Silver Lining

Truth is, we were all unwillingly caught up in that tempest. You just happened to be the youngest, which meant that you were either the most or the least impacted—depending on the day.

It wasn’t her fault. She’d grown up unmoored, searching for someone to cling to – then tried, too young, to create the family she’d always wanted. Yet it was too much all at once. You simply can’t know what you haven’t known. No one can. And no amount of lecturing, arguing or shared “lessons learned” can turn the tide. So many words I wish I could take back now, their taste so bitter in hindsight. We tried to help fill the gap. Tried to make it right when we were really just making it up as we went along. Still the storm surged and calmed.

You were the silver lining, from that first night when I found you standing up in your crib sobbing. I picked you up and rocked you, and you instantly fell asleep in my arms. So small.  All you wanted was to be held and loved. Every. Single. Day. And that was the easy part for me. Soon you were happy, comfortable in our new routine.

I would rush home from work to see you with those little blue eyes watching for me at the front door. You would entertain us all at dinner with your goofy smiles and baby giggles. Then it was bath time and stories. Wheels on the bus and Itsy Bitsy Spider. You and me in the old rocker. Like a kitten, you’d purr a quiet little hum when we cuddled. Then you’d fall asleep hugging your “Lambie,” secure in this new rhythm.  I’d run my finger over the bridge of your nose, connecting the freckles on your tiny face and feeling grateful for unexpected gifts.  

Time passed and she found her way. Like all of us, she now takes parenting step-by-step, day-by-day, striving to get it right. Not long ago, the topic of those five months came up. “We don’t talk about that time,” she said with finality.  Out of a long overdue show of respect for her, I said nothing. I understood that was a period of pain and insecurity for her. Yet with that broad sweep of the eraser, we were wiping away the laughter, the Wheels on the Bus, the precious way you bowed your little head in prayer every night and OUR connection, etched so very permanently on my heart. I was trying to come to terms with this in my head when she left the room, leaving just you and me.

“Mimi?” you said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy.” I replied. “Have I given you 100 kisses yet today?”

You giggled as I kissed every freckle in that magnificent constellation on your face. And then I heard it. That little purr.

-------------------------------------

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;”

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

 

 

 

Checking In and Checking Out

There is just one thing I want at this middle age, this middle place, this middle November day. I wake up with a mild migraine, one of many recently, and head to the gym to try to stretch my tired old muscles into submission so that they might release their tight grip on the back of my head. The week’s frustrations persist as I sit in my car in the parking lot trying to pick up a Wifi signal to “check-in” to one of my many social media accounts when it hits me: the only one I really need to check-in with today is God. Oh yeah. Seems I’ve lost track of Him this week, trying to make everyone else happy.

I hit the gym, then the shower and then drive west. The stores and gas stations disappear from the landscape, giving way to empty corn and soybean fields. The distance between the houses grows. The cloudy gray skies hang pregnant over the gold colored plains threatening a mix of rain, snow, drizzle or some mix of these. It brings comfort and melancholy at the same time, this cold Ohio gray that settles in for the long haul. My mind replays the week’s events for the umpteenth time as if to magically change them, but the only change is the resurrection of that migraine.

Forty-five minutes later I’m pulling into the driveway of their little log cabin where they wait at the door. I step out of the car, pause and breathe. Inside, after hugs and hellos, they lead me to the cozy living room where the front curtains are pulled back. “We have a duck,” they say, handing me the binoculars so that I may spot the pregnant duck on the far side of their pond. My eyes shift aimlessly (accustomed to staring at a computer screen), unable to see what is right in front of me. What I notice is the wind bending the pines and moving soundlessly through the tall dry grass that surrounds the pond. What I notice is the silence around me—and no one needing to fill it. No radios. No TVs. No music. No computers. We just watch.

We get in the car and head to a little hole-in-the-wall diner for lunch. The circa 1965 wood paneledinterior is covered with kitschy signs and old photos including a pin-up-girl-like shot of five bathing

suit clad young ladies from the 1940s. The sepia-tone teenage version of the owner smiles from the center of the image. She plays the piano, they tell me as I notice the upright and the chalkboard above it that reads, “Ask for the piano player … gets me outa the kitchen.”  A middle aged waitress comes over, cracking jokes about herself as she fumbles for a pen in her pocket. She smiles wide, exposing a grin sans a bottom front tooth and I think to myself: She is happy, beautiful. We eat our homemade veggie soup, sweet potatoes fries and Sloppy Joes and catch up. I share what’s heavy on my heart and Dad fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable with the burden I carry, uneasy that he can’t fix it.

We bundle up, head back to the car and go to the unsung Amish country—the one that is happy that way, quiet and unnoticed. On the drive there, I ask them:

what are your memories of your grandparents? Because I don’t know. Even at this late-middle-age point of my life, I realize that I don’t know and it’s suddenly so important that I know.  We park in front of the dry goods store and he talks us back 70 years to that dairy farm. From the back seat I watch Dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he recalls the soft loving arms of his grandmother, his hard-working yet stern grandfather and emotionally distant father. He remembers vowing at a young age to be a Father that laughs and has fun with his kids. “Maybe I didn’t do as well as I could have,” he starts and his eyes grow narrower in the rearview, filling up.  You were—and ARE—the best Dad ever, I say, the first thing all week I speak with complete unwavering certainty.

At the dry goods store, we buy six kinds of Christmas cookie sprinkles, candies, snacks and—from

my Dad—a painting of an Amish buggy for me. To remember this day, we all know, but no one says it aloud. Then we drive to the Amish farm for apples, wood and friendship. The wind is blowing harder and colder now.

A mother and her teenage daughter work in the garden. The gusts blow the strings of their bonnets and aprons. A dog huddles against the barn searching for warmth deep in a worn out blanket. The mother, probably my age, leads us into the workshop where woodworking tools hang neatly along the rafters and the floor is covered with sawdust. The scent makes me homesick for my childhood. My Dad asks her how she is feeling. Is she better now? Yes, she says, except for her shoulder which sometimes brings discomfort. He is in jail now, she notes when asked directly, the drunk driver that hit her and her two youngest in their buggy last year. Her son, then 10 years old, had nightmares after the accident. They are well now, she says. No resentment. No anger. And I admire her strength after mentally slipping on her shoes.
 

We walk back out to the car.  It was nice to meet you, I say. She says the same then asks, do you live around here? No. Not anymore. I live near the city now, but … I feel more at home out here. She smiles and nods, understanding me—this sister from another culture.

We drive back to Dad’s farm, me with my Amish apples, sprinkles and painting—but without my migraine. And this was all I wanted … to find God and myself again … at this middle age, at this middle place, on this middle November Birthday.

 

One Thousand Words

I was 6 years old that Christmas eve. My little sister and I had been willingly tucked in to bed early that night, in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. I remember being awakened out of a deep sleep. My parents were dressed in their winter coats, headed to the hospital. A neighbor was there to watch us. The adults talked in hushed tones, anxiety in their voices.

The next morning as I sat playing with my new Easy Bake Oven, my mom sat crumpled in a chair uncharacteristically teary and quiet. I didn’t really grasp it at the time—but she had just lost her older sister, Evie, to an aneurysm.  Evie left a devoted husband and two teenage girls that adored her. I loved my cousins, Shelly and Patti, and looked up to them like big sisters. It wasn’t until I was much older that I began to deeply consider their loss.

The years passed. Shelly and Patti raised children of their own. Shelly moved to the West Coast, Patti stayed in the Midwest. They’ve become even more like sisters to me over time. My Mom loves them as her daughters, and their children as her grandchildren. Our family get-togethers are rare, but so precious. “The girls” all talk into the wee hours of the night, laughing and crying and sharing stories. 

Not long ago, after raising two girls of her own, Patti recounted that painful Christmas Eve. I could hear regret in her voice—for those things she wished she would’ve said to her mom.  My heart broke again for her as I considered how her loss had affected her life … her choices … her relationship with her girls, Jenny and Laura.  But here is what I’ve learned from her beautiful example: live passionately. Pay

attention to the details of your children’s lives because you might not get a second chance. Every day is a gift.

Last weekend, we all traveled to North Carolina for Jenny’s wedding. It was a beautiful event that, I know, Patti had envisioned for years. I snapped maybe 150 photos throughout the evening, but there is one that stands out. One photo that is, hands down, my favorite. In fact, I can’t look at it without crying. It is a photo of Patti, taken during the Daddy-Daughter dance. It is a moment frozen in time: all eyes in the room are on Jenny and her dad, I glance at Patti. She looks back at me and smiles. Laura stands beside her. It is a snapshot worth more than a thousand words. Her smile says … there is no place else in the world I’d rather be right now. It says, I’m so happy. I made it to see this day. It says, God is good. It says, LIVE like there is no tomorrow.

 

Palpable.

I consider myself to be a person of faith, yet it took me years to identify the palpable force behind the amazing things that happen in my life.

In fact, it was my younger sister who said (about our Mom), “She’s so in tune with the Holy Spirit.” I think about that force a lot. I think about it when I’m having a particularly bad day and a certain one of my friends calls (every time) and says, “Are you okay, sweetie? Something told me to call you.” Whoooaaa. How does she DO that?

I think about it after something worrisome keeps me awake at night and I finally give up trying to control it, say a little prayer and fall asleep. Then I wake up the next morning and it has been resolved.

You may call this coincidence or intuition, but it's MUCH bigger than that. I’m no expert at this stuff, but I’ve come to understand that the Holy Spirit is behind all things creative. It is inspiration. It is music, art, poetry, photography, dance and creativity. It is what moves us to tears of joy and compassion, to do humanitarian work and to fall in love. It moves us to be HEARD and not HERDED. (I saw that on a bumper sticker today. Love it.) It is what makes us march to the beat of our individual drummers.

But there are also dark forces that battle all that is good. Unfortunately, they too are palpable. Sometimes they manifest in the weird, like during a full moon when all the crazies come out. (Don’t believe me? Ask someone who works in the ER.) Other times, those forces are …well, just scary.

This afternoon, I felt something akin to a cold breeze of these forces blowing through. Within 10 minutes, I received some dark and disappointing news from three different and unrelated sources. (Two via unrelated text messages from different people I rarely hear from.) Coincidence? I guess I figure if you have to stop and question it, it’s more than coincidence. I won’t go into detail about those incidences except to say that I could FEEL the tide of my day change. And for the first time, I took stock at that moment. Deep breath. Sigh. Send up a little prayer for help. Search for the right words (and pray that I might be able to get my ego out of the way before I respond). Let go.

I know. You’re thinking I’m one of those new agey, touchy-feely, odd and freaky chicks. Or, at the very least, soapbox preachy. Maybe. But here’s what this all boils down to:

The older I get, the more I realize how very little control we have over anything. Or anyone. Some days feel like an epic battle between good and evil where all we can do is stand by and watch helplessly. My first instinct on those days is to run home, get into my jammies and hide under the blankets. (And maybe watch a Jane Austen movie, disappearing into a more genteel era.) But then I remember that my job … OUR job … is to trust. And to try and stand strong for all that is good for each and every sacred soul. There is a line from a great song that reminds me to hang in there:

“This is my Father’s world, oh and let me never forget, that though the wrong seems often so strong, God is the ruler yet.”

Four-Legged Prayers

I caught up with a friend today during a short phone call. Although we live/work in opposite corners of the state and haven’t seen each other in a few months, we managed to cover quite a bit in 10 minutes. A lot has happened since we last chatted including (scary) health challenges for both of us and some major changes in the industry upon which we’ve both built our careers. I consider her to be among the most professional people I know and among the smartest. We met through an industry educational forum a few years ago and found we shared a passion for what we do (as well as a warped sense of humor). Her laugh makes me laugh, but it is her faith that I admire most of all.

Over the last six months, something unexpected happened. We discovered a new common thread among a small core group of industry friends: faith. Living in my own little world most of the time, I noticed it during a time when I was coming apart at the seams. There were summer weeks that went by in a blur, days when it took everything inside of me to just get through 8 hours with my “normal” mask on. What I do remember from those weeks are my friends looking me straight in my teary eyes and saying, “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to pray. We got this.” And I believed them.

On occasion, I would chat with or text this particular friend. She would ask about my health, wanting all the details. Then she told me that she and her dogs prayed for me every morning. And I believed her.

Today, we were chatting about another member of our fearless little faith club. “Have you talked to her? How is she?,” My friend asked. “I’m not sure. I haven’t actually talked to her, except for a few emails. I’m a little worried,” I answered. “Well, the girls and I will pray for her,” she said. (The ‘girls’ being her dogs.)

She tells me how they all snuggle on the bed in the morning. Then, the older dog often loses interest in the routine and leaves for the living room. But the little one really seems to like it. She cuddles against her owner, then stares out the window, contemplatively. My friend is laughing as she tells me. And so am I, but I’m also wiping away tears. Because I’m picturing this daily scene, because I love my friend even more for her fearless faith and because I, too, believe in a God that could never, ever resist four-legged prayers.

God Stories

A couple of weeks ago, I finished reading "God Stories: Inspiring Encounters with the Divine" by Jennifer Skiff (award-winning journalist & CNN correspondent). Really fascinating real-life stuff. So very, very moving. I mentioned this on my Facebook page, asking my friends if any of them had ever had a "heavenly encounter." I have to say I was surprised by the people who responded. They most definitely were not the ones who I anticipated to share their stories . It served as this amazing reminder to me that things (like my preconceived notions, in this case) are never, ever what they seem. Note to self: Stop pretending that you have everyone figured out.

Mostly, I loved discovering MORE people--that I (already) thought very highly of--who have a life routed in faith. I think we've been so"trained" by society to keep things like faith and politics under wraps in our work-world (to remain politically correct) ... that we start to wonder if anyone has faith anymore. I do, anyway. But, I know I couldn't get through a day without faith and trust. So it's always like finding a long-lost family member when I discover someone else who shares that belief.

I liked this book for many reasons. #1--I love that the author is a seasoned and professional reporter for a major news outlet (that tells me she's skilled at research, not writing from emotion and that she has been schooled in objectivity). #2--I kept thinking this is exactly the kind of book I would've loved to write! (I have a passion for getting to know individual stories; I'm always asking questions and I'm searching for proof.) #3--I love the different voices, from people of all walks of life who live all over the world. #4--I have some God stories. (Kindred souls!)

I've held onto my God stories like little treasures over the years, telling only one or two people. Why? Maybe I'm afraid they'll come off as ridiculous, though they are EXTREMELY real to me. One, in particular, stands as my absolute proof that there is a God and that he is active in my life. I had that experience 10 years ago and I still can't tell that story without crying. But I'm not ready to share that one just yet. (Sorry.) So I'll share another.

When K was about 3 years old, my Mom would have these frequent discussions with him about guardian angels. She would tell him repeatedly that every human being has at least two guardian angels watching over them. She would encourage K to think of what their names might be ... so that he would know how to address them when praying. At first, he came up with silly names. Then, one day, he told her his angels were named "Lucky" and Love." About this same time, I happened to be reading a nonfiction book in which the author also claimed that we each have guardian angels watching over us--and that we should pray to them. ("Okay. That's odd," I thought. "Wonder if Mom has read this!?")

So, one day during my drive to work (my normal prayer and meditation time), I came to a stop sign and was thinking ... "Hmmmm. I wonder if I have guardian angels. That's silly. I would need proof." At that moment two deer (does) walked out in front of my car, crossing the road. They stopped in the center of the street--both turned their heads in sync toward me and we made eye contact. Time stopped. No one moved. After that frozen moment, the deer turned and walked away. For the first-and-only time in the 9 years I've driven that route (and stopped at that 4-way-stop every day), there were no other cars. Nor any people in sight. And that's in front of a busy carryout that is usually hopping at that time of day.

I know what you are thinking. Coincidence, right? Here's what I've noticed since. Most days while driving that route, I look for deer ... on the road, in the fields, in the woods. Nothing. But on those days when I'm feeling lost, or I'm on the cell phone crying to one of my sisters and not thinking about anything but the darkness that I'm drowning in that day--I'll glance over somewhere along my route and there are deer. They are always in groups of two or more. They are always looking at me. And I'm instantly flashing back to that frozen moment in time at the stop sign in front of the carryout. Wondering. Knowing.

Inspirational Quote of the Day

I was listening to the local Christian radio station ("The River") today while driving in the car. They were airing some quick sound-bites from listeners that had called in, saying how much they love the station. One elderly woman's short inspirational phrase stopped me, mid-thought. She said:

"Thank you for leaving a light on 24/7
in an ever-darkening world."

Isn't that beautiful? I started thinking how much I'd like to BE a "24/7 light" in this "ever darkening" world. That's my new personal mission.

Then There Were Four

It’s not supposed to happen this way. The baby of the family is never supposed to go first, but we are part of a plan we just can’t understand. At least not now.

Last Sunday evening. Awesome youth mass at church. The combination of K serving as Eucharistic minister, Kelli and the kids attending for the first time, the music and the message left everyone emotional with joy. When we returned home, there was a message from our niece Erica on the phone that Denise (T’s youngest sibling) had been rushed to the ER. Difficulty breathing. She’d been under observation for an hour at the hospital. They’d call back soon with an update soon. They did. She’d crashed. The doctors were doing CPR. We jumped in the car and rushed to the hospital, saying the Divine Mercy Chaplet on the way.

We pulled into the ER. Ann (T’s oldest sibling) and her family were sitting on the curb outside, crying. Ann stood up, walked to T, shaking her head. “We lost her,” she said. My heart was breaking as they hugged and sobbed. I knew what they were thinking. I knew their Dad had always told them to watch out for their younger brothers and sister. I knew that Ann had a dream a few years ago after their Mom had passed, in which she and her Mom were sitting together on a bench in the cemetery. “Watch out for Denise,” her Mom had told her. But even when something is beyond our control, even when there is no way we could have done anything differently or affected a different outcome—we still blame ourselves. It is a heavy burden to carry.

There was a blood clot in Denise’s lung. Erica said she’d had some dizziness and even blacked out the day before, but didn’t think much of it. With no insurance, she was hesitant to go get it checked out.

She was just 38. And alone. She’d been so happy being the youngest in a big family. Then, as lives go, her brothers and sisters grew up and moved out. Then their father died. Just a few short years later, they lost their Mom. Denise was married for a short time. She and I had both been pregnant at the same time, 12 years ago. I lost that baby at 13 weeks. Denise carried her little girl to full term, when the baby’s umbilical cord became wrapped around her neck as she moved into position for delivery. Denise delivered her beautiful little Ashley, but would never hear her cry or laugh. Denise lived in a small, furnished studio apartment. Twice, in recent years, she’d jumped on a bus headed for California without even enough money to stay there or get home, never leaving a note to say where she was headed. Later when we asked why, she just said “I just wanted to see California.” Sometimes now I wonder if she knew how little time was left.

So, last week was a long week. But if you have faith, you can see the little miracles amidst the pain. For me, there was the reuniting of T and his siblings—and even laughter and funny stories. There is the reality check that comes with something like this—that forces you to consider what is most important in life. There are the hugs and “I love you’s” expressed freely, that ordinarily go unsaid. There is the support of people who like you—and, surprisingly, sometimes even from those who don’t. There is the ability to (once again) label those irritating petty things as ridiculous. There are the little angels-on-earth that reach out to you, desperate to comfort you in your pain. And there, crouching in the corner, just waiting for you … whenever you are ready for Him … is God. He knows your suffering like no one else ever could. He wants to remind you that although the journey isn’t always smooth, the landing is.

Women That WOW: Genie-Bee

There is a unique character in my life that you need know. Actually, it’s likely that you do. She’s Genie-Bee … my Mom. She knows everybody. It would be more accurate to say that everybody knows her. You think I’m kidding. Allow me to illustrate.

We were in a Florida rental condo on vacation a few years ago. We were on the third floor of a building where there is just one other unit and an elevator. One day, the owners of the adjacent condo were getting on the elevator as we were. Mom struck up her version of a Six-Degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon conversation, trying to find the common point of interest with any given stranger. By the time the doors opened on the ground floor, the man was yelling “…Oh my gosh, you’re that Genie-Bee?!” I kid you not. (In this case, it seems that the guy’s best friend in Wisconsin was a doctor my Mom consulted for.) I could go on, but there’s more you need to know about her.

Remember that poem that inspired the whole “Red Hat” movement? That could’ve been written about Mom. Only she’ll never be old. When you are with her, you think she’s about 16. She makes you feel about 16. She’s always giggling, smiling and telling silly stories about her antics. She has short hair, doesn’t wear much make up and is a casual kinda girl. But every time I look at her blue-green eyes when she’s telling one of her funny stories, I think, “She’s one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever known. This is what pure joy does for a person.”

She parks her car like a drunken sailor--sometimes illegally, but with her “crip” sign (as she calls it), no one ever says anything. She has great quotes that NEVER die like … “He who speaks next loses” (extremely useful in negotiations). Or … “If it rains on Easter Sunday, it will rain for eight more Sundays in a row.” Or, the one that I’ve been hearing a lot from her in recent years, “Fear is useless. What is needed is trust.” You see, Mom is largely defined by her faith. She has a complete and total trust that God will take of everything. And Mom is always right. She’s converted all kinds of people … by example … by telling them what they are doing wrong (!) or by taking them to Medjugorje with her. In fact, a couple of her doctors (who are more like sons to her) fondly call her “The Sword of the Lord.” You need another example.

This summer, Mom was the lucky recipient of a tax audit. Interestingly, she was assigned a first-time auditor who was intent on making a good impression with her boss. So, “Newbee” took the entire summer on this case, making Mom crazy. As they were wrapping up, Mom gave Newbee the old “one-two,” which usually goes something like this: “You know, ___(your name here)___, you have an amazing gift for ___(your talent here)__. You are truly one of the best I’ve ever encountered. I wouldn’t be surprise if you make a lot of money doing that in your future. But, you want to be careful, because you’re also ___(your weak trait goes here)___. That might be your downfall. However, if you can keep that in check, I wouldn’t be surprised if you are really, really successful.” In this case, she told Newbee that she was extremely well organized, but that she was obsessive compulsive. Yes, really. How does she get away with that? I don’t know. Interestingly, the recipient’s response is always … “How did you know that about me? Are you a psychologist?” and they leave thanking her or hugging her. Really.

I could go on for days about Mom. But I’ll leave you with my favorite “Genie-Bee” story. We asked everyone she knows to give us their best “Genie-Bee” story for her birthday a few years ago. This one was shared by my Aunt Cathy—who is gone now. I’d never heard this one before that day—but I’ll never forget it now. One summer, Mom and Aunt Cathy went to Ireland to visit their parents’ land and some distant cousins. They traveled to a rural area to spend a few days with a second cousin and her 5 year old daughter. Every day, the mother and daughter would walk two miles to a little school so that the little girl could swing on the playground there. Seems there wasn't much to entertain a small child in that part of the country.This family had little money, but was rich in love and hospitality. Soon it came time for Mom and Aunt Cathy to leave. They thanked their hosts, shared hugs and headed for the airport. Driving through the next town, Mom pulled over and ran into the Sears catalog center—leaving Aunt Cathy waiting in the rental car. According to Aunt Cathy, Mom ordered a swing set for the little girl, to be delivered to the home of the “cousins” the following week. That’s so Genie-Bee.

Prayer Warrior

It started out being just a leisurely Saturday afternoon get-together for the “trinity” to catch up. That was at 1 p.m. When T walked through the door at 10:30 p.m. that night, I knew things had taken a turn. As T explained to me, the story unfolded into much more than we had feared. We knew trouble had been stalking some of our precious, younger extended family members—but, it turns out it had been living with them for some time. I’d been praying for them for so long—but had it helped? There again were the questions that had faced us before: What do we do? What can we do? What is our responsibility? Can we force a hand? It was no secret to our close family and friends that we’d been here before—with another. In that case, we’d made mistakes by not acting sooner. Mistakes we are still trying to make right.

This time, T didn’t even wait for the end of the trio’s conversation to lead the charge. They (the trinity we once called “the bro hem brothers”) swooped in, removed the bambinis to a safe place to talk. There were tears. There was a plea for help. There was even an audible cry for more God in their lives. (Ahhh…you WERE listening! Thank you!) Then there was consolation and reassurance. T let them know they are well loved. He told them the situation is not their fault. He reminded them that we aren’t going away … that we’re (all) going to help do everything in our power to make things better for them. He even mentioned God.

As he told me all of this late Saturday night, I just kept thinking of all those years we debated about prophets, gods, religions and spirituality. I kept thinking about how many years went by that he was so lost spiritually and unhappy. I remembered the Christmas long ago when his doubt and desperation hit an all time low. I’d just kept praying for him to find peace. Now he was leading the charge, and I don’t even think he realized it. I couldn’t help but smile as he was talking. “Why are you smiling?” he asked. “I was just noticing what shirt you happened to be wearing today.” He looked down. Then he smiled, too. (See photo at right.) The queen's warrior.

Someone sent me an email with a new acronym this week. I’m adopting it as my personal mission statement: P.U.S.H. –“Pray Until Something Happens.” It works. I swear.

Heavenly Hopes

I think Heaven must be, in part, a place of absence. Absence of evil, hatred and contempt, of course. But also absence of criticism and judgement of one another. No one ridiculing your ideas, opinions, shape, clothes, size, work, color, religion or creativity. Absence of egotism and self-centeredness.

Instead of being "all about me," it will be only about us. Talk about feeling like part of a team or community! We'll be part of a genuine, living breathing "oneness." Imagine everyone cheering your every effort. We will only be our collective best when we're working together, being our best individual selves--only we'll lose sight of being individuals because we're so completely filled with joy when the other guy is in his zone. No more being self-conscious. No more worrying about being the first or the best. No presidents. No CEOs. No Board of Directors. Just one King--with no replacements or wanna-bes. No one will ever feel like they are alone or that no one loves them. No one will ever feel like they are a loser or a "square peg," because they don't fit into society's round rules of engagement. We won't have to wonder. We won't have to ask. We'll just feel ... integral. All the time.

Instead of that thing we did when we were kids ..."Daddy, watch me. Daddy, watch me NOW! Daddy, watch me when I do THIS. Daddy, watch me when I add a twist and do THIS!" ... We'll just see Him smile and say, "I will never take my eyes off of you." And so we'll feel completely and utterly loved. Eternally.

Greed

Caution: I’m on negativity overload. This has been building for months, even years. But now my mind is like a ready-to-overflow septic tank. I don’t think I can spend one more minute listening to someone complain, criticize, judge.

I used to be so good at finding the hope … pointing out the silver lining in most any situation. But I’ve lost that ability to be positive lately. I’m trying to find some silver. Heck, I’d settle for a glimpse of tinfoil at this point. I try T’s “superhero” illustration of visualizing myself “waxing up” so that all the crap just rolls off. I even try putting on Sooz’s tried-and-true imaginary Wonder Woman cuffs to deflect the bullets of evil flying at me. But it’s not working. A few have even pierced the skin in my right shoulder, which aches a lot lately. I haven’t even been blogging lately—because I hate to give negative a voice.

Sunday. We’re working on the kitchen cupboards. I discover a set of pretty, hand painted dishes I bought over the years, piece by piece, cherishing each one. I never used them. Time to let them go—it’s the Feng Shui principle of clearing old clutter to make room for what the universe has to offer you next. I put an ad for the set (priced ridiculously cheap), as well as a bolt of fabric, on Craig’s List. I go to a flea market with Sooz. I offer the dishes to her—since they are handmade, because they fit her criteria for her shop. She likes the idea.

By the time I get home and check my email there are two emails from the same woman, clearly panicked to own the dishes immediately. No salutations or small talk. She states simply, “I want these—assuming they aren’t all chipped and broken. I’m coming to get them. Where are you?” Then another, “You haven’t responded yet. Tell me where you live and I’ll come pick these up today.” I email back, thanking her for her interest and telling her I’ve given the dishes to my sister—mentioning the shop. She emails again, clearly indignant, asking if the price would be the same. I tell her honestly, I don’t’ know-- it’s up to Sooz since they are hers now.

Tuesday. I wake up thinking that the summer is passing by. August is at the front door. K is going back to school. We never made it to the pool this summer. I’m on top of my projects at work, but I just can’t sit at a computer for 8.5 hours today. I decide (since I have vacation time) to take a personal day. I need to mine a little happiness. I quickly check email. The dish lady has sent me a scathing email, accusing me and my family of deceit. She tells me the world is fortunate that I don’t sell on eBay because they wouldn’t tolerate people like me. I’m seeing red.

I spend the next hour trying to resist the overwhelming urge to email her and say, “Careful. Your greed is showing.” But I’ve given her Sooz’s shop name and location. Clearly this evil woman is on a mission. Giving her a piece of my mind could come back on Sooz—badly. I’m protective of my little sister. My shoulder is aching. My septic tank lid is floating. My eyes are burning. Satan is standing there looking me in the eye. Smirking. Only he’s a she, and because she’s smooth—I’ll call her Satin. I’m losing it. Her dark cloud follows me throughout my personal day. I keep taking deep breaths, feeling like I’m drowning in the cesspool of evil and negativity. I repeat my mantra…”Jesus, I trust in you” a thousand times in my head. But Satin is stealing the last of my hope in human kind. I mention the situation to a few people. “You can’t let people like that get to you,” they say. In my more lucid state, I know this, of course. But I passed lucid weeks ago. They don’t know the months of crud in the septic tank. The wax isn’t working. Neither are the cuffs. My neck aches.

I can’t drum up any morsel of compassion for Satin. So, I try to take the high road and wash my hands of her. I forward the emails to Sooz so she’s aware she needs to beware.

Wednesday morning. Back at work. Checking email. Sooz has forwarded an email chain between her and Satin. Guess who’s coming to get the dishes at Sooz’s shop? A storm is brewing. My stomach hurts. I delete the emails, trying to detach. I lunch with a friend/work colleague—learning about a past, deep pain I never knew about him. All based on a lack of forgiveness. What have we become? My heart breaks a little more for this gentle soul and parent. My heart breaks for all of us who can’t move past this. Satan is dancing.

Wednesday 7 p.m. I’m driving to volunteer at bingo. Sooz leaves me a voicemail. Big scene with Satin. She came and bought the dishes, bullied the salesgirl for more, then told her version of our family’s “lies and cheating-nature.” Sooz tells me that she sent Satin an email (copying me), “giving her a piece of both of our minds.” My shoulder hurts. I think about how much I loved those dishes as I purchased them one at a time, years ago. I envision smashing them all now. One by one. Satan and Satin will waltz tonight as they place the dishes on eBay.

Wednesday 10 p.m. I’m driving home, crying, after three hours of serving surly bingo players who are so blinded by winning more money with their welfare-check investments that they can’t even muster so much as smile or a “thank you” when I serve them. I played a mental game all night—one that I play when things get rough for me. I walked every inch of that bingo hall for three hours looking for the sign of the cross. I do this a lot lately. It reminds me that, no matter how dark it is, He’s there. He’s everywhere. I just have to remember to look for Him. You’d be absolutely amazed at how many places He shows up.

I almost gave Satin and her dark boss my day. I almost gave them the baby fawn I saw in a green field by himself, this evening. I almost gave them the joy that I’m getting from the book I’m reading …”Three Cups of Tea” (about how one man with no money truly made a difference to so many people). I almost gave them the joy I experienced when I chatted with my friend “Okay” at work or with sister Megs today. But I didn’t. On my drive home tonight, I listened to my new favorite song—What Kind of a World Do You Want? I opened the windows, turned up the stereo and remembered that it’s only through suffering that I can really get closer to Him. And I’m grateful for that.

“What kind of world do you want?
Think anything.
Let’s start at the start,
Build a masterpiece
Be careful what you wish for,
History starts now.”

But Cheerios Aren't Very Colorful ...

Father’s Day. A young family sneaks into church just after mass has started and sits in the pew in front of us. They are perfectly groomed and in their Sunday best … a young mother, handsome father, baby boy (about 3 months); “big” brother (about 2 ½ years old) and “Mary Beth” (about 6 years old). Her name has been elegantly painted on her backpack. She is wearing a beautiful sundress, dainty shoes, a headband in her fair hair and a heart locket. Brother’s hair is styled, bangs to one side. He's wearing a little Ralph Lauren–style vest with his khakis. I recognize this family. The pretty young Mother is a friend of my sister’s; the little girl adored by my niece—(the divine Miss M).

Despite my effort to focus, I’m distracted from the sermon—watching them. Shortly after they arrive, the baby starts to fuss quietly. Big brother comes to the rescue immediately. He plays with him—smiling. Tickling. Soon the baby fusses again. With silent hand gestures, Mom signals Dad to pick up baby while she—in two quick motions (totaling less than one minute)—extracts a bottle and powdered mix in a plastic container and combines them to make a fresh bottle.

While she feeds the baby, Big brother opens his backpack. He extracts a craft kit that clearly Mom has prepared in advance to entertain the children for this hour. He finds a fat, sparkly, new blue shoelace. Then he takes out a tiny plastic container filled with colorful fruit loop cereal. With great contentment, he begins stringing the cereal, like beads, on the shoelace.

The mass continues. The family, children included, have been taking part. And they have been so very quiet and well behaved. Mary Beth pulls out her craft project. Her shoelace is sparkly pink. Her plastic container is filled with plain cheerios. We are at the point of the mass where a miracle occurs—plain bread and wine become the body and blood of our Lord. We are on our knees. Heads are bowed. For some reason, Mary Beth is frustrated. She spies her brother’s multi-colored fruit loops. She expresses a whispered complaint to her mother—who tries to quiet her for the moment. Mary Beth voices her point again—a little louder. “But cheerios aren’t very colorful!” she cries aloud. In one quick, silent movement, Mom opens both plastic containers—creates a new mixture of plain cheerios and colorful fruit loops and everyone is content again (with creativity having been nurtured in the process). I’ve now witnessed two miracles within the hour.

I think about how much preparation went into her morning getting this entire family church-ready. I think about her preparing the craft kits, the bottle ingredients, packing the backpacks, combing everyone’s hair, making sure their clothes were clean and pressed and caring enough to pay attention to the little details like hair bands and heart lockets. All for one hour … to honor God. Could there be a better prayer? I don’t think so.

The congregation stands. We share the sign of peace and wish the fathers in attendance a “Happy Father’s Day." Silently, I’m honoring this Mom today—and Moms everywhere.

Women That Wow: Lady Bug

I met my friend “Lady Bug” (a nickname her mother gave her as a child) in a “Moms” group at our church. Each week, about 12 of us would gather and share a little bit about ourselves—individual stories unfolding carefully, gently, trustingly. There was something about LB that made me want to be her friend. For a long time, I thought it was her strength—which seemed such a bold contrast to my timid lack of confidence.

At first blush, you would think we couldn’t be more different. She speaks her mind. I wish I could speak mine (more often). Her opinions are well-thought out and articulate. Mine are emotional. I say I’m an “artsy, right brain” thinker. She laughs and says that must make her an “analytical, left brain” thinker. (But she’s very creative, too.)

We started meeting for “cawfee tawk.” The more I learned about LB, the more I liked her. Growing up, she lived in New York and went to parochial school. She was the youngest child in a big family. She lost her mother to cancer when she was just 10 years old—and she misses her terribly. Every. Single. Day. She tells wonderful stories about her Mom--who worked nights. As soon as her mom came home, she would mop the kitchen floor. Part of a comfortable routine; a theraputic unwinding. No matter how sick or tired her mother was, she was helping others. She walked her faith. LB has memories of various people who were “down on their luck” living in their basement. After her mother died, her Dad tried his best—but he missed his life’s companion terribly.

LB’s faith is rock solid. She doesn’t exaggerate. She doesn’t lie—even when it might be easier. (I love that about her.) You see, she doesn’t want any of her actions here on earth to stand in the way of her getting to see her Mom, Up There.

LB graduated from high school at just 16 years old and, two weeks later, she married her sweetheart—because she wanted to (and because her Dad approved). The young couple immediately left for El Salvador to do missionary work. LB taught ESL in a school and she translated (to the best of her abilities) in the hospital for physicians with Doctors Without Borders.

They were a happy couple. A few years later, they moved back to the states—first to Texas, then back to NY. They had three little boys. Then other family members started to intervene--slowly causing waves that, in time, became tsunamis. Eventually, it became so bad that LB accepted a job in the Midwest, packed up the boys and moved. Within two weeks, the company folded and she was without a job. Her struggles continued. Within a short time, she had a dream in which her mother spoke to her. She told LB to get to a doctor. LB had cancer. During her health crisis, she lost her Dad. She also lost a dear aunt who helped to raise her.

Alone, she battled cancer three times over the years. Alone, she raised those three boys into some of the most intelligent and admirable young men I’ve ever met. Alone, she supported them. Alone, she made sure they had the best possible education available. The youngest is now in college, loving every minute of it. Her middle son is musically gifted and a great writer (and an artsy, right brain thinker!) The oldest is a young, married professional—just selected by his company to help lead a training program overseas. He is married to a young lady that LB adores.

LB works as Director of Compliance Operations for a health care company. She runs a catering business in her “spare time.” She misses New York. She says, “New York is home.” But, I think she misses that old kind of “happy.” I think—like most of us—she misses that safe place in the past that was “home.” We miss the security of laying in bed at night and hearing our parents talking quietly. We miss a time when there was no stress in our lives. We miss being kids with big dreams that were nurtured in us. We miss the little things. Like Mom mopping the kitchen floor early every morning—and the sound of her singing.

LB doesn’t like being alone. Nor does she like people referring to her as “strong.” Those aren’t things she has chosen. Sometimes when we chat, I hear her reflecting about the past—second guessing the choices that she made. It makes me sad to think I might never have met her. I think about how much richer my life is because she’s in it. I think about how grateful I am to God for sending her into my life. He made her shine like a brilliant angel during those Moms meetings, so that I would sit up and take notice … and know that He sent her there for me … like the “beneficial” Lady Bug that she is. Not just for her example of strength, but—more importantly—for her example of absolute faith.

Spiritual Spa Weekend

I visited one of my favorite spots in the world this weekend. The campus of the University of Notre Dame. More specifically, the grotto there. It is modeled on the one in Lourdes, France. Built in 1896, it is a place of quiet grace--sometimes referred to as "the cave of candles." Approaching it, you feel the warmth. There is an unspoken sense of healing, peace and forgiveness here. Visitors light candles "offering up" their prayers to our lady--as intercessor to her son.

Each time I visit, I am so moved by the flowers, prayer cards, photos, tears. There are no egos here. It is a haven of humility. There are seldom any words being exchanged by visitors. I've been here in the rain--as a grandfatherly man sat on a bench praying the rosary, with two labs sitting faithfully by his side as it poured on them all. His young grandson, dressed in pajamas ran in and about the grotto, lighting candles. His grandfather didn't seem to notice--his tears mixed with the rain. His pain was palpable to passers by. I pray for him this time when I visit--and often when I think back on that scene.

I've been here in spring (this time) with flowers in full bloom, church goers and visitors weaving about each other in silence. Pausing, Praying. I've been here in cold--with my sisters hugging, because it seems the natural thing to do here. I've been here with my son.

Each time I've visited, I've been with my Mom. And I always think about how blessed I am to be here with "both my Moms." There is never enough time here. I just want to sit and adore. I just want everyone to experience this peace. Because then things would be so very, very different.

Women That WOW! (Ann)

In honor of Mother's Day, I thought I'd write some posts about some amazing women that have touched my life.

I find myself drawn to those people who really embrace life. Take my friend Ann, for example. Every move she makes inspires and nurtures. She is a mom of three, a “green” columnist (unpaid) for a publication, recruits and trains volunteers for a business that markets fair trade items. And, seemingly, she can’t do enough for our church community. She works in the church office, assists with a new youth program that has bridged a gap between kids from different schools, helps to shepherd a Moms group, and—recently started a “Green Team” to educate our growing congregation and initiate some positive environmental change among us. In her “spare time”—she creates beautiful black and white photographic note cards that are artistic and (no surprise here) awe-inspiring. Before moving here, she spearheaded a project to gather stories of faith from the members of her former church community, which she then published.

All of this is impressive—but not what I like most about Ann. I’ve witnessed a couple of desperate situations in the lives of individuals where Ann has just stepped-in and stepped-up. No questions asked. She just does. She’ll send out an email asking for assistance and people line up to help. Not just for the individual in need—but for Ann. She sets the example that we all aspire to achieve. She walks the walk. Talking about it is not her style.

I was thinking about Ann when I left church on the Sunday during Earth Week. Her “Green Team” was handing out organic seeds from Seeds of Change. As I read the planting instructions on the back of my package of German Chamomile seeds, I thought about how Ann inspires growth in every life she touches. When it’s harvest time—I’m going to treat her to a cup of tea.