding. And when I realized that, it occurred to me that healing had created a scar, a slub in the fabric of my life and who I am. It will always be there, which I knew, sometimes more visible than other times, but I suddenly understood that scars can indeed make us stronger.

Shortly afterwards, I cried at another conversation, as I realized that what I was feeling was a scab being picked at and pulled on. The tears were not because of what was said (or read--it was a text conversation). Rather, they came when I admitted that I was the one picking at it, and not allowing it to heal. For so long, I have told myself that others were pushing, poking, scraping off those painful places in my heart, on my very soul. I cried because I realized that's not true. All those people I've pointed at have likely been put in my life to help me heal, not to make things worse. I've resisted. (A theme, it seems.)

Over the past few days, I've been having an interesting long-distance conversation about faith, Love, and self, and the intertwining of them in honestly living life. A couple of the questions have resonated especially with me. One was an inquiry about the past events that haunt me. I wish I knew what the events are; what it is that made me resistant and willing to hold myself back. What I do know are the effects. I was once accused of using the effects to live in the past; to pull them out as a trump card to get my way. Sadly, because of who said it, I felt compelled to believe it, despite what people who knew me more deeply told me.

So after that series of emails, a conversation over dinner, and a few text messages (all with strong, faith-filled men that I admire), I sat down and had a conversation with Jesus. Actually, I wrote Him a letter. And in writing longhand in my notebook, in the silence and through tears (my M.O.!), I found the scabs I had been picking at. They are superficial, which I guess makes them easily accessible, more rippable--harder to heal. Can I put them into words that are coherent? Not entirely. I know that when I can, I will be able to let go of them, or face them--an even better choice, in all likelihood. I have an inkling, though; I can see them, taste them in some of my tears.

"Lord, please heal me of my brokenness. From it comes fear, and I don't want to be afraid....I am afraid that I am disappointing You." In my prayer last night, I was in turn afraid, angry, embarrassed and ashamed, and in the end, what mattered most, was that I felt relieved. Because I broke the silence. Because I asked for help that I know I need. Because I realized I am not permanently broken.

I woke this morning not only willing, but excited to be me--no one but me. That was my goal today: to be completely me. It was surprisingly easy! Clearly, I am not alone in my effort. I still (will always) have questions, arguments, concerns. And I'm looking forward to it all. I have a lot to let go of, and someplace to put it. With patience, these scabs can finally heal and become scars, leaving me with compassion and understanding I've been needing to share.

heart and mind

Almost two weeks ago, I finished a book of reflection. It was a daily devotional that touched my heart deeply. On the last day, as I began the last paragraphs, I sobbed uncontrollably.  Having to wait to read until my tears subsided was both painful and relief. I was about to say I had never felt such emotion, but then I remembered that I most certainlu have--in prayer.

That bliss - that indescribably intense emotional response - is sometimes frightening. And yet the 'realness' of it is at the same time reassuring, comforting, peaceful. In those moments, time is irrelevant and space is immaterial. I'm not alone and no one is with me. I find myself deep within my own heart and nowhere at once. Every time, there have been tears, and often laughter or an uncontrollably broad smile.

I'd thought that deep state of prayerful being was only possible once in a while, but I'm thinking now there might be more to the story. I tried starting the book over. Not in an effort to recreate, but because I had learned so much through the first reading, and I know there is always more. But the pages may well have been blank: I saw nothing but black marks on a page. I gave up after three days. I miss it.

My heart of hearts knows that prayer is within me. Every day. My mind is suddenly interfering. Love will win out; Love never fails.

to flag or not

The life I lead (and love!):

"Do I know how to play flag football?"

"It's the same as regular football, but..."

"I don't know how to play regular football. You know that."

"Then, no, you do not know how to play flag football. Why? Do you want to play?"

"I keep getting invited to play. And I'm wondering if it would be a good skill to have for Life Teen."

"No, you don't really have to."

"Is it better to look like an idiot when and if the time comes?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Thanks. I love you."

"No problem. I love you, too." 

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?

prayer, peace, purgatory

My favorite passage in Purgatorio so far is the beginning of Canto IV, because it so vividly placed me in the center of my most intense Communion of Saints moment (that lasted an hour--it felt like only a moment, though). In San Antonio at a LifeTeen training conference, during XLT--an especially moving Adoration and exultation experience--I found myself quietly alone with the Lord in the middle of a room crowded with people and music. Sitting on the floor, I was (for once) Mary not Martha; carefree in the presence of a Man with stories to tell. We laughed together as I cried tears of joy. Over the last month, in the moments when I feel rushed, stressed, pushed, overwhelmed, I stop and feel that moment.

When any of our senses is aroused,
to intensity of pleasure or of pain,
the soul gives itself up to that one sense,

oblivious to all its other powers.
This fact serves to refute the false belief
that in our bodies more than one soul burns.

And so it is that when we see or hear
something which wholly captivates the soul,
we easily can lose all sense of time.

living and dead

A couple of months ago, as our book club discussion started, I was asked why we had to read that particular book anyway. That's pretty much how the question went. Only somewhat apologetically I explained that the title and the cover had caught my eye, the topic was interesting, and, quite frankly, it had been on sale, so I picked it up and added it to the list. Unsatisfied, my fellow bibliophile asked, "But why? What did he want us to get out of it?" Laughing, I replied that he had nothing to do with the book selections; "he" being our pastor. It turns out, though, He may have had His reasons.

That book was The Pope Who Quit (Sweeney), about Peter Morrone, who became Pope Celestine V, and then retired shortly thereafter, and I picked it up on the heels of Pope Emeritus Benedict's resignation. The author made quite a point of mentioning that Celestine V figured in Dante's Inferno, another book I picked up on that sale-rack day, and had already planned on putting on the reading list--eventually. When I saw the connection between the books, I put Inferno on the calendar for the next meeting. The feedback from everyone in the first week or so of reading Inferno was so overwhelmingly positive, despite the difficulty with some translations, that we all agreed that we would continue with Purgatorio and Paradiso before moving on from the Middle Ages.

Next week, right smack dab in the middle of November, we will meet to discus our impressions of Purgatory. The profundity of reading this book over the feasts of All Saints and All Souls is not lost on me--although I did need a tap on the shoulder. Upon his entrance to Purgatory, an angel carves seven P's on Dante's forehead, representing the sins atoned for on each of the seven terraces. I heard a similar (though quite unrelated) reference in one of the readings over the last week or so, and that's when the connection really hit me. Ever since, I have been even more deeply moved by the poetry, the imagery, and the story.

As in the Inferno, where the punishments fit the crimes so precisely, those in Purgatory are circling the mountain making up for their mistakes and missteps. As I read about the weight of each of the penitents' sins, and their requests for prayers from the living to shorten their time, I keep thinking about those I know that have died. We cannot know what others are suffering, or what is in their hearts, what things might keep them from real rest. On Saturday morning, we heard a bit about lamentation, and the beauty of allowing ourselves to feel, express, and even embrace the sorrow and pain that can come with memories of our loved ones who have died--even years after they are gone.

The result is that as I read, in this month of remembering and honoring the dead, I find myself occasionally flooded with memories of people I love, but cannot see or call. And I let the memories come, noting how the memory might relate to the Canto I am reading, while coming to the understanding and acceptance that passage through each of the terraces is probably a given. The book is fascinating, and the fact that God put a half price book in my sights to get me to read Purgatory in November is the most amazing and unexpected blessing.

When reading Inferno, I struggled through Longfellow's translation--the most widely recognized and used in scholarly environs. I understood about half of what I read, but enjoyed the imagery nonetheless, even when I had no idea what it meant. I was also in a rather deserted place in my soul at the time, so I may not have absorbed much anyway. For the next two books in the Commedia, I am using the Penguin Classic: The Portable Dante, edited by Mark Musa. I highly recommend it!

turn, turn, turn

This afternoon, I closed up the porches for the season (though not the patio--I'm seeing at least one more fireside before it gets way too cold!). The furniture was put away, and the table folded up, the floors swept, and the rug rolled. Many other years, this process has frustrated and depressed me. Getting someone to help me out with carrying and moving, or simply not grumble while doing so has stressed me and irritated me far more than even I thought necessary.

Today, though, was different. The boys went out to rake, and when I joined them, they reminded me that there weren't enough rakes for me to help them. They got the leaves moved (and worked well together, to boot! Bonus!), and I told them I would take care of the furniture. As I worked, I thought about how much had happened on those porches this summer: the laughter, the tears, the growth, the pain. I thought about the prayer, the reading, the learning, the friendships that formed and developed, the wine that was poured, and the food that was shared. I reflected on the moments, the memories, the Love. Instead of sorrow, I felt joy at having spent the time well, and at the prospect of opening up again in the spring. For the first time, the seasonality of outdoor living areas became revitalizing in the hibernation phase.

Last night I heard news of a young woman--the age of our eldest--who died suddenly. Guy and I prayed for her, her family, her roommates and classmates, friends and relatives. We don't know her, but that's irrelevant; we are parents. We care. We talked then about hard topics, prayers, God, trust, peace and lamentation. This morning at church, three of the songs we sang were favorites of Dad's--songs he would either sing out especially energetically at church, or that he would sing at home as he wandered around, puttering. At communion, after we sang, and while the piano continued, I was suddenly filled with the joy of knowing that Dad had been one of the souls there to welcome her home. That's what Dad would do, that's who he was. Once again, I found myself smiling and chuckling while tears streamed down my cheeks as I gazed at the statue of the risen Lord over the altar.

Closing up the porches was a welcome today; a welcome home to the heart of our home. Expanding onto the porches for the warmer seasons is the open armed embrace of our family spirit. Filling them with the people we know and love, and even occasionally with strangers, feels like the group hugs I often crave when I'm out and about. Dad was always involved in those, and in them I felt safe, loved, elevated. In the spring, I hope that I remember today, and the marvelous interplay of emotions and the thankfulness in my heart. More than anything else I have in my life, I am thankful for the faith I have, and for the Relationship made possible through it.

unmuddling my mind

A couple of months ago, I stopped with words. A few weeks ago, I had mentioned that I stopped writing, but now I realize that there was more than that. Words didn't come to write, and even reading lost its lifelong appeal. Again, I found myself pondering what had changed. So much, so little; and yet I can pinpoint a series of events or thoughts that precipitated the change--a series that happened mostly at the same time or in rapid succession. At some point I read something about blogging being nothing but narcissistic, regardless of the reasons we think we have. This occurred along with a general feeling that no one really, truly cares what I have to say in the grand scheme of things, nor should they. I didn't want anyone to--I just wanted to journal my journey. But it did make my wonder why I might feel the need to scream it out loud. I purposely walked away from my laptop; would only check websites on my phone (a rather cumbersome way to type when compared to a keyboard), would only write down single sentences (copied from others' works) into my datebook to record my state of mind for the day, would force my way through the reading I had found assigned to me. I thought it must be time for a change or something.

But change in interests is a far different thing from change in lifelong loves. You can take that as literally or as metaphorically as you'd like. The fact is, I don't remember ever not reading and writing. I don't ever remember forcing myself to do either--although I have backed myself up against deadlines quite a number of times! Here I was, dreading the thought of reading words, of having words in front of me. Why?

A little over a month ago, I was encouraged to go back through my old blog posts to find something I was looking for. That evening, I was given quite a bit of advice, and took all of it to heart and followed it, to my best ability. Except for the blog post advice. I intended to. A few times I sat down to. But I just couldn't do it. For a week or two, I made excuses to myself about being busy, having a slow computer, being busy, needing to clean or cook--or sleep--being busy. And about that third time telling myself I was far too busy to read my own work--after all, I had others' works that needed to be read for my personal development--I realized that I was scared.

Scared that I would find what I was looking for.

And when I realized that, some other things started happening in my life. Or in my head. It's sometimes hard to tell which. I remembered a few people telling me how touched or moved they were by my sharing my journey, and the people who had asked me for prayers--not advice, or guidance, or anything else from me; just my prayers. I had two strangers startle me into very present moments, offering me gifts of words, and pieces of paper. And I found a blog by an amazing young woman I once knew who shared her journey of faith throughout her pregnancy. Her baby lived about 8 hours: a miracle in every way. The strength of her faith, her willingness to share both her joys and sorrows was nothing short of inspiring. There was nothing narcissistic about it.

The fact is, my journey got kind of stalled for a while. And I wasn't sure how to share that. Sharing the good stuff is more fulfilling. Sharing the hard parts is when I've found the judgement starts, the comparisons, the "see? I told yous." I was stuck. I worked myself into a frenzy trying to do all the right stuff, the right way, at the right time. Instead of keeping my relationship with God open, I tried to force it to get better, bigger, more. As a result, I felt overwhelmed, overwrought, and ultimately, bored. In the past, when I'd get in a fix, I would write it out, pour out the words that came to mind and not really care how coherent it was. Part of my frenzy was in making sure everything I wrote made sense. I guess you could say that I worried that others were depending on me to get this right, and in that way, I did make myself the focus.

These days, I'm in a better place. I'm not bored, that's for sure. I've found the love of faith that I had been all but ignoring. I'm still not rolling along quite like I was, but I've been realizing that may be, at least in part, because I've not been writing it out. My laptop is still old and slow, but I know that if I do not make the time to attempt to work out my confusions, I will never leave them behind.

the elusive three

For the past week, I've been trying to compose the short version of my life, my journey. The 3 minute version. While the challenge was at first invigorating, it has become its own difficult obstacle. I start with a short idea in my head, but somehow in the transfer to paper, my commercial becomes a feature presentation.  Funny--that does not discourage me. Persistence will pay off in the end. But I find myself trying not to wonder when and where that end could be.

During the course of this week, I have been approached by two strangers, each of whom offered me a word; one wisdom, and the other love. Their intersections with my road are stories unto themselves, but regardless of the strangers' intentions, those two words have calmed me. Directly between these two strangers, I was introduced to a third person who somehow is a bridge. More to ponder.

Early last week, a friend of mine had a presentation to do. Silly me, thinking it had been prepared in advance, asked the night before about how practicing was going. As I shook my head and mock-reprimanded against procrastination and the all-too-familiar argument that best work is born at the last minute, I saw myself. I often find myself, as I did tonight, finding odd things to do--very important things!--rather than do "homework." We now have clean railings up both sets of stairs. And the walls look better, too. All in an effort to order my thoughts. 

Despite my words avoiding paper, I am prepared, to a certain extent--it is a story of me I'm delivering, after all.  Who knows it better than I? Just One, and from there will come guidance, should I follow. I'm subtly backleading in my efforts so far. The dance will be oh, so much more delightful if I just follow the lead, since I know the steps already. The words will come. When I let go and let them.

ask why

When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend I thought was all that. After dating him for about three months, I invited him to a New Year's Eve party that my parents were taking us to. I knew there would be very few kids our age there, and really didn't want to spend the evening with just my sister to keep me company. Did I "forget" to mention to him that there would be Mass at midnight? Probably--which means, of course I did! In my own awkward and unpracticed way, I was trying to invite him into something our family did together without it being weird. Did I realize that less weird for me might be more weird for him? Did I care enough to wonder? No way. I was 15--I was concerned more about me, and how I felt.

Everything was going great--we were hanging out with my sister, maybe we watched TV or played cards. The thing I remember most about that night was Mass. The adults started filing downstairs to the basement where we had been all evening, and that was his first clue that something was going on. I tried to play it off as something I saw all the time. In truth, I was a little freaked out at them coming downstairs--Mass in a basement with no windows is weird. And there is a ridiculous amount of discomfort associated with the realization that you purposely yet unwittingly tricked someone into being trapped in a basement with no escape. I tried to ignore the daggers he shot at me, until, about halfway through, he leaned over and asked, "Why do Catholics do that? Why do they sway like that? It's weird." I turned my head and saw what he saw: everyone swaying--not side to side as one would do when holding a baby, or dancing to music--forward and back. And so was I.

I answered him honestly. "I don't know. I never really noticed before." But it was the last time I did. For months afterward, focusing on not swaying occupied all my attention. Then it became habit to stand stock still. Save for the days (years!) when I baby-swayed, I haven't moved at church. I sit, stand and kneel, but no swaying.

At the time, I had all the answers. I had all A's in school, read a lot, and felt like I knew everything. That question that stumped me was hard to take. It made me doubt myself, my gifts, even, for reasons I may never understand, my faith. Up to that point, I had thought of faith as a given, but with one question, I was thrown. For one simple reason: I didn't know who I could ask. Even then, I figured it had something to do with equilibrium and some other physiological factors, but at church was the only place I ever saw it. I was never told I was supposed to, or that people do for various reasons, nothing. It was a void, a black hole.

Black holes suck in the stuff around them, and this one sucked in quite a bit of goodness. It sucked in just about all the faith that I had. I started asking some questions, but without a clear idea of who to ask, I wasn't really looking for answers. Instead, I was asking questions to point out what I didn't like, the quirks, the stuff I didn't understand--all in such a way that I really was making fun of what I didn't know. And it got to the point that I thought asking questions was a bad thing. If I didn't know, there must be something wrong with me. Funny thing is, though, I only felt that way about questions related to faith and its practice.

Fast forward. I met a great guy. We got married. Had kids. Went to church. Got busy. Time passed. Life was crazy, but good. We were showing our kids faith. They weren't asking too many questions. Nobody had to know what I didn't know--not even me. It was good. Or so I thought.

When Dad died, I started to realize there was something missing in my faith. It wasn't a given. I did a lot of taking in the days, months and years that followed. In many ways, I was still that 15-year-old girl, at least as far as my faith is concerned. Had I considered that might be a legitimate question to ask, had I had someone to go to, high school, for me, may have been very different. All that taking and selfishness turned me more and more inward. I still went to church, I still did the things I thought faith-filled people did, and eventually I hit a wall. And I kept hitting my head against it.

Fortunately, that was mistaken for knocking, and a door was opened. I was having a miserable time, feeling like everything was falling apart, and someone I didn't even know very well told me that if I wanted or needed to, I could call. Just the invitation opened another door: the one in my heart. Soon after, I offered to take Mom to Faith Matters at church, and, lo and behold! Within a couple of weeks, I heard that questions are good. Ask them. Look for answers. And don't stop until you understand. It didn't take long for me to realize that was my nature; in my "real life," I asked questions all the time. Relentlessly, sometimes!

I still don't know about that swaying, but I have had many questions answered--most of which lead to more questions. (I'm in heaven!) And my kids have been asking questions, which makes me so proud of them, especially when they humble me by asking one I can't answer. I love telling them we'll find out together, or to direct them to someone who might know. I've gotten to know the person who offered that invitation, and although I have never called, I have emailed, texted and messaged--a LOT!

And I am forever grateful. My heart dances.

not just a question

What's changed?

On the surface, if just reading the words, the question is simple. Further contemplation brought me to the simple answer, "Everything, it seems." I started making a list.

1. I haven't done any yoga in what seems like forever. (probably about a month)
2. I've been cranky at work, for a number of reasons (none of which really are my problem, incidentally)
3. Working at soccer games means that I have missed Adoration for a while.
4. I reprimanded myself for asking questions--for being who I am, for reasons I cannot even identify fully. (this was the most disturbing one, in all honesty)
5. I realized I was actively avoiding writing anything down. No blogging, no quotes, no notes. Nothing. (when I hit this one, I stopped. Something clearly was wrong.)

Looking at the list, my first realization was that I had been blaming outside stimuli for all of these things--too busy to exercise, others' issues, scheduling I had little control over, a book I wasn't prepared to read, a sluggish laptop--instead of looking at what in me was leaving me stranded.

So I turned inward.

And I realized I had allowed, for some reason, a kernel of doubt to settle in. Like a popcorn skin stuck between molars, that little kernel of doubt irritated and discomfited, until even the good stuff was not getting past to my heart. The doubt was not in any Big Ideas; it was my old arch nemesis, self-doubt.

I realized that I had been worrying more about stuff I didn't know, and that didn't matter in any Grand Scheme, or even (in all honesty) to me. In lieu of self-examination, I was frantically looking for answers I didn't even need. My fixes were treatment of symptoms, rather than looking for a cure. And my fixes were many. Mostly they involved more and more, until I was working myself into a frantic mess.

Then a question. And I'm finding Trust again. And Hope. And Love.

2. emotions: bliss

Warmth from the sun on the top of my head, as my hair flies freely behind then before me. Being pushed on a swing, high into the air by my father, I know, young as I am, how amazingly free Heaven must be.

Climbing onto the swing, anticipating what is to come even now brings a calming joy to my mind and heart. As he would pull the swing toward him, me moving backwards, blindly, trustingly, through space, I felt a safeness that was almost irrational. Trust that the hands would be steady and true, the arms strong enough to outlast my fascination with the combination of cadence, gravity and levity. Even when I learned to pump, and could have control over the duration of my adventure, I still preferred--or imagined--the experience of being pushed.

The first time I experienced bliss was on a common playground, flying through the air. When I see a swing, I remember, with every fiber of my being, that bliss, that joy, that time with my father. There are times when I feel that connection to my Father; times when I'm free falling in faith. Now is not one of those times. But I won't let go. The very fact that I can remember and recall, and feel the memory of that bliss means that it is not out of reach.

1. one sense

A feathery snowflake brushed against my cheek. Then another. And another. With each came a brushstroke of chill; a momentary burn of cold. As the flakes came faster, the light, airy quality began to be replaced by a sharp, stinging sensation, accompanied by an almost imperceptible numbness in my fingertips, my toes, and the very end of my nose. With each passing moment, I became more aware of the brittleness of any small motion; the very topography of the skin on my face. There was no need to fight to hold back tears: each pore was already acutely aware of the certainty of each tear freezing. The burning warmth of tears would have to wait.

Closer together we huddled, breath and body heat creating a short-term barrier to the unending storm. The crack of the guns mixed with the peal of churchbells were palpable currents in the air around us. The last words were spoken just as turning to stone began to sound appealing, satisfying, safe. Breaking apart from each other, slowly moving toward the cars, my heart began to beat in normal rhythm, leaving behind the only warmth adrenaline had brought to my core. Part of me looked forward to defrosting.

Part of me wanted nothing more than to remain cold, stiff, and frozen.

rocks and hard places

Looking out over the vista, grateful for the gifts of memory and review, I found myself excited to move forward, when the time was right. Not long after that post, there was a phone call, some earnest questions, the beginnings of some new life phases, and when I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see a pile of rocks and boulders in front of me. "Yep," I thought, "after that rest, it's time to climb. Thanks for the prep!" and up I scrambled.

First I picked my way around, hopping over the smaller rocks, and looking for footholds and handholds to make my way higher. Then I scrambled up the sloping rocks, and the boulders with flat spots, wondering just how high I would ultimately have to climb. Without warning, I've found myself in a crevice, and (having ignored some sage advice: "And when you want to go explore / The number you should have is 4) without a hand or a rope to pull me out.

It's given me time to think. (No need to panic. I'll find my way out; I'm sure of it.) What I realized is that despite how far I've come, something has not changed. Once again, the first thing I did was decide what I needed to do. In and of itself, this is not entirely bad. However, when courses of action are not even considered--let alone tossed aside as infeasible--things may not turn out as intended. I'm pretty sure, now that I'm heading on toward frustrated, that there were other very reasonable options.

It's entirely possible that I was supposed to choose a rock to carry, or that I was to move some of the rocks out of the way. It's also quite possible that I was looking at a rock waiting to be chiseled and molded into something else, some beautiful figure that only my eyes could have seen under the smooth, round surface. Or that someone else may have been stuck in the rocks, and I should have listened for their cries for help.

It's possible I was being invited to sit and watch more of the view developing.

I need to work on moving past my dependence on myself and myself alone. I thought I had. I forgot that moving forward does not mean forgetting what was behind; leaving missteps off the map. The good is in the journey. I have always believed that, but have often, in my full-steam ahead, missed the forest for the trees.

To dig or to jump or to wait. Something to think about.

closed doors, open hearts

The door and Dad's ladder

The porch project was started a year or so ago, and is, as of today, just about finished. But the biggest part of it was even older than that. Some time ago, we moved a door and a window, flip-flopping their positions to make more room in our kitchen, and also on the porch. It took a while to get all the trim reapplied, and there was  a bit that didn't quite fit right after the move. At this point, I should probably clarify that when I say "we moved," I really mean that Guy, Dad and a good friend took a sledgehammer and a saw to the side of our house, while I took the kids to a park to play; and that the trim was finally applied with my sister's help. But it was Dad who often said that he would rework the trim sometime, and then paint. Something else always came up, or the weather just didn't co-operate, and the tidying up was put off again and again. The last time Dad was here, he mentioned it, saying that if he felt better, he would tackle it.

I painted it yesterday.

Some days I miss him more than others, and often the timing is inexplicable. This weekend I miss him, and it is completely and totally explicable. I've been having discussions of faith that have caused me to really dig deep into what I know, what I've learned, and what I know I am able to share. There was a time when I would have followed up the discussions with a "debriefing" with Dad. Of course, that time was long, long before the door thing, but the discussions still serve as a reminder that I won't hear his voice at the end of the day. Painting the rafters on the porch--the aim of this weekend's project--also involved using Dad's ladder, which bordered on rickety when he left it here for us, and has certainly not gotten any better! (As far as I can tell, it's no worse than it was, but we should probably get a new one one of these days.) Pulling the ladder out to work on a project always gets me thinking of him, and about the fact that usually I disregard his #1 rule about using a ladder: ALWAYS have one of your kids hold the other side. I never knew if it was for safety or for company, but I loved when I was the kid holding the wrong side of this ladder.

The door is broken. We can't use it to get in the house, although we could use it to escape in an emergency. Dad hoped to fix that, too.

As anyone who has suffered a profound loss knows, there is no recovery. The pain ebbs and flows, and you (hopefully) learn to surround yourself with people who can allow you to ride the tide. Painting the door frame was a big thing. But only to me, I'd wager. I still need to scrape the paint off the transom, which won't take long, but will probably remind me that yesterday I took a 1" sash brush loaded with paint and covered up his penciled note "facing out." The real reason I hadn't painted the trim before. Yesterday, with the first coat of paint, that hurt far less than the second coat today, but I started in that corner today, whereas I had finished there yesterday. The reminder at the beginning today gave me time to remember, to think, to ponder, to pray.

I remembered going with him to help build the playground at church; a parallel to the project Guy was helping with today at church, where I later joined him.

I thought about the limbs we were going to remove at Mom's even later today, and how that was a project Dad would have done. Then I came to the really difficult realization that he would not have done it. I remember him as he was, which is a blessing. Today was the first time I really thought about the fact that he, too, would have aged. Even if he was here today, we still would need to get those limbs, in all likelihood. That's a hard pill to swallow. And that's when I really felt broken. I figure he was holding the other side of the ladder, and that he's the one who knocked the brush bucket off a couple of times, trying to get my attention. It worked. I got the message.

The door is still broken, and probably will be for a while. Dad was our handyman, and our teacher for tinkering. One of these days, we'll have someone fix it up, but in the meantime, it's just a wall anyway, so it's no big deal. The trim on the outside looks good, even if it doesn't fit right. Next, I'll paint the threshold (which could get tricky, and could take another year!), but that has no special significance to me.

My heart is broken, too. But the thing I've found is that if I let it, the broken part becomes an open part. When I feel that hurt, when I miss him, I've learned--at least on days like today--to allow the goodness of his example to flow into that space and fill it with the joy of his being. This morning we left church with Ode to Joy in our ears. Dad loved that one, and would dance his way out of church after it. Ode to Joy was the recessional at our wedding, and Dad danced his way to the receiving line. That joy, that silly dance that he couldn't NOT do--that's what filled the open part today.

to remember always

For the first time since 9/11, I had to work an 8 hour day on this date. In some ways, I was glad for the distraction; but I also feel pretty conflicted about that. If you scroll back through my blogs, you will find other 9/11 posts, and you will see that I, like many, deeply believe that sharing stories, thoughts, feelings, and emotions from that day in 2001, and the days and weeks, even months afterward is not only helpful for healing, but imperative for honoring and remembering the heros, the victims, their families and their friends. One of my dearest friends approached me last year with an idea for compiling such stories, so that we can continue to teach our children about the many facets of 9/11/01 and the attacks on the United States. Throughout the day today, as she could muster the strength and the words, she posted her story of that day. With her permission, and with only very minor editing, those posts follow, along with a comment from a friend of hers. Never, never can we forget.

Allie's story:

I am reflecting on my thoughts and emotions on this day, 12 years ago. Getting ready to attend a military funeral for Uncle Dick Mancuso (love that man!). As the day unfolded, the uncertainty, the disbelief, the absolute inability to wrap my brain around it. The color guard and playing of Taps at the burial, everyone in tears, both for Uncle Dick, and for our nation. We need to share these thoughts and emotions with our children. If we do not learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it. Every year, I have a conversation with them, trying to put into words the overwhelming loss of life and security that day, and many more days to come. Never take our freedom for granted, Never fail to whole-heartedly thank a service member, Never become complacent in your patriotism.......NEVER - EVER FORGET!
 

 8:46am, 9/11/01,

Reports on the radio that a small plane apparently ran into the World Trade Center....thinking, Wow, how in the world does that happen?

Go on with prep work at the restaurant, getting ready to leave at 10:00am to join family for Uncle Dick's funeral.......

9:03am, 9/11/01

 Barry, Jr. comes running into the kitchen yelling "we are being attacked, it’s terrorist!!" By that time, news crews on the scene and captured the second plane hitting WTC....."what???? Oh My God! Wait, What???? Was that just a person falling from the building? Oh My God!!!"

We are now all glued to the TV, tears falling down my face, mouths hanging open........

9:37am, 9/11/01
 Reports that a plane has hit the Pentagon, the belief that multiple planes are now "missing", speculation they could be headed for the Capital, the west coast, military bases, etc...all flights ordered to land, no take-offs....."Oh My God, this seriously cannot be happening.....it has to end, right????? Thank God Anthony did not go to school (K) today, everyone is at home getting ready for the funeral......"

9:59am, 9/11/01

 Tower Collapses!!! "Oh My God......do you know how many people work in those buildings???? Thousands!!! Oh My God!!! I have to get home....."

10:03am, 9/11/01

 Reports of a plane crashing in PA..possibly on course for DC ...."Where is Shanksville???? Still multiple planes missing... what is next? Driving home now, have to get to the rest of my family.....I get home, they have no TV on, no radio, they are trying to hold everything together for the funeral....I say, do you know what is happening, that we are under attack??? They have no clue, and tell me they do not want to know.....WHAT???? YOU NEED TO KNOW!!! I tell them some of it, have no idea what they hear......everyone is getting ready to leave for the funeral.....

10:28AM, 9/11/01

 Second Tower has collapsed.....driving to funeral home in Linglestown, [PA] with Aunt Patty, listening to the radio.....planes still missing, all military bases are on high alert......we have to go to Indiantown Gap after the funeral home for burial. How will that work? Will they allow us to proceed with our plans? PRAY, PRAY, PRAY.....Thank God my family is all together and not spread out.....together is the best case scenario....I get a call from Uncle Dick's stepson (whom I have never met or spoken to), who is travelling from DC up for the funeral.....Of course he is running late......he just drove by the pentagon on the highway, there were flames and smoke......traffic is at a standstill....he is continuing on and promised to keep me posted...."

10:50ish, 9/11/01

 Walking into funeral home, experiencing the "normal" emotions of attending a loved one’s funeral, keeping an eye on my little ones, making sure they are handling this new experience okay, heart is racing from anxiety. Wondering what else is happening while I am not in front of the TV or a radio.......take a deep breath......take care of your family......Pray....

11:40ish, 9/11/01

 Leaving funeral home, beautiful tribute to the life of Uncle Dick.....kids are holding up like troopers....get into car, listening to the radio.....not much has changed, multiple planes still missing, military bases on high alert.....call Uncle Dick's stepson, he is finally making good time and looks like he will be able to make it to Indiantown Gap on time for the burial.....we share what news we have heard.....express our shock and disbelief.....try to comfort each other. Will we be safe at Indiantown Gap? Of course we will; the Gap is very, very small compared to other possible "targets".....or will we? Why am I being arrogant in thinking that nothing this horrific could possibly happen to my family? What makes us so special? No one else woke up today thinking "I am a target"...... The overwhelming knowledge takes over all of my thoughts....At least we will all be together if something should happen......I have Doug; Anthony and Danielle have their Mommy and Daddy.....

12:30ish, 9/11/01

 Standing at the gravesite, Indiantown Gap, full color guard in place.....flag is folded and presented.....The color guard leader shared with us the following: "Please rest assured, we will never forget your loved one because we were chosen to honor our fellow serviceman on this of all days. This day will forever be imprinted in our hearts and minds." Taps playing in the distance......not a dry eye anywhere, including the guard......Many thoughts racing through my mind, many prayers passing through my soul.....Rest In Peace, Uncle Dick....you are truly loved.....

3:30ish, 9/11/01

 Had to go back to work, all of my family and friend stayed at my house to continue the celebration of Uncle Dick's life.....the restaurant is dead, everyone that does come in, wants to sit near the TV, this has been a very long, emotional, nerve wracking day, to say the least. I go home, hug and kiss everyone in sight and try to get some sleep. God Bless Us, America!

9/12/01

 The lack of background noise from airplanes is deafening......the next few days are full of fear, uncertainty, thinking everything around you looks suspicious.....go to work, go to school and pray....The days are oddly filled with hope, also. The passengers on Flight 93 have proven to be real life heroes.....They acted on instinct and put everyone else in the country ahead of themselves.....would I ever be able to demonstrate such strength? Messages left to loved ones, saved and cherished forever.

 I distinctly remember the day I heard the first airplane fly overhead, it stopped me in my tracks, I watched its progress and wondered where it was going, and who were all of those brave people on board.....

 

Jill’s story:

Middletown [PA] was never so quiet and living next door to the airport*, I can say that's the God's honest truth. The worst was going into work that night for UPS at the airport and everyone just walking around, wondering what to do...our plane couldn't go anywhere. A bunch of us went out on the ramp and just stared up into the night sky and watched a pair of F-16 fighters pass above us with the plumes of steam from TMI in the background...yeah we had to worry about that, too...totally surreal and unforgettable. A couple days later when things got back to "normal", a trade show container came through our facility addressed to WTC # 2; I called our supervisor over and just looked at him and said, "what do we do with this???" He looked at me, shook his head and softly said, "send it back..."

*Harrisburg International

teardrops and laughter

A couple of months ago, reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island, I grew to expect the emotional roller coaster elicited by his words. Before long, I came to realize that if I was laughing out loud in the middle of one page, I would likely be sobbing on the next, and vice verse. In all honesty, it was cleansing, though disconcerting at first! There were times when I wondered if the book was written just for me, finding myself incredibly grateful when one of my fellow readers was similarly moved. I wondered, too, if the gut-wrenching was purposely juxtaposed with the humorous, of if my sense of humor is just warped enough to find them together. [I realize that it all was more than likely purposeful. In our discussion, there was quite a consensus that he had Help.]

Tonight, in the midst of a text conversation with a friend, I realized I've been living a similar roller coaster, with a twist. A couple of weeks ago, while driving and contemplating some questions, I was struck by irrepressible laughter accompanied by relief at knowing what answer I was to give. Not just once, but twice, on the highway, and then a third time as I later parked the car. Each time I was filled with an amazing sense of joy--kind of an "ah, ha! moment" times 100. I messaged someone that it seemed that God was speaking in laughter, and that I could get used to that!

That's when I began to be moved to tears. Often. I'm beginning to think that perhaps blessings feel like little trails of salt water. In fact, this evening, I chuckled when the thought came to mind that I love the sea air on my cheeks. The difference, though--the twist--is that the tears that came while reading Merton were difficult realizations, or painful observations that I really didn't want to fit, but did. These tears lately are realizations, but of the awe-inspired variety. When I feel something I've always known, but never understood. When a piece of music touches the heart of a message. When a prayer reassures. When a verse I've heard hundreds of times is taught in such a way that the clarity is instantaneous, and so applicable to my being that I overflow with relief, and joy, and even sorrow.

A few months ago, I asked a friend why it is that I cry whenever I pray. Tears are more than just cleansing; they are a way for the excess to escape. Sometimes that excess is pain, hurt, sorrow. But other times that excess is beauty, joy, happiness. And then there are the times when the excess is relief, or understanding, or even Wow! At the moment, I'm relishing the feel and taste of salt water tears, and the realization that I have come a long way in patiently listening. I still need to work on waiting for one question to be answered before asking ten more, but this is progress! Not long ago, I didn't even know I could ask questions!

standing still

I've found myself at a standstill. Last week, I had this sense of.....what? I could only identify it as darkness, but that didn't seem quite right. Since I really didn't know what it was, I began to push against panic that darkness was going to descend, long before any darktime weather. I almost called a couple of friends to alert them; to have their warm thoughts shore me up. I resisted (and instead overdid social time, to the detriment of my psyche, and my belly). When I stopped to consider why this sense of something, I realized there was no darkness, only calm. The kind of calm and quiet that is palpable and strong enough to keep me in one place.

At one time, this kind of standstill would have pushed me to wonder why, or what I had done wrong, or not done, to be stuck when I had been moving right along (albeit slowly most of the time!). Today, though, seemed like an opportune time to turn around and look at where I've been, how far I've come. Each day on this journey, I've been reminded, in one way or another, how far I have yet to go. And how far I am behind where I could have been, had I made different turns and avoided some detours and unnecessary exits. (This latter part is always argued--without those fits and starts, I would not be who I am, and therefore could not be where I am now, which is right where I'm supposed to be. While I know this, the thought still creeps in on occasion, and must be pushed away or dealt with.) For the first time, looking back over the course, there is no feeling that I've missed something, or left something behind. I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I have actually covered quite a bit of ground! The place I left from is far in the distance, not just a step back, as I've sometimes feared.

This part of my journey has been moving toward, not away, and I can almost see the change in my stride at that transition. My steps may be slower, but they are surer, stronger and steadier. This view is breathtaking and humbling and uplifting, all at the same time. And I find myself grateful for the standstill; for the time to allow this all to sink in, to take root, to sprout wings. For the first time, I do not find myself resisting the inertia. And I wonder if past resistance has brought on the listlessness and dejection that I find in the darktime (which is still a long way off!); if perhaps there was more looking out I should have done, when the tendency was for me to look inward when the spinning of the world slows......

Should have done matters little. Outward I shall look, and use this glance behind as incentive to move ahead. If I can come this far, I can go this far again plus one step more, and then yet again this doubled distance plus one. And when it's time to move forward again--tonight, tomorrow, next week--I will be ready, willing, with eagerness anew. Into a sunrise.



"The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it."
~Henry David Thoreau
(thanks, Lee!)

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!

here and now

What an amazing and glorious week! As Guy and I weeded this evening, he looked at me and said, "I feel like I've been on a week-long retreat!" He then listed the activities that have driven us forward on our journey this week.

Grace Uncorked on Tuesday, where Fr Michael Gaitley talked about God's Mercy and the Sacred Heart. And where we met some people whose faces we'd seen many times, as well as some we'd never seen. Where we shared wine, snacks, and fellowship, laughter, knowledge, and even a few tears. And where Mom rediscovered the joy of helping out.

Mass for the Feast of the Assumption on Wednesday with Joseph, who actually asked one of his Monsignor questions, and got a really good answer. And where we ordered some Boy Scout popcorn.

A fireside with dear friends, and dear friends of theirs, where we talked about all kinds of things, with faith stories and questions mixed in, and marshmallows and s'mores, too.

A birthday dinner on Friday, celebrating not just his 19th birthday, but 20 years of living here in PA. And afterwards, talking with Mom about prayers and people who need them.

Saturday, we spent on the river, paddling with a group of adventurers from our church and another. Where we came upon a 'water path' through a grass island, and I asked Drew if he thought maybe Eden had a stream like the one we were on. And where we saw swathes of purple flowers, herons and cranes. Such beauty, such peace, such power.....

Afterwards, we picked Mom up and ate dinner with our fellow adventurers.  Love, laughter and stories, food and wine, unexpected interconnectedness and forever friendships. And a feeling that we've known each other before, or forever, or both.

This morning at Mass, hearing a Missionary speak about his life in Ethiopia, and the children and families he works with there, and the amazing faith he exuded. Then the sudden realization that that familiar feeling comes from the folding of time, and actually sharing in the same prayerful events, putting us in the same place--the Sacred Heart--and being so thankful I cried.

Then later going to meet that same Missionary at a friend's house, and discovered I was sitting and (literally) breaking bread with someone very special: certainly a living Saint. He shared more stories of the people, the children, the challenges, the love, the miracles he's seen. He blessed a young man who stopped by and is leaving for Marine Corps basic training in the morning, and gave him a Miraculous Medal to keep him safe. After the young man left, he asked questions about the training, with genuine concern. He promised to pray for the boy by name. I have no doubt that he will. Before we went, I was figuring we would be there for half an hour or so, and excuse ourselves; two and a half hours later, we were wishing he did not have to leave for another speaking engagement.

The blessings of this week are many and great. I know that I am being prepared to give back in equal measure (circling back to Tuesday's talk and lessons), and the amazing and fantastic thing is, I am not only prepared, I am so looking forward to it! I don't know exactly what will be asked of me, but I have never been more willing. I looked at Guy tonight, sitting by the fire, and said that I thought this week had been the best week. "Ever," he added, with a smile and a nod.

I am, we are, right where we need to be.

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.

way to go

Yesterday morning dawned sunny and cool; just the type of mild weather I live for. For whatever reason, Guy and I were drawn together despite this disparity in our favorite temperatures. What we absolutely concur on is that a perfect day shouldn't be wasted, if at all possible. While enjoying coffee, muffins and the paper after Mass, and catching up on status updates, I mused that we should ask our neighbor if we could borrow a couple of kayaks and paddle around. (A friend had posted a picture that said, "Money can't buy happiness, but it can buy a kayak, and that's pretty darn close." My inspiration!) She said yes, and offered a couple of suggestions for a beginner like me, and by 11am, we were changed, packed and loading.

By the time we arrived at the river, the breeze had picked up to a wind, and I swear there were whitecaps on the Susquehanna. No smooth, glassy anything anywhere. Just a whole bunch of pokey looking peaks. After posting pictures of each other in celebration of our spur of the moment date, we asked a guy who was pulling out if it was worth going out. His response caught us both off guard--"No way!" he said. "It's really rough!" He went on to tell us that paddling upstream was the easy part; coming back and maneuvering into the boat ramp was quite challenging. He overshot it and got stuck in the reeds, then had to circle back around. We asked about a park about a half hour away, and he and a fisherman agreed that lake paddling would likely be our best water day.

Back into the truck went the kayaks, pfds and dry bags, and we headed north. We had a wonderful time, racing and bumping here and there, commenting repeatedly on the warm water. Getting stuck in the plant life and seeing more varieties of dragonfly than I ever thought there could be in one place. As we turned back, we pulled out our on-the-water-picnic of green grapes and the most luscious cucumber from a friend's garden, which we ate like an apple. It was a wonderful, relaxing, and rejuvenating day. After we got home, Guy and the boys grilled a steak.

Perhaps the best part of the day, though, happened much later. Four of us were sitting at the table, playing Euchre, when Son #2 came home from work. In his best 'oh, how I'm gonna love this' voice, he bellowed, "And where were you today?!" Laughingly, we told him we'd been kayaking. "I know! And how did I find out?? Because my brother saw it on Facebook! Is that how I'm supposed to find out where you are and what you're doing?!" He smiled and waved his arms around the whole while. "Don't you always tell us we have to text you or call you or otherwise let you know where we are?? I come home from mowing lawns, and do you think I knew where you were?? No!! My brother--my brother!--had to find out on Facebook, of all places!" Busted.

It was awesome! Not only did he remind us of the one thing we really did forget to do, but he also showed us something even more important. He listens to us. Despite the rolling eyes, the frustrated responses, the 'why should I?' responses, he actually hears what we tell him. And takes it to heart. I am thoroughly chastised. And proud of it.

everything, something, nothing

Far from knowing everything, I muddle through. Truthfully, I wouldn't want to know everything; the burden would be too great. Often it seems that bliss comes from knowing Very Little. Or knowing Just Enough.

And yet, there have always been people that, in my mind, know everything. Not Everything, mind you, that's way more than I would wish on anyone! Simply everything. Chatting about this the other night, I came to the realization that if I believe that someone else, someone "in charge" or who is leading, knows everything, I can go about my business making believe that I know Nothing. If I believe, or pretend to believe, that someone else knows everything, I don't need to step outside myself to see just how much I do know. And I also don't have to face that awkward moment when I know something that the Someone Else doesn't know. Does it really matter who that Someone Else might be? No. It can be awkward, regardless.

I also came to realize how hugely unfair I was being. There are people I go to for answers. Sometimes big answers, and sometimes smaller. I don't remember Dad ever saying, "I don't know." He would sometimes make something up. Other times he would say something that wasn't much of an answer at all, then come back later and explain or clarify. Occasionally, his answers would begin with "I wonder...." Around my kids, he would say things like, "Let's try it" or "What do you think?" Or "Go see what you can find out, and then we'll talk about it." I know he read voraciously, so he did know Quite a Bit. But I wonder now if he felt pressured to know everything because he was the dad.

Over the past few days, I've come to realize how truly wonderful it is that I know Something. And that I know Enough to know that I have so much More to Learn! I've written before about my penchant for questioning, and my trepidation when it comes to asking. Perhaps that anxiety is related to not being asked; I don't exactly know. And perhaps it is related to the very strong anxiety I have when it comes to offering that I do know Something!

That simple bliss of knowing Very Little doesn't really exist in my heart. By allowing (or encouraging!) anyone to believe that I know Nothing, I am inadvertently deflating my own spirit. That's not what I'm here to do! I would like to know More, but I also would like to share my own Something.

shapely swirly spirals

The narrower circles seem easier to figure out. A common bond, similarities in personal histories, questions that are parallel or identical. Yet I still wonder if and what lesson I am learning, or about to learn. While enjoying the moment--the learning, the sharing, the laughter and the tears--I am also hopeful and confident that twenty years from now, when I look back, I will see even more of the beautiful picture created by the swirling, twisting, spiraling trails left in the dust of the common paths we trod; even for a short time.

When I was younger, I would anticipate the longevity of relationships, oftentimes predicting "when we are old" and dreaming of the friendship at that point in the future. When those people that were "season" friends, or worse, not actually friends at all, but something else in disguise, evaporated from my periphery, I would mourn. Eventually, I realized that I was trying to live in a future that I could not predict, rather than living in a present that was real. Probably in an effort to ignore or escape a past I did not want to remember.

As my life circles around, again and again, I have begun to understand that when I come back to the same place, there is a lesson I haven't learned, or taken to heart. That's where some of the intersecting circles come in. A very dear friend of mine frequently says, "Another thing we have in common!" Each time, I am so greatly comforted! Sharing fears, frustrations, those funky realizations that could make or break an emotional bank, sharing even a small part of those things clarifies the lessons they represent. Lessons about love, honesty, charity, looking forward--with a firm hold on the reality of now.

One of the coolest discoveries I made, and I've written about it before, is that my friends--my real, true, dear friends--are all people I would love to have in one room together for a party, a discussion, dinner. They are all people with whom I would share my celebrations and my sorrows. And in that realization, I see the Venn diagram that is our lives, the intersecting points of our individual spirals, even the odd "Hey, I know you!" of a group of seemingly random people who do, indeed, have much in common.

The circles and spirals in my life exemplify my place as a child of God. A part of a whole. I'm a huge fan of paisley patterns, the more swirly and intertwined the better; and have long wondered just what it is that appeals to me. Sometimes, when looking at a pattern, I see the complexity of my own thoughts: the things I think, feel, ponder, bounce around, that I can't quite seem to grasp or express. Or let go of. Other times, the simplicity of a repeating shape sooths me. It depends on the day. I once told a friend that if I were ever to get a tattoo, it would be a paisley pattern. She readily agreed that would be the best representation of "me." I wonder if the appeal is really in the "road map" a paisley pattern represents. Or the way the segments fit together and overlap, as we do when we embrace one another. One of many, belonging together, becoming more colorful with each lesson learned.

Perhaps, dear friends, when we are old and grey and wrinkled, it will be because our paisley pattern has become filled with the color that is us; the lessons we have learned, the gifts we have shared, the joy and strength we have shown, the love we have been. Where once I complained about "coming around again," I now can see that returning to a place is an opportunity to realize that I am right where I need to be. Right where I am.