In the Heart of my Home

Here's to Finding More Beautifuller Things

Grateful

It started six weeks ago, the morning of Rachael's father's funeral. The words began to haunt anew: lymph node, trial of antibiotics, blood work, sed rate, xray. I knew the progression. I'd lived it before. First this, then this, then cancer, then chemo, then...

This time, though, the words were spoken by my pediatrician. This time, I was not the patient. This time, I was the mom.

She's been through so much this fall that it breaks my heart. Not this, too. Surely not this.

Please Lord, this cup? Let it pass?

And then, after what seemed like eternal waiting and watching, new words.

Within normal limits.

And I am grateful.

Just inhaling the wonder of a normal every day.

Thank You

As I pondered and prayed about yesterday's post (for months, maybe years), I knew that it would take a leap of faith, a stretch of courage to publish it and my dearest hope was that it would bless. Thank you for your warm response. Even more, though, thank you for your honesty and your courage in the comments. Thank you for sharing your hearts and encouraging one another with such grace and such genuine love. This is a conversation that is comforting, consoling, and converting the hearts of mothers and I'm very grateful to be a part of it. You all are charitable Christian community at its most genuine. Thank you!

<<Comments are closed on this post so that the conversation can continue in one place on the post below.>>

Happy Birthday, Sweet Sarah Love

Deep breath. 

I will not cry while writing this post.

Too late. 

I love this sweet baby so much.

I love those chocolate eyes and the blond bangs that fall in her face but that she won't let me clip. And her big sister won't let me cut.

I love that she insists on starting and ending her days with a snuggle and she cups my face in her hands and tells me she loves me all day long.

I love that she says, "Thank you," as often as she says, "I love you."

I love that she wants to be held, to slow me down, to linger long here in babyhood, ever since the beginning.

I love that her whole world revolves around her daddy. 

I love her as much as she loves egg nog.

I love to read her stories. The ones with princesses are best.

I love pink. It's our favorite color. (And Daddy's, too.)

I love that she calls her sisters "my girlies" and she's lonely without them. 

I love that she calls her brothers "my boys-ees."

I love that she went to sleep last night in a princess dress and she told me she *had* to because it makes her look fabulosa. I love that I let her.

I love that Halloween will never be the same again, not since that miraculous night three years ago, when we received a sweet sugar sack, all five pounds of her, six weeks early.

Oh, my sweet Sarah Annie girl, I love you.

This moment needs a dozen pictures or more

When you are the youngest brother of five boys, you grow accustomed to hand-me-down cleats and previously worn jerseys. You retrieve banged up baseball bats from the garage and happily play with tennis balls that already have had the fuzz beat off them. But one day, you face a seemingly insurmountable challenge. You want to play golf. 

You desperately want to play golf.

You are obsessed with golf. You talk about golf every day. All day long. There is a full set of junior clubs sitting right there in the garage, next to all the other athletic equipment you've always had right when you wanted it. But you have a problem. A big, overwhelming problem. Your big brothers are lefthanded. And you are not.

You eye your father's right-handed clubs. He's 6'4". Chances are very good that, one day, you will be very tall, too. Right now, though, those clubs are too big. And right now you want to play golf.

You hatch money-making schemes: lawn mowing, dog walking, lemonade stands. This is a maddeningly slow process. You begin to worry that the summer is slipping away and you will never have the right clubs to play golf.

And then one afternoon, you are sitting in the restaurant at your grandpa's club, just eating your french fries and gazing out longingly at the greens beyond the big picture window.

And a strange man approaches.

Are you Nicholas? {You nod, tentatively, and wonder why this strange man is standing so close to you and why he's dragged golf clubs into the restaurant.}

I'm Jack. I'm the golf pro here. {Um, nice to meet you?}

Do you like these clubs? {You nod again.}

 

Would you want to keep them? {Who IS this dude and is he crazy? Keep them! You let yourself look at them a little harder. Whoa, those are amazing clubs!}

Your grandpa says you can have them. {This is some sort of dream. Some sort of really, really good dream. Shake yourself a little. Those are your clubs!} 

And that golf course just beyond the panes of glass? That's where you'll spend the week learning to play golf.

 

Every little boy should have that once-in-a-lifetime perfect day that comes of a grandpa hearing his heart's desire, dreaming his dream with him, and making his fondest wish come true.

It's all in the noticing

Gratitude. A deep-down sense that God is good and that life is a gift. It's there for the taking. Sometimes, though it's all in the noticing. I can't notice when life is whizzing by. I can't notice when I'm so tired my eyes don't focus. Noticing happens best in the slow time.

I have to stop. Be still. And notice. 

It helps to wake up in my own room in the "kids' wing," the one with the beautiful blue walls and the ceiling fan. In the house where I'm not the most grown up grown-up of all.

There is a winding country drive, early Sunday morning, to monastery quiet nestled in the hills.

 

The sky is so blue and the hills so green.

The church bells ring out when Mass begins and again when Our Lord is present. Bells ring, echoing off the hills, filling an early Sunday morning with the sound of pure joy.

I am sitting outside this church with a squirmy Sarah Annie. We notice a bird with a hollyberry in his beak, a butterfly flitting from flower to flower, weeds in the garden (she wants to pull - "to help the sisters). We are stilled, heads bowed at the sound of the bells.
 

Breakfast after church. The Mudhouse Cafe. Fair trade, local, organic, friendly, cozy, small town perfect.

A soy mocha latte that tastes more like coffee than chocolate--mocha perfection.

 

Art for breakfast.

And then on to the orchard.

Yep. She'll ask Grandpa for peach ice cream at 10 in the morning. And yep, she'll get it.

 

It's a beautiful day. She's styling her shades. Let's get out and pick.

Precious cargo.

{Dear, sweet man.}

Nothing says Virginia morning like the smell of fresh peaches and the sight of crepe myrtles in the sun.

To Mint Springs Lake, where there little girls can lie on their bellies in the sun and run their fingers through the sand.

Just sit on the shore, toes in the water, and inhale. 

This friendly competition did NOT end in screaming and shouting the revisiting of game rules. Mountain miracle, no doubt.

Just a day. One day. Not a fancy vacation in a far-off land. Not a two week reservation and a ticket to ride. Just a day. Surrounded by people I love and people who love me.

In a place that never fails to remind me how loved we are by the Master Artist who created it.

Joining Ann to count blessings, except I've again lost count..

Grateful and then some.

Tuesdays are my gratitude days. Lately, I've tried to post my grateful list on Tuesdays, after posting a Daybook on Mondays. My life has spun in such a dizzy whirl since Friday that all I can muster this morning is, "um, what day is it?"

It's Tuesday, so I must be grateful.

Let me take you back, mostly without pictures because I've forgotten my camera pretty much all weekend. As my extended family sends me pictures, perhaps I'll add them here. In the meantime, my graduation pictures of my own son are  blurry beyond recognition. I've got a good one of my friend, Ruthie. She glows joy. But it would be sort of odd to put her up here and leave Michael out. Besides, she's on the trip of a lifetime in Europe right now, so I can't even ask if she'd like to be my token graduation picture, beautiful as that would be...

Friday, we celebrated Michael's graduation. Michael has six grandparents--Mike's mom and dad, my mom and stepfather, and my dad and stepmother. They were all there to watch him graduate. How amazing is that? I will admit to goosebumps when Pomp and Circumstance was played, but I didn't cry (everyone around me did). I attribute that to the fact that he really graduated in December and we've already processed it. At the end of graduation, I got a text. As much as I hate people who are tied to their phones, I had left several sick children at home and encouraged Mary Beth to text and let me know how things were. I plead guilty to texting with Michael during graduation, also. It kept things interesting while 1700 names were called. 

The text made me cry. It was Paddy.

Patrick is coming home. The Big Adventure has come to a close. And that long year is over. Really, I'm still processing. And I don't know how much I'll share here. He's healthy (except for a broken foot); he's whole; he's grown in so many ways. And in 4 hours and 13 minutes, he will be home. This was a burst of emotion for which I was not prepared on a weekend that I knew was going to be filled with emotion.

Michael talked to Paddy on our way from graduation to the party and so did I. Mike had insisted several weeks ago that we do the graduation party somehwere that wasn't home. This is definitely a departure from the  usual around here and I was a bit bothered by it, but when we hit upon the idea of having it at the local sushi restaurant, I knew we had a winner. Those good people were nearly excited about Michael's graduation as we were and they were genuinely honored to celebrate it with us. Lunch was awesome; the company wonderful and all was well.

Saturday afternoon, we celebrated my youngest nephew's first communion. It was the most beautiful First Communion I have ever been blessed to witness. Just perfect. After, we returned to my sister-in-law's house for a cookout. It's always a genuine party when the cousins are together. Mike and I scooted out early in order to go home, change clothes and drive across the river to Maryland to celebrate my oldest nephew's Bar Mitvah.

His was a huge party at Congressional Country Club. My sets of parents were there, and my aunts, and a couple hundred other people. My sister is, by far, the most amazing party planner in the world. Sh'ed been working on this one for eighteen months and every moment of that labor showed. She did a beautiful job and Mike and I really enjoyed a rare date night. We went home, slept fast, and then awoke to the regular Sunday activities, plus a seventieth birthday party for my mother.

I do wish I had pictures of that one. My sister's house looked so lovely. Huge and many bouquets of spring's finest flowers stood in the centers of poolside tables clothed in hot pink. Brunch was delicious; the cake--a lovely square confection of chocolate draped with white fondant and wrapped in a huge pink fondant bow--was too pretty to eat. But I hear it tasted as good as it looked. I consoled my wheat-free self with several cup of coffees with whipped cream floating on top, stirred with cinnamon sticks. The kids swam. Mike and I thoroughly enjoyed catching up with favorite friends who were neighbors when I was in high school. And, I dearly love my aunts, so it was nice to have a chance to talk away from the loud band of the previous night. Just before we left, my niece, who is graduating this spring, gifted Mary Beth with an entire high school career's worth of formal dresses--beautiful gowns that have just begun to dance. My mother was very happy and the weekend ended on a good note.

I spent yesterday cleaning--going to my sister's impeccably kept and beautifully decorated house does that to me;-). We thought Patrick would be home at the end of the week. I have this thing about children coming home to clean and orderly homes that look like they are ready for most important guests. i figured we'd take the week to get ready. Around dinnertime, though, he called and casually asked if I'd be available to meet him at the airport this morning. Would I?! I'll bring the gang with me. Pretty sure I'll remember the camera, too.

And then, the rest of the week will be devoted to settling everyone in for the summer. For the first time ever--ever--all nine of them are living at home for the foreseeable future. I think I just heard the upstairs bathroom groan. And I'm sure I heard the dining room table sigh a happy, happy sigh.

A place for everyone, and everyone in his place.

 

No better friend than a brother...

Gifts. We count them, one by one, the birds and the flowers and the sunsets. And they sing to us of the greatest of God, of His gracious blessing of abundant beauty. 

Even more precious are the days when we can stop and truly appreciate the gift of relationship. Nicholas was stoic, but sad, when Patrick left home last fall. Caught between being completely thrilled as any nine-year-old soccer player would be at the mere mention of the National Team and being acutely aware that his hero and buddy was  plucked from his daily life, he has struggled through the year. He is Patrick's biggest fan, but really, he just wants him to come home and play with him. In these last few weeks before the grand adventure comes to a close, Mike made a superhuman effort and got Nicky down to Florida to visit Patrick. So, this week, we count the gifts of brothers, together in the sunshine.

 ~a sporty red rental car to toodle around on the gulf coast~

~a hug (or two or three)~

~a chance to see where Patrick has been living and training, up close~

~up-close view of  Saturday morning training session~

~a tour of the dorms. What's this? Patrick's "count down to home" calendar. Since the date to come home keeps changing though, we suspect the calendar is more about the picture than the numbers.~


 
    ~A much-needed haircut. Nicky only lets Patrick cut his hair.. Haircuts have been few and far between this year.~ 
 

~a tour of the school~

~A romp in the Gulf of Mexico. Sort of funny to look at these pictures since neither of them are big fans of swimming in the sea.~

~Perfect Sunday seaside~

 

It has been said that the greatest gift you give your children is a sibling. 

All true.

 

 

Thank God for Little Girls

Counting feminine blessings, today.

~Sweet, giggly sleepyheads ever so excited about strawberries, cream, scones and tea and a chance to watch a real live princess walk down the aisle to her prince.

 

~Sighing and smiling and countless requests to watch it again on Youtube.

~A full day of playing wedding, each of them taking turns being the princess bride.

~An evening spent with Mama's and Daddy's wedding album: Mommy looks like a princess, too. And see how Daddy is smiling at her? That's because they love each other.

~Her insistence that they show the album to Daddy when he gets home and that they make him sing all the songs from his wedding.

~Fifteen hand-painted notes for him, stacked on the office desk, awaiting his return.

~The way they refer to themselves as "the girlies." 

~And the way the littlest one refers to the others as "my girlies."

~About a million hair bows.

~The way her hair makes tight ringlets in the rain.

~The way the others love her curls (and wish they had them, too).

~Laundry separated into lights, darks, and pinks.

~Monday ballet afternoons and the outrageous noise level of fifteen giggling, dancing girls.

~And the three little ones all want to grow up to be just like the big sister.

~All five of us knitting together--and teaching Gracie and Mel to knit, too. That way, as Gracie so aptly put it, "We'll all have something to do when we're old."

~Utter delight in the first meal of the season taken out of doors.

~Them begging to go back to  the bluebells.

~Littlest one reaching over all the other pretend cupcakes so that she can have the chocolate pretend cupcake.

~An afternoon of dressing up, posing for the camera, and somehow blurring the line between props and real life, so that they are sure they just had a fancy tea party in the woods.

~The tender care they take of their rather large family of baby dolls.

~The way they don't play "House" (as I did), but they play "Babies" and the favorite game of all, "Babies and Friend Moms."

~Sweet smelling bathtimes, pink fingernails and toenails, rub-rub after the tub.

~Long, curly eyelashes on barely pink cheeks in the glow of the hall light when I kiss them goodnight one more time.

~My heart filled to the brim with my sweet girlies.

{all photos courtesy of the amazing Lori Fowlkes}

 

 

Celebrating Papa

~Because this letter, written four years ago, is on my heart as we look towards Sunday's beatification. Of course, there was a baby after this one, too. God's generosity exceeds our most fervent prayers.~

 

April 1, 2007

Dear Papa,

I had planned to write a long column this weekend, in time for tomorrow. But the baby was sick and my hands were full, so all the writing I did was in my head.  I planned to write about that sobbing prayer two years ago, when I begged you to intercede for me. And then I'd write about all the little miracles strewn like roses in the days and weeks and months that followed.

Instead, I stayed up all night, dancing with my daughter.  She was feeling poorly and whimpering to be held. I gathered her up out of my bed and swayed with her in the darkness. For hours.  I sang my full repertoire of musicals.  I moved on to old Raffi tunes. I added a little Glory and Praise. And then, I switched to "You Light up my Life."  Her tears ceased and mine fell freely. I settled into the big chair, her head heavy against my chest and I remembered.

I remembered a time two years ago that was dark and sad. I was struggling with depression and so was Mike. Together, we were fumbling in confusion. Recovery from childbirth had been difficult. Recovery from a miscarriage more difficult. A year of infertility following that miscarriage was a year of pain like none I'd ever known. No light. Only darkness.  And on that Friday night, I held an eerie vigil in front of the muted television.

Please God, I don't know what I'll do without my Papa. And yet I know, I know that he is yours; he always was. Morning dawned and the day moved forward and then you were gone. And as naturally as the sobs escaped my throat, my soul begged your intercession. Tell Him, Papa! Please tell Him how sad I am, how much I want a baby, how much Mike needs him. Tell Him, Papa--I know you can.

And you did. Within an hour of that prayer, the answers began to become so clear.  You led us to a different parish. You put people in my path who would insist that I get to know the Little Flower you loved so well, the dear Saint you called a Doctor and by whom you trusted that the fullness of faith could be taught. She and you taught me about Love--Love incarnate, a good and gentle God who understood my pain and stooped to bind my wounds. I re-read all your letters to me. I read her words. Light dawned, love flickered.

Looking back, I should not be surprised that in the months following your death, I pushed by forces greater than me to travel. You were never afraid to travel. I had not been on an airplane in fifteen years. But I flew three times that year. The first time, I went Chicago and visited the shrine of St. Therese and left my petitions there. The last time, I went to Florida at my husband's insistence. We were there for an art gallery opening but we took a day trip to St. Augustine and the Shrine of Our Lady of La Leche.  I had a long talk with Our Lady that day. She already knew.I'm sure you told her.

One night, nine months after you died, my husband lit a candle in a church where you once celebrated Mass, in the presence of your relics. And then, our wait for a baby was over and yet it had begun. For nine more months, I was still, love growing inside of me.  I learned to love your favorite prayer and I prayed the rosary with St. Therese, sometimes twenty decades a day, including the five new decades that were your gift to me. All the time, I was almost afraid to believe, almost afraid to think that the light had returned and darkness was dispelled.

Then she was here.  A glorious, beautiful, darling little girl. We call her Karoline Rose. She is a shower of roses, a basket of blessings. She is sweetness and she is light.  As she grows, I will tell her.  I will tell her about her Papa. She will know you and she will be grateful to share your name.

 

But now, she calls again. Enough remembering. I am living in the present, embracing every moment. I know you're here. I know you see her dear, dimpled chin. I know you watch me kiss her fat little cheeks and I know you smile.

Thank you!

On My Mind: Easter Week

Sunday, late afternoon...

Outside My Window

It's finally spring. Virginia is greening up nicely and we're sure glad to see it.

I am Listening to

The Ladies of Cecelia perform Be Still and Know--over and over and over again. It's really beautiful. Longtime followers will recognize the amazing vionlist as MacBeth Derham's daughter, Libby. I think you will agree that she's grown into quite the lovely young lady.

 

I am Wearing

A sweater and a skirt and an apron.

 

I am so Grateful for

~safe travels. Mike and Patrick are in Amsterdam this week.

~3 goals and a 3-2 win over China. Patrick scored all three.

~decent telephone connections

~knitting

~cotton yarn

~a daughter who knows that baking is art

~Easter with grandparents and cousins

~ a darling picture of a young soccer player wearing Patrick's National Team jersey. Paddy signed it for him and sent it back to his parents so they could put it in his Easter basket.

 

I'm Pondering

Knitting twelve sweaters isn't insane. It's actually part of what keeps me sane, keeps me calm and focused on the important things, and brings me present into the here and now. Pretty amazing for something as simple as wrapping some string around a couple of sticks...over and over and over again. Until there's a sweater....or twelve. ~Amanda Soule

 

I am Reading

Organized Simplicity 

 

I am Thinking

about what to keep and what to change from my Lenten rhythm and resolutions. Actually, there's very little I expect to change. The only book I read during Lent was the Bible. I do look forward to delving into the stack I have for myself, but, I'd like to keep the extended Bible reading time as well. And all the other disciplines? All good. It was a very fruitful Lent.

 

I am Creating

A sweater shrug (number 5 or 6?) and I'm starting a new project this week, too.  With handpainted yarn. Karoline painted it. Much more on that later this week.

On my iPod

Knitting Yarns and Spinning Tales

 

Towards a Real Education

Mary Beth and I mapped out her first high school year and got everything tidied up and ordered. We'll begin next week. I like to have our school years run year 'round and my goal this year was to finish before the bluebells bloomed so that we could really enjoy some extended time outside this spring. That plan is mostly on track.

I know that she wishes she were attending a one of two schools in the area. The first is all girls and way out of our price range and a long commute. The second is an impossible commute. We're both trusting that God will provide during the next four years. I'm grateful that she is who she is. Pure blessing.

 

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

This Easter was very different than I imagined just a week ago. I thought we were going to the Shrine downtown and then to brunch at the club. Early in the week, we decided Mike should fly to Holland to meet Patrick. So, that makes it the first holiday without everyone together. That's new. Then, Mike's dad fell for the second time in as many weeks and it was clear that we couldn't do the trek into DC. So we stayed home. I  just sort of did reprise of last year. And it was fine.

But I missed them.

 

To Live the Liturgy...

Easter isn't time or place or even tradition. It's the awareness of the risen Christ and the intimacy of His forgiveness and His friendship.

Stephen and Nick served Mass Thursday night, SAturday at the Easter Vigil and first thing Sunday morning. This fact might not be remarkable except that before this week, they'd never, ever served. Now, they know what they're doing.

 

I am Hoping and Praying

for Elizabeth deHority. She is constantly on my heart and in my prayers. She needs you now. Please, please pray with me.

for the soul of Ty Lewis and for his family and for the countless soccer families who grieve his loss.

for Sarah and her family as they grieve the tragic loss of her sister-in-law.

for Mike's dad and for his mom and for his medical care.

 

 In the Garden

We planted sunflowers and snap peas and spring lettuces and morning glories. The tulips are fading and I need to think about color for the front beds. I'd like to get creative and I'd like to plant some perennials. In the end, I'll probably plant two flats of petunias. Just like last year.

Around the House

A few fun new Easter things.

A copy of Tangled and a very effective new de-tangler.  (Guess whose basket?) Hat tip to Lori.

Fresh supplies for the easel

Chocolate-covered espresso beans.

From the Kitchen

Recipe testing some meals inspired by the farmer's market for the summer issue of Faith and Family.

~Fettuccine Gazpacho Salad

~Mixed greens with Strawberry Vinaigrette

~Zucchini bread

and some more you'll have to read about in the summer issue. By the way, I got a sneak peek at the spring cover last week. So much darlingness:-)

 

One of My Favorite Things

safe landings

 

Sarah Annie this week

She misses her daddy. And her Paddy. This has been an intense time of travel for Mike. He's rarely been home this spring. Sarah is very attached to Daddy, so his absence rocks her world. And she's a big Paddy fan. Pretty much, we're both hanging on 'til the end of May.

A Few Plans for the Week

homecomings: Mike on Monday and Patrick on Tuesday (but Paddy will only be here for few jetlagged hours.)

For the first time in eleven years, I'm going to meet a friend for lunch. And a visit to a yarn store. I'm giddy with excitement.

More bluebells, no doubt, as they begin to fade. And lots of Bluebell Blogging. I have a billion blue photos to share.

Pretty sure there will be a doctor's appointment for Mary Beth. She had a CT scan last week to address some ongoing problems related to  last year's eye injury.

Make-up State Cup game from the weekend of the deluge. No idea when that will be, except it must be before Saturday, when the Round 2 game is to be played. And it's in Richmond. Can't wait to drive to Richmond on a weekday evening/afternoon.

 

Picture thoughts:

  

{{Comments are open. I have been terrible about responding to mail. Please forgive me? I do read every single note and I do pray for you. But, I don't always answer promptly. I'm hoping that having comments open on occasion will give me a chance to answer the more common questions for several people at once and will give you dear ladies an opportunity to talk with each other. They are moderated, so if you don't see yours at first, it means I'm busy knitting; it will appear shortly.}}

 

Quack if you're grateful

It happens probably every day. Usually a fleeting thought that I push away as it comes. I wonder for a moment if I ever will live in the tidy little cottage of my imagination. The one that sits on three acres, tucked off the beaten path, with lots of flowering trees and a picket fence and an enormous raised bed organic garden. The one that is always tidy. I push the thought away because that house is far. It's far from soccer and dance and the airport and Starbucks. And all my kids don't fit in that house.

So, it's pretty much a silly idea.

I live in suburbia. I can have an iced soy latte in exactly seven minutes after I decide I want it enough to go get it myself. Seventeen minutes if I dispatch a teenaged driver. More importantly, I can be sitting at the pedicatrician's office within ten minutes of discovering a child is sick. And I can be at the airport, kissing hello, within 20 minutes of the phone call from the runway telling me he's landed.

But I don't have flowering trees and a great big garden and quiet. I have neighbors. Lots of them. And not nearly enough nature outside my front door to suit me.

I live in suburbia. There are opportunities abounding for my children.

But I don't have wildlife.

Wait! What's this? "Come quick Mommy! The ducks are back. The ones that were here yesterday and the day before and the day before that! They're eating the bird seed!"

We live no where close to the water.

These ducks are a gift. We sit quietly and watch them. Until suddenly Sarah figures out how to say "Quack" and she talks to them. They don't leave. They talk back.

Oh my goodness, Mama Duck is coming to visit! Right up to me, tiptoeing through the tulips.

Well hello to you too, dear.

I think I might be Beatrix Potter.

Ducks, in my front yard. Fancy that.

I can almost see the picket fence.

We're catching up on a couple of weeks worth of notables in the gratitude journal:

~blooming tulips (Patrick saw them)

~blooming bluebells

~rose bushes and peonies promising May flowers

~sunflower seeds, morning glory seeds, sugar snap pea seeds, spring lettuce on the way

~Nicky reading to me as I knit

~Katie chattering to me as I knit

~homecomings

~holding my boy as tears gather and fall

~Patrick home for just a day to say goodbye to a coach and hold his family close

~watching him reach out and touch an unimaginable grief and help to heal a friend

~Mike home on Monday night. Good night.

~Beatrix and Sarah and hugs so powerful they're tackles

~boys who hit it off (at last) and the nature that united them

~sunshine on my face

~godmothers, godchildren and annual reunions in the mud and majesty

~six meals made on the weekend. now we don't have to be home until dinnertime.

~sweet friend who is tinkering around on my blog, sprinkling happy dust, while I'm off playing in the woods.

~a holy week ahead

 

 

Shadow and Light

I hardly ever think of it anymore.

The dark in that shadow.

The chill.

The lonely of a sad childhood.

 

I didn't outrun it, though I probably tried.

 

But I have danced in the light of attachment and acceptance.

I have lingered in the glow of unconditional love.

I know the warmth of tender embrace.

 

I didn't run.

Couldn't run.

 

I turned to face the Son.

~~~

blessings in abundance:

the curl of her eyelashes on a soft cheek as she sleeps

the smell of maple syrup as she holds tightly to my face during early Mass

a chilly walk when I didn't want to

a rousing rendition of "Father Abraham"

and the equally compelling "Jesus Loves Me"

new knitting lessons

endless squares of fiber while I sit and listen to him

God's voice in the early morning: Collossians, Matthew

tea without sugar

basketball in the driveway

fish tacos: no meat, no wheat, no dairy.

old friends

a cup of soup offered when I'm so very hungry and it looks like there's nothing to eat

a wink and a smile--and I remember that I'm not crazy

March Madness

a big stack of picture books

baby bedtimes

 

 

 

How does He love me? Let me count the ways...

I sat with Karoline in the early morning light, cuddled up together, candle lit, for our beloved "story time." Karoline has learned that if she forces her eyes awake as soon as she hears me stirring in the morning, she will have me all to herself. And I will read and read and read any book of her very own choosing. Often, almost every day, one of those books is Abraham's Search for God, a book from our family collection of Old Testament picture books.

The story is a legend of young Abraham, who instinctively knows that the idols and statues worshipped by his ancestors are not the true God. So, he looks to sun and moon, to thunder and rainbow, and finds them all lacking. Finally, the little boy Abraham recognizes the one true God in the beauty of the created world around him. He doesn't worship creation, but Creator.

On that morning not long ago, I asked Karoline if she could see God in her world. Could she search like Abraham did? Where was He? She eagerly shared that He was on nature walks, in knitting lessons, in the atrium (the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd), in her little sister, and on Skype with her brother. She chattered on and on, naming and listing with all the sincerity and enthusiasm a four-year-old can muster. I remembered some magnetic list paper I'd recently grabbed from the dollar bin at the craft store. And I began to record her list.

When she took a breath, I said to her, "You know you are really good at seeing God in your everyday life. Look at all these things! These things are the way He tells you that He loves you."

Karoline glowed at the thought.

"And when we make this list, we can think harder about these things and about God and we can stop and thank Him for every one of them."

And she did. She kept searching. I kept writing for her.

I let the idea bubble in my brain for a few days. Each of my children brings a different temperament and personality to his or her relationship with God and then I bring yet another to my own. I wondered if we couldn't all encourage one another to be aware of the gifts. Katie noticed Karoline's list hanging on the refrigerator and wanted one of her own. So I helped her begin. Sarah noticed both lists and crawled up on the counter, drew on them and tore the front page away from the pad. Sigh. Need a new plan.

Could I dare my children--all of them--and inspire them to count the gifts? Could we begin right now, at the start of Lent, and count together as a family, gathering all that awareness into individual books of praise to be filled by Easter morning? I don't know. Maybe. It was worth a try. I gathered them all in one place (something very rare in and of itself) and I told them the plan. I tried to explain the concept of One Thousand Gifts in a way that made sense to them. And then I gave them each a blank book and a dare: Can you count one thousand ways God loves you?

With one exception, they have all taken eagerly to the challenge. Their notebooks are private, but a few glances I've had when they've shared their thoughts have been amazing insights into their souls. And an interesting aside: their lists very much reflect their love languages. It's remarkable how God speaks differently to each them.

For myself, I have a journal on the kitchen counter and another in the diaper bag. Still, I find myself noticng gifts without pen and paper at hand-- at ballgames, at the park, at the grocery store. Sunday morning, as I was leaving home for church, I saw a robin in the rain. I need to remember to write "robin in the rain." I tell myself these things, but often, I do forget. I recalled that Patrick had sent a text to my phone, from my phone, back when my phone wasn't working. Could I text my gratitude notes to myself and then record them later? I almost always have my phone with me. I could and I did.  That phone still isn't working well. Sometimes it takes hours, even days, to receive texts. So, when my phone chimed twenty minutes later and I read, "robins in the rain" I smiled at the unepected joy of it. God messages on my cell phone!

The acoustics in our church are not good and I often have trouble hearing. Given my morning, perhaps it's no surprise that, just an hour later,  I heard our priest say  "May God bless and text you" instead of "May God bless and protect you." Yes, I giggled a little, please, God, keep texting me.

a list:

~robins in the rain

~all nine children home for a grace-filled, peaceful week

~basketball

~hard rain

~safe flights

~a good cry

~late night emails

~yarn that doesn't untwist

~people who will spin such yarn for me

~pay cuts

~child who cleans without being asked

~the man who cooks dinner on an afternoon that begs me to write and write and write, steady rain as my rhythm

~stacks of freshly folded laundry

~old friends

~the boy whose eyes light up when he recognizes grace and he suddenly runs to find his gratitude journal

~the Facebook wall of an old friend and neighbor on the day her father dies--it's like a block party on a summer evening in my childhood; they're all there, all remembering, all loving her.

~four versions of the Bible strewn about my bed and three of us searching, looking for meaning, for Him

So much more than just a basketball game.

I'm in a comfortable chair in the coffee shop, Stephen delivered to a frosty field on this early Sunday morning. I volunteered for the early shift, even though sleep was ridiculously short last night. I want the time to sit here to put it all in words, to give thanks, to actually count. It doesn't matter the hour or the weather. I am warm-- basking really--in the afterglow of the nearly Perfect Day that was yesterday. So, I sit here in this familiar chair and I hope I can write without spilling tears all over again. No matter, this chair has seem me cry before.

Friday night, Christian's team won a semi-final game to land itself in the ODACS State Basketball Championship. The rest of the team spent the night in Fredericksburg, but we all hauled it back home because Christian wears many hats during basketball season and two of them are coach of his little brothers' teams. He was up very early to coach 9-12 year-olds through two intense nail biters. Both boys came away victorious, ensuring that the next week will be a whirl of playoff games and unpredictable schedules.

We had a few brief moments at home and then we got back in the van, Granddad riding shotgun, and drove south again. I felt sick the whole way. At first I thought it was just that I'd tried to knit and knitting in the car has the same effect on me as reading. Then I recognized that I was over-the-top anxious about this game, crazy worried about the boy next to me, the one with the heart of gold. The one always seems to just have things harder than everyone else. Please God, please, something good for Christian.

It's been my incessant prayer really, for as long as I can remember. I used to itemize, but somewhere along the way, I just asked for something--anything--that would make him smile. Really, really smile effusive joy. Smile the way he used to when he was a little boy and we could keep his world all safe and quiet, control all the things that are so hard. I want this, worry this, so much. Please God, just something good. This, this day, this would be good. Please. Before we left, I had recognized that Christian had slept in the interim between coaching and heading to his game. He didn't eat with everyone else. I had offered him pretty much everything a refrigerator and pantry can hold. He wanted none of it. Even though he has grown to manly heights, this child still has all the sensitivites he had as a little boy. Food has to be just so. We didn't have time for just so.

In desperation, I had grabbed four pieces of fresh bread from the bread box and warmed them, then threw them on a paper plate. Riding next to him I noticed that he was indeed eating the bread, headphones firmly in place, blocking the rest of the world, just chewing and thinking and listening.

What was going on in that head? How could I climb inside? I remembered the night before, the noise in that place. Noise! Christian's nemesis is noise. We've known this from his infancy. He was the child who cried and fretted through his baptism and the party folllowing. As soon as the last guest left and quiet returned, he was content. I remembered that there, sitting in the midst of the other team's fans Friday night, as the guy behind me kept yelling "Get in front of 24. Just stop 24! If you stop 24, it's easy!"

My son is number 24. All I could do not to turn around and beg the man to please stop yelling. Instead, I remembered 5-year-old Christian in the blazing sun, crumpled in the middle of the soccer field. "I can't do this! I hate this game! All these people yelling! And it's hot! I can't do this. I hate people yelling." And really, he never did play youth soccer again.

 

He wanted basketball. A little more climate controlled. Not necessarily quieter, but all his. He didn't want to be stuck in the middle--between the golden-haired boy four years older who would always get there before him and the boy who has already achieved more than most young athletes dream. He wanted his sport. His own. Funny thing, it's not really his, though. This family began with a first date: State Basketball Championship In Charlottesville thirty years ago. His hand slipped in mine. On the way to forever. Basketball was daddy's game long before soccer. We are, really, a basketball family. And in the winter, we go to four or five games a weekend, cheering for each of them as if the game is that first championship so long ago-- from the biggest, to the very littlest (newsflash: Katie scored SIX baskets last weekend). And Christian coaches. He is the leader, fair and square. His are the eyes those little boys seek when they look for praise or guidance on the court. He is their hero. He is the coach known throughout town for winning, and for never yelling.

We traveled on, getting closer to the game. I wanted to talk to him--to tell him that even if this comes so close and ends in disappointment that there is  much good here. But I couldn't really disturb the bubble he created for himself. Please God, something good for Christian. I noticed that the bread is nearly gone. Bread. These days, bread always brings to mind Eucharisteo. I wondered how I might convey Eucharisteo to Christian in the van, with all these people around. And then, Colleen called. "Hey," comes the sweet, southern drawl of dear friend, "I just wanted you to know that I know that this is so much more than a basketball game and I'm dropping my boys off and then going to church to spend game time in front of the Eucharist."

Eucharisteo. Tell him.

I tapped Christian on the knee after talking with Colleen and told him how she was going to spend the afternoon. A slow smile spread across his face. He was pretty sure no one else had that kind of prayer in his corner. Back to chewing and listening. I took my phone in my hands and sent two more messages--out to dear friends who would pray the blessing of thanks with me. Now, how to give that blessing to Christian now, so that thanksgiving might fill the moments with grace and keep him in the present? Could thanksgiving help him before the whistle even blew?

I sent him a text as he left the car:

Notice all the moments. Really live them. God is in those moments and no matter what there will be moments where you can give thanks. That's where He loves you. In the "Thank God" moments. I'm so, so proud of you. I'm praying you through every moment. There will be glorious ones today!

I could give you a play by play of the game, but honestly, I'd have to have Nicky here to help me remember stats. It was close. Really close. From the first time he held the ball, I prayed. At first, I called upon his saints, his great cloud of witnesses--John Paul II, John Bosco, every saint I could think of with a heart for boys. Then, I remembered that this prayer (something good for Christian) has been a St. Andrew's intention for years. I asked Andrew to pray, too.  Every time he touched the ball, every time he defended, I asked. And every time the basketball went through that hoop and caused the basket to sway with grace, I thanked. I held my fingertips to my chin and signed "thank you." I needed the gesture of the moment.

Thumb frantically spinning that prayer ring, I couldn't keep the prayers straight. That great cloud of witnesses, they were cheering-- but the noise was distracting me. I called to mind a verse sent to me the day before, for an entirely different intention.

For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives,

{Colossians 1:9}

This boy is the one I held after those begging prayers of cancer. Since the day I heard about him, I have asked God to please, please bless him and protect him. Please, please help know how loved he is. Sweet Jesus, he is named for you. Please, please, bless him with joy. I settled into a rhythm of my own. A simple rhythm. When he held the ball, I begged Bless him. And then, Thank You. He didn't always have that ball, though, and sometimes it was in the hands of the boy who has spent much of this basketball season sleeping on the couch in my basement. Could I bless and thank for him, too? The boy who had no mama or daddy here to pray him through these moments? I could. And I did. And though I doubt I will see that child again, he will forever be in my prayers.

The game played on. Me spinning and blessing and thanking. On and on and on. I briefly tried to remember how I got here, a Catholic mom of nine, sitting on a Saturday in a Baptist church. Christian brought me here. The child who is too shy to order pizza walked into a gym one day a few years ago and asked to play. It was the only place he could play and he wanted to play. The Baptists welcomed him. And I found myself sitting next to the pastor's wife as the mintues ticked on. She saw my mama-heart. She knew how much more than a game this was. And she was praying, too. I was grateful. Grateful for her. Grateful for open arms.

With 2:17 left on the clock, my boy smiled. He smiled a smile I haven't seen in way too long. Not the shy, slow smile we coax from him. A big, wide little boy grin.  He smiled and he leapt and he shouted joy!

"Do you think we're safe now?" asked the pastor's wife. No, not yet. I couldn't smile just yet. This child has been disappointed too many times. Even he believed it now. But not me. Because the thought of him hurting now was more than I could bear. Keep praying. Keep thanking.

The final buzzer. The explosion of happy!

Mike texted Patrick, who was sitting in airport, waiting to hear, no doubt praying his own prayers, remembering his own moments, calling on the saint he knows so well. And he texted Michael, who was heroically following the day's activities via cell phone, while coaching second grade girls. Then he turned to celebrate with me. He found me in a puddle, tears falling faster than I could wipe them away. Not quite sobbing, but close. Little boy, grab that joy. All of it. Grab it and hold it forever. That man, the one whose voice endeared him to me first at a basketball game, pulls me close, and says as his lips brush my ear, "It's his moment. All his. He has his moment. It's good."

He is the State Champion

He is the Tournament Most Valuable Player

 

His moment.

All his. God knew. He knew that Christian needed a moment that was all his.And He blessed.

Something good for Christian.

~

Counting gifts:

~Chapter 7

~praying friends, who never think it's just a game

 ~Granddad fist bumping Nicky

~Little Maggie, baby daughter of the Athletic Director and of the coach, granddaughter of the pastor, sitting in her grandma's arms, entertaining my little girls. I can watch, really watch, the whole game.

~Delph's dad. Wise words. Heart touched.

~Boy without family to watch. Playing for his team, looking to Christian's father for both nods and admonition.

~Mike. Every play. Every call. Every buzzer. His heart calls his son.

 

~Pastor's wife. Praying, too.

~I look up in the stands to find my dad and Barbara in the moments after the buzzer. Do they know? Do they know how much more than a game this is? My dad is looking-- at me. He knows my heart.

 

 

~Clean house when we get home; Michael soothes when Mama is worried.

~Little girls who napped on the long ride, wide awake to greet Paddy well past bedtime.

~Patrick and Christian in the kitchen at midnight. Quiet grace.

~All nine children asleep under my roof. All nine children happy.

~Words I whisper to Christian in the morning when I wake him: It really happened. It wasn't a dream. He smiles that big smile into his pillow and sleeps on.

~Something good for Christian.

{photo credit: all photos by Mary Beth except the one of me. My dad took that.}

 

Knitting Lessons

{This is a very long post of blessings and unexpected lessons; if you can stick with me to the end, you are, indeed, a treasure!}

Elizabeth had to two wishes for this "Momcation," her Make-a-Wish trip:  She wanted to go to the Basilica and she wanted to teach Ann and me to knit.

On the morning of the first full day together, Elizabeth is ready to begin. She's not wasting a moment. Time is too precious. Mike and I arrive at the hotel to find Elizabeth with her knitting bag ready for the car. Ann, who will sit in the backseat with Elizabeth, is going to knit on the way to D.C.  We talk a bit and then Elizabeth takes up the needles. I try watch and listen, but turning around in the moving car makes me carsick. Just a couple of miles from the D.C. border, Mike's phone rings. Glancing at the number, he says, apologetically, "I have to take this."

I hear him explain that he's driving and ask to call back. I can tell that his caller has said this call must happen now. We are just a few miles from the border and cell phone usage is prohibited while driving in D.C. He pulls over in front of the Iwo Lima memorial. Then, Mike takes the call he's waiting nearly ten years to take. Meanwhile, Ann's knitting lessons have commenced in the backseat. I try to pay attention, but I can't. Not with him talking about epic things. I have just missed my first knitting lesson.  Jokingly, I beg Ann not to get too far ahead of me.

Call finished, we head over the bridge. This time, it's my phone that chimes. Text message. Sounds urgent. I take a deep breath and send a message in return. I can't attend to the matter today. No computer access and limited cell phone where I'm going. I turn my phone off. We continue on to church.

It is a perfectly beautiful, utterly peaceful day. Perfectly beautiful.

At day's end, Mike has to make a quick trip to his office. The plan is for Ann, Elizabeth, and I to go a coffee shop, have a late afternoon snack, then drop Mike at home and head back to the hotel for dinner and knitting. In the coffee shop, I remember to turn on my phone and I notice that Christian has called me. I remark that Christian never calls; he'd rather starve than pick up a phone and order pizza. Then, I see he's left a voice message. Trying to swallow the panic rising in my throat, I text him: Do you need me? He calls me back. I hear hysterical chaos in the background. I don't remember what I said aloud, but I'm pretty sure it was "Is who bleeding?"

I watch the color drain from Ann's face. And I know what she's thinking.

It is not that tragedy, thank God. But the dog has been hit by a car.

Ann and Elizabeth both affirm what I'm thinking: I need to get home. I miss the evening knitting lesson. Still, I go to sleep with the peace that comes of knowing that I used the day well. That I filled the time the way He wanted.

In the urgent of the dog and the vet and the children, I have nearly forgotten the message I received as we went over the bridge. Mike reminds me early the next morning. Yes, I sigh. I will attend to that just as soon as I get to the hotel. There is internet there. I'll make some quick calls.

I am determined not to let anything rob me of the peace I desire or the time I've committed to Ann and Elizabeth. At the last minute, as I'm heading out the door, I scoop Karoline into the car to come along for the day. Best decision ever.

I get countless texts and phone calls on the way to hotel. Apparently, this matter really is urgent and I'm already a day late. I'm also late to the hotel.

When we arrive, Ann shrieks with glee and Elizabeth's face lights up with joy at the sight of my child. Ann's finished washcloth heralds the news that she is knitting. I am woefully behind on the second mission of the trip. I explain the calls I need to make and apologize profusely. "It's all good," Ann reassures. I pray she's right. I closet myself in the bedroom while Elizabeth teaches Karoline to knit. Three long phone calls later, and I need internet access. In this hotel, that takes some coaxing. Elizabeth takes fifty or so holy cards and tells Karoline the stories behind them all. Ann begins to work on her sweater.

As I finally read the document online, my inbox dings. Column deadline moved up because of the Monday holiday. It's due tomorrow, very early.

Several times, I ask Ann and Elizabeth, why now? These are phone calls we've waited months, even years to receive. God knows what is planned for these days. Why now?

Elizabeth and Karoline and I leave for Mass. After Mass, I leave Karoline and Elizabeth with Ann and drive to pick up lunch. Karoline finishes her knitting, one tiny little baby washcloth. Elizabeth gathers her close and tells her all about her own children. I talk to Mike about the document on the way to get carryout, fighting tears now. I'm missing it all. Lunch in hand, I get another text. I sit in the parking lot and sob.

After lunch, one more email. And now, I need a printer and a fax machine. I leave that room, the one I've imagined all these weeks, the one where I stashed tea and honey and muffins. The one where I carefully arranged a bouquet of tulips. I'm not filling time. It's slipping through my fingers.

The manager in the hotel office must read the despair on my face. He is ever so helpful. Business done at last, I run back to the room. I begin knitting at 3:30. At 4:00, Mary Beth calls to tell me that ballet is unexpectedly early that day. We pack it all up and head back to my house.

There, Elizabeth sits and teaches Katie to knit.

Ann and Karoline work on their own project, exuberantly stamping and sealing envelopes with Ann's signed bookplates, using Karoline's tiny washlcoth to dampen the glue. Late afternoon light fills my home. I make dinner and tend a dozen little details. I do not knit.

I am struck by the irony that I'm making such poor, hasty decisions regarding sacred time while face to face with the woman who wrote "There are no emergencies. Only amateurs hurry."

I am an amateur.

I know that I have conceded to the tyranny of the urgent, have lost the opportunity to do the important. And I discover how unimportant the urgent really is.

Knitters tell me that knitting slows a woman, brings calm to her soul, makes her a better listener. Watching Elizabeth knit with my children I see that this is all true. She has a peace about her, even in the midst of so much suffering. It brings her such joy to teach her art to these sweet, young girls. And I am struck with overwhelming sadness. Time I will never have again.

Dinner is a bit of a wild ride. Who raised these noisy children who are bouncy all over the place? Why are they exceptionaly rowdy tonight? I strain to hear over the din. Still, I do listen. And I do share. And God blesses. These guests at my table? All grace.

It's nighttime now. Soon, I will drive Ann and Elizabeth back to the hotel. I want to stay. To sit with them and talk and drink tea and learn to knit. But I know that my babies need me to put them to sleep on this night and I know that I have promised that column to my editor before the business day begins tomorrow. I say goodnight and drive away.

At home, Sarah Annie nurses to sleep readily and Karoline is asleep before I have a chance to go tuck her in. Even my night owl husband turns off the light and breathes deeply of this night's peace. He has used his time well. He has blessed. I write my column. It takes me less than half an hour. The computer clicks closed. Sleep will not come.

I creep downstairs to a living room that was full of yarn and paper and creative spirit just a few hours earlier. I pick up my pitiful green cotton triangle. And I can't remember. I try and try and try, but I cannot remember what comes next.

Instead, I write. I try to redeem the time by remembering the day that was so peaceful, the day when I said no to the urgent and listened instead to the whisper of the sacred. I try to knit with words.

Morning comes early and Mike and I leave for the airport.  Ann and Elizabeth are waiting for us outside. It's over. Elizabeth has resolved not to cry. And she doesn't. Ann and me?  Not so much.

Goodbyes are said.

After a brief stop at the bagel store on the way home, I gather my children and we seize this beautiful day and go to Bull Run, to the place where I force away winter and hope is born anew every single spring. We are met there by Ginny, who listens patiently to my whole story, as we watch our little girls play and our boys hold war councils build a teepee.

We talk about Ginny's knitting ministry and the ungrateful women with bad attitudes. I shudder as I consider my own sins. I cannot bear to look at this green triangle of cotton that is the knitting I did not learn. But I don't want to rip it apart. She takes it in her capable hands and binds it off for me. Tangible notes from lessons learned.

Katie tells her excitedly about the mittens Elizabeth has assured her she can knit. Ginny is skeptical. Katie has brought along her yarn. "Mrs. deHority says that real knitters bring their projects everywhere they go." She shows Ginny the darling book Elizabeth has given her and the pattern and confesses that she doesn't know how to begin. Ginny takes those four needles and explains to Katie how knitting on three needles works, all the while casting on stitches for her. Katie beams with gratitude. What a gift she has been given by these two women! I am counting now, actually counting gifts.

The children play--so glad for the early taste of spring--and Ginny tells me how knitting can help push past that compulsive perfectionism. I can't quite wrap my brain around it, but I do believe her.

And I leave the woods very sure that God is offering me this gift. That Elizabeth is still offering me this gift.

I have to learn to knit.

By Friday night, Katie has knit eight rounds and she is eager to learn to purl. I'm nearly frantic to help her, making a mental note of knitters I know. And it hits me. These are people who have been asking for months to get together, to visit, to slow down, to take time.

To take time in our hands and bless it with beauty.

Maybe this is what He's telling me?

At home, in the last rays of sunlight, I take out all the things Elizabeth has left behind for me. All the things I couldn't quite savor or appreciate while in the grip of the urgent tyrant. There is a binder of patterns, with a pocket in front. Elizabeth's 12-year-old son Brian has assembled these binders for us.

In the pocket are knitting tools, most of which I'm sure are important, but I have no idea what their purpose is yet. And there are exquisite needles, given to us by the woman who invented them. I have a growing sense of the value of these treasures.

And the yarn? Beautiful, beautiful yarn! So many people have given so generously to make this happen. I promise them, in that moment, that I will learn to knit. And I will do it now, because I want Elizabeth to see that she has given me the gift she intended. I will do it now, because the unintended gift is the invaluable lesson of knowing that some things are worth slowing for. I pray--a more fervent prayer than ever before prayed--that I will recognize the important and never again lose time to the tyrant that is urgency.

The next day. I begin again. Elizabeth sends me an email to get me started. I choose yarn that reminds me of The Hat. Gosh, the praying women with needles who have blessed me! Katie reminds me how to increase. I struggle through the first half, trying hard not to obsess over the obvious flaws. I hear Elizabeth telling me to move past them, to let go, and I see Ann, peacefully working extraordinarily beautiful yarn on her own gifted needles, nodding in recognition. I'm moving on. I'm persevering. And, I guess, I'm knitting. I recognize that I have missed Elizabeth sitting next to me. I know that she would have seen mistakes I'm making and corrected them as they happened. Instead, I am learning the hard way. It's always like that, isn't it? If we step out of God's will and we repent, He doesn't leave us stranded there, but we have chosen the hard way.

It's harder, but it's not too late. He redeems time.

Late that night, Mary Beth sits beside me. She picks up needles, too. Knit. Purl. The two of us together. God bless Elizabeth deHority.

Sunday morning, before even getting out of bed. I pick up my pink and white stitches again. I count. Enough, I think to begin to decrease. It goes so well! I have a rhythm. My stitches look so much better. It figures. In art, as in life, all is more beautiful and ordered when I decrease.

I am ready to finish before my children even awaken.

One small square.

I have said over and over that I plan to make at least a dozen washcloths before I move on to touch the beautiful yarn. I will knit and purl. I will cast on and bind off. I want to have some confidence and some rhythm. But, I will not miss the moment, either. I will not delay because I cannot achieve the perfection no one demands of me but me. Elizabeth has given me yarn intended for a shrug for Sarah Annie.

For this spring.

In time for the bluebells.

I only have eleven washcloths to go. And then, by the grace of God, I will knit that sweater.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts, read aloud to me, by her, as I knit those remaining washcloths. Follow this link to learn how to get a free 14 day trial and one book at Audible.com. If you are new to Audible.com, you can download and listen to Ann's book for free.

For more (and no doubt shorter) Yarn Along tales, visit Ginny.

 

Small Steps Together: Hear Him well, Lest It be Lost

"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost." –GK Chesterton

It is, without a doubt, the greatest lesson of my life--that every day is a gift and I'm created to see the sacred offering in even the ordinary days. He offers us each and every moment to fill as we will. And when we hold those moments as the precious, priceless gifts they are and fill them intentionally with the things of God, we truly live our lives.

It's really very simple.

So why do I mess it up so often? Why do I miss God in the moment and trash the gift? Why do I waste time? Why do I hurt the people I love? Why do I take an errant comment and make it an epic argument? Why do I act like a spoiled brat surrounded by way too much after a sugar-laden, way-too-many-people birthday party?

Because I forget that I am the daughter of a humble, heroic, awesome God.

It's so simple.

Why do I forget?

"True simplicity is like that of children, who think, speak, and act candidly and without craftiness. They believe whatever is told them; they have no care or thought for themselves, especially when with their parents; they cling to them, without going to seek their own satisfactions and consolations, which they take in good faith and enjoy with simplicity, without any curiosity about their causes and effects."--St. Francis de Sales

I want to walk in the light of God, to carry myself through my days in such a way that it is umistakable that I am His and He directs my paths. I want to be the child who believes what He tells me and then acts on that belief as naturally as I breathe the air. I want to remember that He is the good parent I so desperately need.

I want to go about my daily round serving the people He has entrusted to me, recognizing the places He wants me to go. I want this with all my heart--just to live the life He intends me to live.

I want to cling to Him.  Can I cling to Him?

Can I be selfless, caring not at all for my own satisfactions or consolations. Can I turn away from the affirmation of other people and seek only to know that I walk confidently in His will?

Will my life ever be that simple? Will it ever be the gift He intended?

Yes.

Yes!

I think it will.

But only if I can do that one thing. Only if I can fill myself with Him. Only if I can be the child who surrenders to Him completely and entrusts Him to care for me tenderly.The thing is--the simple, important thing is--I can't walk confidently with God throughout the day if I am not intimately acquainted with God and I can't be intimately acquainted with God without having His Word be the firm and gentle hand of a loving Father to which I cling.

Only if my day--my every moment--echoes with His Word. This is how I can know Him, in the Word and in the Sacrament. So that as I move through the world, in every corner of my home and the vast expanses of the marketplace, God goes with me. I hear Him in the Hours that punctuate the phrases of my day; I hear Him in the words of the daily Mass-- a familiar cadence of Scripture; I hear Him as I cultivate new habits; as I listen while I fold, and wipe, and cook; as I deliberately hide Him in my heart.

It's simple, really. When I hear Him well, when I hear Him always, I live the gift.

Did you take small steps towards simplicity this week? How has Small Steps blessed, challenged you, encouraged you on your journey? Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. 

 

Really Counting Now

It's not a new practice, the keeping of a gratitude journal. In fact, I wrote about in the burnout chapter of Real Learning over 12 years ago. I began just listing three things every night. A good practice, a sound practice. Then, I learned to look with a keener eye, to see that the things I love are in reality the ways God loves me. So, I had a sometimes habit of recording those here, a few at a time. But I didn't cultivate the practice of keeping lists at the ready everywhere and I never really numbered my blessings.

Until last week.

Last week, I learned to number them. Every one.

 

1~Dear friend who traveled to the airport with me, heard my worries, helped me to move Elizabeth with grace to the hotel, and shared our joy-filled first night. Later, she will rush to my children when they need a mom and I am gone.

2~Veteran traveler, firm believer in internet blessings, gypsy friend: you brought us grace and laughter and we were blessed to have you in our midst in that amazing moment.

3~Patient, wise, good-hearted husband who considered every detail and made it all work

4~All the people entrusted with prayers for this encounter. I knew you were on your knees and I assure you He answered with unimaginable abundance.

5~A kind email with a beautiful prayer--a perfect prayer. We ponder her example, the example of one woman's godly "yes" to this life of grace. And then, she express mails a CD that becomes the soundtrack of fruitful prayer. Infinite blessing.

6~Sung prayers on CD ever-so-briefly before the phone call for which we have waited years. Prayers continuing in the silent backseat. Her eyes meet mine. I know she's imploring God on our behalf. Astonishing moment.

7~The same friend who has cradled me in the shrine in the days when Sarah was fragile--she meets us at the door, wheelchair at the ready, every kindness considered and provided.

8~Quiet day. Beautiful, quiet day.

9~Ann's shrieks of glee when she learns that Karoline has stowed away for our Thursday together.

10~Elizabeth teaching Karoline to knit and then telling her saints stories as I make frantic phone calls and Ann works nearby.

11~Karoline perfectly narrating all Elizabeth has told her about the deHority children.

12~All the yarn, the needles, the patterns, the love so generously given to us by kind women who abundantly bless us with their generosity (and optimism).

13~Katie curled up with Elizabeth at last, knitting and knitting and knitting.

14~Karoline working with Ann to stamp and seal envelopes with bookplates for American readers. They use Karoline's own handknit washcloth and pray Our Father...

15~Colleen, calling as I leave the airport. I pull over and cry and cry and cry. Joy, relief, grief, exhaustion. And she is there.

16~Mike, calling just after Colleen. Treasure shared.

17~The bagel store on the way home. Warm. I notice bouquets of wheat on the tables there. Eucharisteo.

18~Putting bagels in the trunk, I see what Ann has left me. And I smile. A page a day of blessings from One Thousand Gifts, a mug, and a new journal. I read the day's entry. Today, I begin to number. Today. Right now.

19~Ginny, who meets us at the edge of the woods, picks up my knitting and assures me the creative journey has just begun.

20~Renewed faith in friendship.

Won't you please come by again on Wednesday to see more pictures and read more about our knitting and the invaluable lessons I learned?

Thankful for "Little Boys"

I'm a wee bit behind in capturing memories here. Stephen turned 12 on February first and I didn't even post a birthday post. (He was feeling pretty awful that day, but we did make a peppermint chocolate cake like last year's and it didn't slide off the plate this year:-). Actually, the only posts that have gone up since January's end were those that were programmed and ready to go before various viruses and other ailments hit our house. The kids have all been sick and I've been in autoimmune overdrive (not a good place to be).

But time marches on and, in this case, I really do want to capture it. Nicholas turned 10 just before Christmas. Stephen is 12. We still refer to them as the "little boys," but the reality is there are no more little boys around here. There are two boys poised on the edge of young manhood. Two boys who bless each other. Two boys who bless us. Two boys for whom I am very, very grateful.

~ God knew--really knew--when he surprised us with Nicholas that Stephen needed exactly that brother at exactly that time.

~Every time they are mistaken for twins, they think it's grand and wish it were so.

~ Stephen is gracious and unflappable whenever he's mistaken for the younger.

~They had a "Super" combined party this year and their mutual friends are really great kids.

~Nicky's hair is a mess because he refuses to let anyone but Patrick cut it for him. Patrick won't be home for another 18 days (not that anyone is counting or anything).

~They adore their basketball coach (who happens to be their big brother, Christian) and he is so very proud of them.

~They think Michael is about to start the coolest job on the planet.

~They recently discovered ping pong and now I'm quite sure we'll all make it through the winter.

~They are always tender and sweet to their little sisters even though I know they pray daily that God will send them a little brother.

{and so do I --because really, what a gift, a little boy...}

Grateful Words; Grateful for Words

Early last week, I was thinking about Ann's and Holley's series on words. They had asked for posts about words. Could I do it? Could I write about words without writing about their power to wound? Could I just be grateful for words? That was the plan.

For last Tuesday.

The plan was derailed, ironically, by words. But the thought remained. What are the words for which I am grateful? I've committed to counting twenty items in this space each week this year. Are there twenty ways words bless, just this past week? Can I count those alone? I can, indeed. It's surprisingly easy.

~ Handwritten words, sent in the mail, with a skein of yarn.

~"I luf mome" in crayon, surrounded by dozens of lopsided hearts.

~"You're Maria. Daddy's the Captain. Sing Do-Re-Mi." Again. And again. And again.

~"Looks like we're getting paid, after all."

~"The Mass is ended; go in peace."

~Entering Albemarle County

~"Happy 70th Birthday, Dad!"

~A tiny two-year-old who falls asleep saying, "Grandpa makes me happy. Baba makes me happy."

~"This is my daughter, Elizabeth."

~Planning. Momcation. Knitting. Words of hope.

~In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.

~"Let's go to Florida in February."

~"I'm not going to the Super Bowl."

~"All players will fly home on February 28^th for some time at home with family and friends."

~The first words I hear every morning: "Divine Office: From ancient times, Church has had the custom of celebrating each day the Liturgy of the Hours. In this way, the Church fulfills the Lord's precept to pray without ceasing, at once offering praise to God, the Father, and interceding for the salvation of the world." @Divineoffice.org. I'm addicted to those words.

~Becca, at two o'clock, every Monday afternoon: "I'm going to Starbuck's, can I get you something?"

~"Is now a good time to come over and show you my Becky Higgins Project Life?" It sure is. How cool is that?

~"It's snowing!"

~"Oh, I forgot to tell you. I talked to Dad about three hours ago. He said to tell you he landed safely and he'll call tonight." (I was wondering...)

~Thank you.

~I'm sorry.