there is do

This morning I sat at the dentist and got a crown. When I arrived, I was asked if I would like Novocaine or not. Of course I wanted it, which is a fairly new thing for me. Not too terribly long ago, I had a filling replaced without any meds. After all, I had delivered three babies without any medication, right? Why would I need any for a silly tooth? And I didn't care for the feeling - or lack thereof. A month or so ago when I had the temporary crown molded and placed, I'd needed a second shot; the nerve that "sometimes is a problem," according to the dentist. In truth, since my oral surgery 15 months ago, I am uncomfortable with anything other than cleanings at the dentist. He understands - and apologizes each time, though he needn't. It has nothing to do with him, or with the oral surgeon. It just is. The nerve that is still awakening is the best explanation I can offer, and even that is something difficult to understand.

The crown was to fix a cracked molar. The surgery, to remove my wisdom teeth, tori, and an osteoma, left a nerve disturbed on the left side of my mouth. Until very recently, the feeling was such that I couldn't help but clench my teeth. It's been explained to me that is normal and expected with parethesia,or altered feeling. I remember the day I thought I might be clenching hard enough to break a tooth. It may very well have been the day this molar cracked. I remember telling myself I needed to try to relax my jaw; especially when I realized I was doing it. For a time I had medication to relax those muscles while I slept. Even still, I would occasionally remind myself to try to relax.

Someone very important to me reminds me from time to time that Yoda was right: there is no try, only do. When I need reminding, he tells me about asking people to stay where they are and try to move the clock on the mantle, and asking just what they will do to 'try'. It's in those moments that I realize just how right he is. There is no try. One cannot try to help someone, or try to be a friend. Either we help, or we do not. Either we are a friend, or we are not. Sometimes the effort is rebuffed, yes. And sometimes even when we do, we fail. But trying to do is not possible.

In my experience, those who tell me they are trying to help me are actually saying they are uncomfortable. Instead of being honest about that, they are hedging. Sometimes it saddens me, and other times it's disappointing. Occasionally, there is a realization that I've been taken advantage of, or that there has been an attempt at manipulating me. There are so many memories of things others were 'trying' to do for me, with me, to me. The reality was that what was being done was something else entirely. Even now, I know that those who 'try' are excusing themselves. Effort is something else entirely. Pardon is not required of effort; it needn't beg excuses, as trying often does. Effort is true.

I was reminded of this twice today. First in the numbness after the crown. In that numbness, the symmetry of my mouth was restored, temporarily, and I realized the importance of doing something to make something else happen. That numbness allowed me to let go of the tension on the other side of my jaw. To stop trying. It allowed me to let the release be real, sustained. As the Novocaine wore off, I discovered new sensation on the opposite side. Now, in the evening, I have a very small area where the parethesia is acute - an area at least half the size it was this morning when I awoke. It is delightful, to say the least!

The second came in an "attempt to do something nice." Do or don't do. This attempt business is confusing. I have far more respect for the person who told me they had been wanting to ask a question, but didn't quite know when or how it would be appropriate. That is far more honest, and honorable, than those who try to help, or (my favorite) don't want to upset me - another form of try. It doesn't work. Either I am upset, or I am not. Either I can answer, or I cannot. Either you are helping, or you are not. Clarity of language is important.

There is no try.

days and nights

Not terribly long ago, I would come home and remember Sunday nights spent lazily at home, finishing whatever chores or projects pushed off to the end of the weekend. I wondered how many Sundays in a row it would take before I felt like I needed a break. Sunday after Sunday I wondered; Thursday after planning meeting Thursday, I did the same. And yet, each meeting refreshed and rejuvenated me; gave me new purpose, direction, love for the teens we were working with, for. Without realizing it, Sunday has become something other than routine. It's become real. Real worship, real teaching, real learning, real conversation. Real friendship.

Staying home with our firstborn, there were times when I wondered about the return on investment involved in being Momma. Having no family around, and only having lived in the area a very short time when he was born, there were many, many long and quiet - often lonely - hours spent on long walks in the woods, sitting on the floor, or rocking him to sleep. In short, lots of time to think and wonder. I remember one day when I was sick, but still Momming, as Moms do the world over, and he began to sing to me. The words I sang to him as he fell asleep were coming back to me, and I realized the ROI is more than just intangible - it's priceless.

Lately I've felt that same awe and wonder when I watch and listen to our kids. Only they really are hardly kids any longer. They are men and near men, and what they share of their hearts amazes me. The fact that I've been around to watch them grow and develop into the fine young men they are is humbling and thrilling, awesome and amazing. That they share with me, that I have the opportunity to learn who they are (from them!), that I can enjoy their company simply because they are is sometimes overwhelming. In all honesty, they have molded me far more than I could ever have molded them. We listen to each other. We've all grown. And I'm gratefully speechless.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

notebooks

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

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

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

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

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

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

thanks a bunch

Thanks, Dad, for being an example to me. Twice today I was reminded that being true to myself pays off on the end. And that often we have no idea what the impact of honesty will be.

Recently, in idle conversation at work (waiting for a process to run), I referred to you, and shortly thereafter, this near stranger asked a question directly related to you. My surprise was in the fact that he picked up on the connection I still feel with you. And that I had never considered the possibility of folowing in your work footsteps.

The truth is, what I most wanted to follow in were your values. I don't always measure up, but my yardstick is also skewed because you're gone. And because I miss you.

You live on in the boys for me. Both because they have bits of you in their looks, some expressions, and in their memories, and because I sometimes hear your heart in what they paraphrase back to me. You always had a way of making people feel real and important. And I'm pretty sure that's because everyone was.

The example you set for love of neighbor was one that I truly did not appreciate until now. We in your family were all your favorites--you said so all the time. I still feel it--your favorite daughter in Pennsylvania, your favorite Stephania. But it was more than just talk. You had a gift for seeing individuals; for finding (and quickly!) that unique thing that made each person stand out.

What I'm realizing is that you did that simply out of being you, not as some effort you'd learned was important or useful. You were you. And no one else.

Your you is very different from me, as it should be. But the way you made me feel lives on, and I do my best to pass it on by being me. The me I do best.

Among my blessings each night, I count you. I love you, and I miss you.

apart or a part

Everywhere I turn lately there seem to be reminders of who I am, or where I've been. I like where I am now, even when the road is more like a rocky cliff-face than a broad highway. I've also frequently been reminded of how I've gotten here. One such reminder came in my response to a post. The post read, in part:

[Spiritual life] is not something we can tackle alone. No, the wisdom of Jesus is that He founded a Church and did not merely convey a philosophy of life. In his homily yesterday, Deacon David Hall recalled the popular notion that spirituality can be disconnected from religiosity: "I don’t need a church; I have Jesus."  However, among the very first things that Jesus did when starting His public ministry was to surround Himself with others. Every gospel writer considered that fact so important that the call of the apostles is described near the beginning of all four gospels. 
Yesterday the Church celebrated the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This mystery itself is a compelling reminder that God Himself, in whose image we are created, is not an isolated singularity but a community of persons in relationship. The normal Christian life is also lived in relationship, not isolated, not alone.

There was a time when I really did feel that having faith was enough. Saying that it was there in my heart, and believing that being "near" to God was all I really needed. That going to church was nice, but not necessary to being faithful or a good person. But I also knew something was missing, and for a long time, I found that something to be related to religion itself. I thought that religion and faith left me with more questions than answers. Oh, I asked the questions, but--whether purposely or not--I asked them of people who had no basis upon which to answer. I would, actually, wait until someone had voiced a question similar to one of my own. Something along the lines of, "Yeah, what about that?" would flow from my lips, while simultaneously darkening my heart. My faith was hollow, as it was not filled with trust. I was separating myself from what I did know about faith, while telling myself that I was at least following what I understood.

Since that day when I felt I had nothing more to lose, and I said, with all my heart (because it had worked before), "Guide me. Wherever you need me to go, I will go," my journey has changed. That night, I turned to someone I never thought I would, and was met with a message of hope, trust and, most of all, love. Not exactly: I was met with a message of Hope, Trust and Love--all with capital letters. There were a number of "faith moments" shared over the course of that long weekend, and each of them made a huge impact on my heart. The darkness, the hardness dissipated, and in its place, I felt lightness and peace. Joy. Most of all, togetherness.

Afterwards, I looked at the moments in church differently. I began to see more similarities than differences in the people gathered. I began to want to find real answers to some of my questions. I've learned that the answers don't always come in order--because the order is not for me to determine. There are still things that frustrate me, confuse and confound me; there are still times when I find myself pulling back into myself, because I have made a habit of using my nature as an excuse to isolate. What I've learned about myself far outweighs anything I ever thought I could learn; it's sometimes painful, but mostly marvelous. I've begun to reach beyond myself; I've found that I can.

I will always be more introverted than extroverted, but I've learned that there is a difference between embracing the facets of myself, and using them as a shield to keep myself isolated, alone. Apart. My response to the post above:

The times when I've felt alone on my journey have all been times when I told myself I didn't need to go to a building or a service to believe. Now, I'd much rather be a part than apart!

I still find faith outside and away, but I no longer feel like an outsider. I am a part of the whole because I do not place myself apart from the whole.

face, embrace, release

I stained a door today. More precisely, I stained half a door today. We bought the door (a bi-fold) a few months ago (before Easter) to replace the closet door in our bathroom. Since we brought it home, it has stood in our dining room, where I (we, and anyone else who came in the house!) could see it. I knew that if we put it out of sight, it would never get stained. Never get installed. Then swim team practice started up again, and I had nearly given up hope of ever getting it done.

Weeks ago, I had gone to get the stain and other materials needed, intending to--or rather, determined to--get the staining portion done while my husband was out of town college visiting with our son. Something got in the way--likely weather, possibly time, probably something else entirely--and here the door stood, waiting. Last week, texting with a dear friend, I finally came to the bottom of my hesitation. Her husband is the ultimate Mr. Fixit-DoItHimselfer. She told me that every family needs someone like him, and I told her, "That was my dad."

That's what it came down to: Dad would have had it done in no time, and I would have been amazed and impressed. After seeing how quickly I finished what I did today, even with the drying time between coats, I can see why he was always so modest about that kind of stuff. After I finished the second coat on the first side of the door, I found myself thinking, "Well, that was easy enough!"

Truth be told, I was hoping I wouldn't be the one staining the door. I took Mom this morning to meet up with my sister, who then took Mom up to her house for the weekend. Guy had swim team and lessons. Both of us were scheduled to be back home at nearly the same time this afternoon. The deal was, whoever got home first would work on the door. It wasn't until I pulled in the driveway that I realized that taking my lunch to go at Subway was my mistake! I had no choice but to get changed, and get started. Why it all seemed so daunting is difficult to explain; mostly because the reasons are not what most people see in me. I had read the directions again and again--at least four times in the store alone! And this was not even the first time I'd stained something. Grammy and Grampy's kitchen table and chairs had come out pretty well, but that had been about fifteen years ago. And somewhere in the intervening years, I had been reintroduced to some serious feelings of inadequacy and sadness. That's what I realized in the conversation with my friend: I needed to face those feelings once and for all.

Last summer, on a particularly bad day, I asked another friend a question about dealing with a problem. He told me to Face it, Embrace it, and Let It Go. I will never forget that. It was a real turning point for me, and has become quite a motto in almost everything I do. It'll take more than just a door to expel the demons from my past, but one small step is all it takes to begin a journey--or to continue on. In the Faith Matters group at church, we've been working through a personal retreat on Consoling the Heart of Jesus, and talking quite a bit about Mercy, and Love. I've learned that loving others is not enough; I need to face and embrace everything about myself, too; the good, the bad, and everything in between. The stuff from my adult life, I've been able to look at (fairly) clearly. It's the stuff from long ago that sometimes bubbles up, and then gets pressed back down by the parts of me that have not been ready to face them. Nothing is major, really, in the grand scheme of things, but I'm positive that at least some of it would help the boys tremendously if I could reveal it to myself enough to share with them.

Tomorrow I will finish staining the door, and hopefully by Monday night, we'll have a beautiful new door for the bathroom closet. And I will have vanquished at least one of the dark shadows in my mind.

fingerprints

What was said: "I look at a thumbprint, and realize that no two are alike. If God can make every single thumbprint different, why would we think that he would ever stop there?"

I was floored! Such a simple idea, and so obvious, and yet so amazingly complex! There is no reason to think that any one of us is exactly like another. We, as humans, classify. Safe/Unsafe. Friendly/Unfriendly. Okay to eat/Poison. Work/Play. Love/Hate. Good/Bad. But aren't there various levels of many of these classifications? Don't we need to differentiate again and again, and determine, according to the occasion, just where something fits in our classification systems?

I remember a month or two before our boy #2 was born. I was pretty sure I had this kid thing figured out. Because the pregnancy itself had felt different, I just knew that the baby would not be the same as his brother. Boy #1 was pretty easy, as far as babies go--not the sleep-all-night-at-birth dream baby, but he did do pretty well as an infant, and as a toddler, he was fairly happy-go-lucky and even helpful. I just knew that boy #2 was going to be the opposite--whatever #1 liked, he would not; whenever #1 liked to sleep, #2 would want to be awake. I'm not even sure what "opposite" would mean, but at the time, I had some really clear ideas, and I was pretty confident about the whole thing. I had even braced myself for the inevitable difficulties of having two kids that just could not get along for long.

I had quite a surprise. In some ways, he was different--as he should be! But in other ways, they were very much alike. What I had not factored in was that they were each individuals who would let me know, in short order, who they are. I was there (am still) to guide them, not to determine them.

A similar thing happened when we decided to get a dog. It had been a few years since our beloved black standard poodle had died. When we saw black standards advertised, I told Guy that I just couldn't handle having a dog that looked so like the last one, but wouldn't have his same personality. Instead we got a poodle that was supposed to turn silver (he was born black), and never has. Yes, he shares some characteristics with his predecessor, but he also has his own personality--and quirks! I sometimes think he was meant to stay black as a lesson to me.

I've wandered far from the amazement I felt at the thumbprint statement, but not so far that I don't remember where I was. Each of us is different. Special. Unique. We should see ourselves that way. We should see others that way--the part that I tend to think is harder to do. I've just started reading Thomas Merton's No Man Is an Island for the Spiritual Book Club at church. From the prologue:
"I cannot discover God in myself and myself in Him unless I have the courage to face myself exactly as I am, with all my limitations, and to accept others as they are, with all their limitations."

To face myself, and accept others. How beautiful is that? Each of us has our own whirls and swirls, some of which mean baggage and tough stuff, but most of which means beauty and knowledge; if only we decide to appreciate it. We need to remember that some of the tough stuff has led to strength because it comes from experience. My head is rattling with the memory of the notes I took on palmistry for a paper I wrote in college (my topics were never quite what anyone else would choose....) inferring that the universe of "me" is largely pre-written on my hands, with details added with experience.

I don't know.....perhaps the possibilities were written there, and revealed by my choices. I'm still quite intrigued.....

prompts, prompting

So many thoughts and ideas. So many wonderful and amazing insights. Where to start? With a list.....

-fingerprints (wow--that one is a biggie! "There's a homily there!")

-formulas and differentiation (and how introspection could help)

-introspection!

-the difference between today's "me" (faith, experience, and expertise) & the me of 15-20 years ago

-the wonder and joy of searching

-blessings, like diamonds, belong to everyone :) (that one hit me than so many pearls)

-the affirmation that so many others are "in the same boat" (did I really just say that? Because it's very true!)

-the world is a scary place. We have to do something. My something......

-YES. I can. I would love to--more than I thought I might!

-models--5, and they are all right and good, and work together to raise the roof--provided we recognize and appreciate the gifts of each "We're all in the same pew" (made of wood like a boat. tee hee!)

It was a good night! Grace Uncorked--poured forth into each cup.....

my cup runneth over.....and yet there is room for so much more.

"I thirst"-- for grace, for peace, for love. I can pour......

ramble a bit

Last week at a book club (Gone Girl, by Gillian Flynn--a book I found fascinating, but not particularly rewarding), a discussion question was presented:

At one point, Amy quotes the advice "Fake it until you make it." Later, Nick writes, "We pretend to be in love, and we do the things we like to do when we're in love, and it feels almost like love sometimes, because we are so perfectly putting ourselves through the paces" (404).

Generally speaking, do you think this is good marriage advice? Do Nick and Amy disprove this advice?

The decision around the table was that this is never good marriage advice. I don't remember anyone even touching on the second part of the question. Although in the case of Nick and Amy, I find it to be appalling advice [*****SPOILER ALERT!!!!!***** She's a murderess and he is her depressed and self-centered husband], in general, I don't think there's anything wrong with going through the motions once in a while.

Before you get annoyed and turn the page, hear me out. Everyone gets bored. Everyone gets cranky. Everyone goes through times when they just don't feel like issuing forth any extra effort whatsoever. How many times have I (you) gone ahead and taken that fitness class, or pulled on a pair of running/walking shoes even though the mood wasn't right? I know for a fact there were many nights (and Saturday mornings!) when I taught dance that I just didn't want to leave my house, fight traffic, and deal with my class, but I did. And each one of those times, I told myself to fake it; to make it look to the people who were paying for me to be there as though I was having the time of my life. And I can say, in all honesty, almost every single time I went there to fake it, I had a better class than usual.

Making a habit of faking, or faking without knowing the reasons behind it, or faking without being unwilling to talk about it at some point is a bad idea. Living a lie is different from faking it until you make it. Nick went through the motions of loving Amy because he was literally afraid for his life. That's just stupid. Amy went through the motions because if she could make Nick love her, she would be amazing. That's just wrong (on a whole LOT of levels!!). That is NOT what I'm talking about here. Nor am I talking about lying, having an unfulfilling sex life, or suffering in silence from any offense, or abusive/toxic relationships.

What I'm talking about are those times when you realize that there's a reason you fell in love, and even though today it doesn't seem like it's there, it is, because it's still in your heart, and in the memory of your soul. Or when you realize that laziness has set in for whatever reason, and the habit is taking control. Those are the times when you have to keep in mind that a relationship is a living, breathing thing, in need of nurturing and even exercise. Those are the times when you have to dig out a smile when you don't feel like it, search the cobwebbed corners of your mind for a favorite shared memory, open yourself to possibility.

I got a CD from church about prayer in marriage. On it, Fulton Sheen talks about the inevitable "dry spells" of anything we, as humans, do for life. Sometimes they cause us to stop what no longer holds our interest, and other times we get frustrated by the seemingly sudden lack of interest. The decision is ours. If we are writers, we might call it 'writer's block,' runners, 'hitting a plateau.' As a dancer, I would take a class in another technique or from another teacher in order to jumpstart my slagging enthusiasm from time to time. In marriage, for a myriad of reasons, many people have the impression that everything should come up roses all the time, and if a dry spell hits, the magic must be gone and the marriage is over. Fulton Sheen said that those are the times when it's up to the spouse who is still flying high to carry the other through prayer and love. It was beautiful! Shortly after listening to the CD (and laughing through tears!) I saw a little ditty that I had seen before, but not paid much attention. Celebrating some huge number of years of marriage, a couple was asked their secret. The response: We never fell out of love at the same time.

We never fell out of love at the same time.

Isn't that beautiful?? Even in those dry spells--those times when he was making her crazy forgetting to _____ (fill in the blank), or when she was constantly ___________ (fill in the blank), the one still managed to love the other. To be in love with the other. It's not always easy. When we mentor engaged couples, we encourage them to keep their workbooks for those days when they need a reminder of the planning the wedding days, the getting read for a long marriage days.

Like any journey, there are times when concessions must be made. My brother says, "Don't say you don't care where we stop if you really don't want Chinese," not because he plans to stop for Chinese, but because sometimes when we think that something doesn't matter to us, we realize pretty quickly that it does, and that can ignite into an argument, or it can become an opportunity to fake it for a bit in order to ensure that love can continue on its course.

things in common

Tonight, we "discussed" the Story of a Soul. Really, the words of Saint Therese of Lisieux were just the jumping off point of, what I found to be, a great discussion on all kinds of "little" things that were far more related than they may have seemed. None of us had finished the book, and in fact, one of us hadn't even started, but Therese is right in saying that her Little Way is Simple. Please note that the word "simple" was used, and not the word "easy!" Following her formula for sainthood is something that she worked at for her whole life. I'm already nearly twice the age she was when she died, and am only beginning to be able to consider my own littleness, let alone embrace my own faults and shortcomings!

My takeaway, as so often lately, is that I am not alone. My journey's rest stops, historical markers, dives and great sights are all being visited by others headed in the same direction. I'm not the only one that's realized a feeling of missing the Lenten season--for the first time ever! And I'm not the only one wondering if that's just a little nutty! I'm not the only one who has worried that having questions, or being confused, or just plain not knowing sets me apart, separates me from those with 'more' faith, or 'stronger' faith. [I just now realized, with my computer on my lap, that some of those people with 'more' or 'stronger' faith might just be louder than me. Just like in my secular life. Why have I always felt there must be a dividing line? Why have I been afraid?] We all have obstacles, and we all need to determine how to face them.

For a long, long time, I faced them on my own. I looked at a problem, and figured out what I would need to do to solve it, fix it, get around it. And it's funny, because typing that, I could hear my husband saying to me, "Use your resources," by which he means, "Call me if you have a question about that," referring to some programs and packages I use at work. It made me smile because the greatest resource I have at my disposal (other than my husband's computer expertise) can be summed up in what has become almost my mantra: Guide me.

The direction is not always clear, and I don't always remember to ask. And I am not always as patient as I probably should be. [can you say, "understatement?"] But I have found that each and every time I have sincerely said, "Guide me," or the more familiar version, "Thy will be done," I have come out in a much better place than I know I would have, left to my own devices. I'm learning. I'm learning to listen for the guidance, and I'm learning to follow. It's slow going sometimes, and there are times when I feel as though I'm stuck, and I'm concerned at times that I will run up against a wall, or some other test, that will wear me down.

Saint Therese says to be as a child; to bear all things that come to you; to admit shortcomings, and honor them as things to work on. The more I work on these things, the more I will find in the story of her short life to inspire me. I plan to read it again. And again. And when I feel as though my progress is slow, I will follow her advice and persevere.

Together with others who need God's love.

wild blue yonder

My husband drops me off at work every morning, and picks me up at the end of the day. These little five-minute trips have become treasured time for us, and sometimes the face of everything can change in that span.

Roughly nine months out of the year, he is coaching 5-7 days a week, in addition to a full-time job and a couple of special volunteer positions that are dear to him. The three months he's off (not all in a row!) are also golden time that we have come to cherish. (It hasn't always been that way--we've known our share of crankiness and resentment, but we're grownng, learning, evolving. We've started to appreciate the blessing of the time we share.) Added to this juggling act is the time we need to nurture our own friendships and needs. It's not easy. (My Minute Meditation for today: Faith is not a cushion to rest easy upon. Faith takes work and dedication. Another one of those not so coincidental things!)

Anyway, yesterday, a friend and I made plans to have some girl time tonight. While I have been looking forward to it, I also know that Guy is off tonight. That wasn't going to stop me from going (he wouldn't have let me cancel, anyway!), but a small part of me felt bad for making plans on a night he's home. This morning, he asked what I thought of his asking a friend of his about going out tonight, too. I thought it a marvelous idea! Both of us need to work harder at cultivating our friendships in order to enrich our relationship with each other, and with our family. When he picked me up today, he said he'd asked his friend.

"Just read my messages!" Instead of going out later, while I would be out with the girls, he had an invitation to go flying. "When?" I asked.

In a flash, he was saying, "Be careful, you're on speaker!" They would meet after dropping me off at home. I mentioned that I was trying not to be jealous.

By the time we got home, conversing about the appointment he'd taken Mom to today, I realized there was not a bit of jealousy in me. I am ecstatic for him! He gets to spend some time with a good friend, doing something I don't think he's ever done before, and it's a gorgeous day. What more could I ask for my husband? Later, I will get to see the excitement in his eyes as he tells me all about it, and he'll get to relive my girls night with me, too.

As he pulled out of the driveway, I said a prayer of thanksgiving, and laughed with joy.

on staying young

Gramma Katie told me, as I was getting set to leave for college, "Never grow up." For twenty years or so, I have interpreted that to mean I shouldn't get "old:" dull, boring, complacent, crotchety. Aging we cannot help, and to a certain extent, major health concerns related to that number and our genetics are out of our control. As a result, I've worked toward a balance between the maturity necessary to fulfill my obligations, and the fun needed to keep me young.

However, the other day, I read this:

Even amongst the poor, while a child is still small, he is given what is necessary; but, once he is grown up, his father wil no longer feed him, and tells him to seek work and support himself. Well, it was to avoid hearing this, that I have never wished to grow up, for I feel incapable of earning my livelihood, which is Life Eternal. (St. Therese of Lisieux, The story of a soul: the Autobiography of The Little Flower. Kindle edition, Location 2770)

Sitting at the table in the Bistro, I suddenly saw my dear Gramma Katie's smile--reaching all the way to her hairline!--and wondered. She was a spiritual woman herself, quietly observing fasts and holy days, and walking the few blocks to Church for morning Mass more often than I ever considered (as a child and teenager) that I would. She told me once that if at morning Mass she learned there would be a funeral, she would often stay, just to keep the mourners company. Then she winked at me and said that she'd also happily enjoy a slice of cake! (These funerals were mostly people she'd never met personally, but for whom she'd prayed, as members of the parish. She enjoyed the funeral Masses as much as the luncheons that followed!)*

I know that Gramma Katie was a reader, and a lover of art, too. And learning. Part of the advice she had given me, I always believed, was related to that willingness and desire to learn keeping the mind and soul young. But the moment I saw her face superimposed on Soeur Therese's words, I wondered if there was far more to the tidbit she was offering. As a teenager, with my life laid out before me in all it's possibilities, had I missed the greater offering of her experience? Was she offering me spiritual advice that it has taken me another lifetime to even touch upon? Could she have been offering me something to hold onto to carry my faith with me as I traveled on my faith journey.

Did she, in her own 'little' way, plant that mustard seed?

My favorite Bible story has always been Matthew 19:13-15. The one where Jesus says to let the children come to Him. It's just three short verses, but when I was a kid, I had a picture book [when I was a kid--haha....the book still sits on the shelf by my bed!] of the story, and I had my parents read it to me again and again, until I could read it myself. All this time, I've honestly thought He literally meant "children." A few months ago, at Faith Matters, in a discussion about Mary, I made the personal connection to "being as children."

Learning is a beautiful and glorious thing, and making connections to one's own life and experience is the most wondrous of all! Thank you, Gramma Katie, for your love and wisdom, that you still share with me 25 years later.