In the Heart of my Home

Resolutions are a Very Good Idea

The object of a New Year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul and a new nose; new feet, a new backbone, new ears and new eyes. Unless a particular man made New Year resolutions, he would make no resolutions. Unless a man starts afresh about things, he will certainly do nothing effective.” — G. K. Chesterton

Did you make a New Year’s resolution? Did you start afresh about things or did you shrug your shoulders and insist there was nothing to make Jan. 1 different from the day before it? There is something about the energy of the first week of a new year that we don’t want to miss. It’s as if the whole world pauses, reflects, seizes hope and then reaches for grace.

As the year comes to a close and the frenzy of the Christmas season winds into the last few quiet days of December, as light changes and days grow just a little longer, we stop and we look on the life we lived. It’s nearly as natural as breathing. We can’t stop ourselves; we must at least glance backward. The introspective ones among us look long and hard and make lists and amendments. We scrutinize and analyze, try to determine what went wrong, and resolve to make it right. Then, something almost magical happens.

We envision what could be. Maybe it’s something as simple as a new exercise routine or a new diet. Or maybe it’s big. Maybe it’s an overhaul of one’s own soul, a virtue check, a vice purge. Whatever “it” is, the stage where we imagine is one gigantic venture into hope. Can it really be this way? Can I really have new feet, a new backbone, new ears, new eyes? Can I dream a different dream and put those new feet and hands toward making it a reality? Can we start afresh? We can. Because we hope. Lord Tennyson wrote: “Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, ‘It will be happier.’” It is people of faith who walk through that door. People of faith believe that we can be better than we are on the threshold of the new year. People of faith step out in hope, confident that grace will meet them in the doorway.

In the place where hope meets grace, there is God. God is where resolutions become effective. God is where change happens. Grace is the answer to the naysayers, those voices both within and without who say that you cannot start afresh. Grace is the breath of fresh air in April when the resolutions of the new year and even the Lenten promises look like one big heap of failed attempts at perfection. Grace reminds us that His power is made perfect in our weakness and the true growth in holiness is in the soul’s earnest effort. Grace is sufficient. Sufficient? It’s abundant.

It’s true that the turning of a calendar page or the changing of the liturgical season doesn’t suddenly make anything different. The whole point isn’t that the year is new. The point is that we can confidently pen a resolution or two, surrender our will to His, and know that He will make all things new in our souls.

 

in pursuit of happy Joy

"What makes you happy?"

She asked it almost urgently, this dear old friend of mine. "What makes you feel like you did your fourth year in college, when you loved what you were doing so much that you couldn't wait to get out of bed in the morning, that you were so happy during the day it made you sort of sad when it was time to sleep? What fills your day with Happy? I know we talk about joy--that deep down sense of joy that rises above happy and unhappy--but I want to know about happy right now. What makes you smile and sing?"

Good Question.

Shortly after that glorious year--the year I taught in Charlottesville, graduated, got married, found myself expecting a baby--there was the Year of Knowing. I've tried so hard to tell about that year, tried to share the feeling, the knowing that comes with a cancer diagnosis in one's twenties. Things stand in stark relief. You really don't fret the small things. You know beyond a shadow of a doubt what makes you happy and what brings you joy. You understand legacy and you want to shed blessings everywhere. And you don't waste time. At least that's the way I felt. 

It's still the way I feel.

 Things that make me want to jump out of bed in the morning:

• quiet time with Jesus
• Morning Prayer with Sarah snuggled against me
• a new picture book to share with my girlies
• a good discussion about plots and characters with my big kids
• unhurried time to create in the kitchen
• a well turned phrase
• an excellent photograph
• a long conversation over a good bottle of wine
• the Oxford comma ;-)
• the challenge of understanding and helping to edit college papers
• being there in the stands when they play
• tutus--and the girls who wear them
• knitting, ever so slowly
• sewing, but nothing very complicated

I love these things. They make me happy and they bring me joy. These are things He calls me to do. To nurture. To make a home--in a place and in my heart.

The problem is that my list so often collides with the real world. And the times I try to tell them, to say, please know that isn't worth the breath it took to complain about it and/or that is so very worth your effort in making it happen, they shake their heads. Perhaps they don't understand. Perhaps they simply don't want to stop and think because it can be a bit uncomfortable.

It matters not. I see it all in stark relief. It's a sixth sense. Even if no one else sees it.

That's not exactly true. Mike does.

Otherwise, though, they all cock their heads to one side, look at me quizzically, and wander away.

Crazy lady. Crazy life.

Sort of alone out there with her passion to live intentionally.

But that's the crazy I bring to this space. I bring the Happy. And I bring the Joy.  Sometimes, I wrestle aloud with the unhappy. Mostly though, it's that list above that finds its way here. I love those things and I like to share those things. I blog my life, as honestly as I possibly can. I bring vocation here. My vocation. My unique call. I love answering that call. I think that when it is our genuine call, we do love it. That's how He intends it.

What I don't like? I don't like the work of self-promotion. Try as I might, I can't say "Come look at my Happy!" very effectively. I don't like marketing.  I don't like networking.

I love conversation!

But I don't like networking. That might be for other people, but He doesn't call me there. 

So I'm happy when you find your way here, even when I haven't gone to tell you that I'm waiting. I'm happy to have this place to chronicle my thoughts and illuminate my pictures and share my Joy. And I'm over the moon when you leave comments.

I'm happy to have small ways to capture and create beauty. There is joy in beauty and it makes me happy. Pope Francis writes,

 Every form of catechesis would do well to attend to the “way of beauty” (via pulchritudinis). Proclaiming Christ means showing that to believe in and to follow him is not only something right and true, but also something beautiful, capable of filling life with new splendor and profound joy, even in the midst of difficulties. Every expression of true beauty can thus be acknowledged as a path leading to an encounter with the Lord Jesus.

 Isn't that what life in a family is: a living, breathing, daily catechesis? Let's let it be beautiful!

I'm very glad I have this place where I can be unabashedly, head-over-heels in love with a life in pursuit of holiness for Jesus. And still. It doesn't have to look at all perfect. It's not a cooking blog, so usually there's a mistake or two for the first hour or so a recipe is posted, until someone gently points it out. It's not a knitting blog, so I'm going to tell you about my latest project for more than a month before I finish it (or not) and move on. It's not a sewing blog. My sewing time is far too short and my skills too new to emulate. It's not an advice blog. I'm not going to tell you how to live; that role will never fit. I can only share how I live: both the good decisions and the ones I regret. It's not a parenting blog, a speaker's blog, a homeschooler's blog, or even an author's blog. It's just a happy blog (mostly). Where every day, I share little of my joy and hope it meets you where you are. There's no platform, no agenda, no grand plan. 

There's just me, in joyful pursuit of holy and (mostly) finding happy along the way. There are arms wide open to embrace the beauty and to reflect the Creator. There is the wholehearted endeavor to simply be a good wife and mother. There is the tenderness that comes in the moments of brokenness and sorrow. There are the dark threads of the tapestry, the ones upon which the glittering happy tones dance in joyful contrast.

And there is comfort in knowing that is all quite enough.

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November Silence

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With November comes the flurry, then the blizzard, of “holiday” exhortations: Go more, buy more, do more. At first, there are little wisps of messages, soft, light, so gentle I barely notice. Then, the storm whips into a frenzy. Soon, it’s swirling around me, making me dizzy, robbing my peace. It’s not, of course, only the end-of-year holidays that spin crazy into my life; it’s just that the holidays spin more.

It’s early November. I have a strategy and my strategy is for silence. I’m laying down the rails right now, steady sturdy tracks upon which this new habit will roll. It will be in place before the first crazy flake falls. This year, I refuse to be caught in the swirl. He will come to me in the silence. I will be certain to establish and to guard that silence vigilantly.

Our lives have become increasingly noisy. Have you noticed that? Smartphones go with us wherever we go. We’ve given permission to employers and clients and even perfect strangers to jump right up through our pockets and jangle us into their worlds. They intrude, interrupt, make noise. And we let them.

We take our music wherever we go, earbuds providing a soundtrack to our lives. With the flip of a switch, we can find ourselves in a conversation with dozens of people at once. We can share pictures, menus, and every random thought and opinion. Remember when there were only three channels on the television? Sometimes, there was nothing good on TV. So off you went to do something else, often something quiet. Now, endless channels, always something to watch. It’s noise, noise, noise. And I feel my inner Grinch rising.

God comes to us in the silence, but we increasingly are becoming a people who are afraid to be still and quiet. We can’t even be alone with our own thoughts. Next time you have to wait in a grocery line or even a line of traffic at a red light, notice how many people automatically whip out their phones. True, they aren’t making noise, but they aren’t alone with their thoughts, either. They are engaging the noise of the world. There is noise in their heads.

A friend reminded me of a time when we felt a little guilty reading a book while nursing a baby. We thought maybe that was distracted nursing. Now, moms in rocking chairs are scrolling Facebook and Instagram, illuminating the dark nights with the glare of a backlit screen. I know this, because they’re posting pictures of it. And sure, endless hours in a rocking chair can come to feel monotonous and lonely. But a few hours in a rocking chair can be a very good thing. Those are your moments to pray, Mama. Your moments to dream, to think big thoughts, or just to close your eyes and doze. I promise you will grow in those moments because God Himself will come to you in the dark and the silence and the stillness of your soul.

Silence isn’t only for nursing mothers. When was the last time you commuted without the radio on? Can you sit in the dark parking lot for the last 15 minutes of soccer practice and just watch them play without checking your phone? And really, there is nothing so sweet as the end-of-the-day silence when a restless little boy needs someone to snuggle him to sleep. Go seek your silent moments.

We look forward to the joyful season of waiting and preparing for the birth of our Savior. We invite the outdoor chill and light a fire on our hearths. We welcome the coming of the season. How shall we welcome the coming? How can we prepare our hearts for Him?

Perhaps we clear some space. We push away some of those noisy things that compete for our attention and we hush the incessant barrage of messages from out there. Together, we endeavor to bring quiet to our homes and so, to our hearts. He comes to us in the silence. Can you hear Him?

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What story are you writing?

A week ago, my husband gathered us all in the living room to share news that would rock our world. My father-in-law, whom we had tucked into bed the previous night and left sleeping at home, had died peacefully in his sleep. I canceled all my writing obligations. The only thing I wrote all week was note or two for a eulogy for my husband to deliver.

When a family gathers at a funeral to celebrate the life of someone dear and to console one another in their grief, the words of a eulogy can have tremendous power. Eulogies are gifts, even more for the people who mourn than for the deceased. As I went about my business all last week, tending to the myriad of details I had previously never even considered, deviating so far from my original plan for the week that it was barely recognizable, I considered what makes a good eulogy—not what makes a stylistically good eulogy, what makes stirring oration, but what makes the summation of one’s life “good.” What really is a life well lived?

 

One thing struck me again and again. All those clichés about living like you’re dying and not being able to take it with you? They are rooted in absolute truth. My husband’s father was a few weeks shy of turning 90 when he died. He lived a long, full life of honor, serving admirably both in the military and in the marketplace. But when I took the time to ask his young adult grandchildren what lessons they learned from his life, the answers were all tucked into little and hidden moments.

 I know there are people who will beg to differ, but I think a life well lived puts relationships before resumes. A life well lived is one where all of the big decisions and most of the little decisions are made with the intent to meaningfully engage in the hearts and the souls of the people God has entrusted to us. The things that matter most in life are the things that are mostly hidden from the world; the gentle movements of hearts towards one another. A life well lived is a life full of those moments.

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Often, the big decisions that frame a genuinely good life come at the expense of power or money or worldly acclaim. We have to sacrifice an opportunity or a promotion or a bigger paycheck to invest instead in a boy in a baseball cap or a marriage straining as a family expands.  We choose a job closer to home, turn down the chance to travel, or perhaps we choose to stay at home and forego a paycheck altogether. The questions we ask ourselves when such decisions are to be made are questions of eternal significance and the answers often contradict the message of the world.

Did you ever stop to think what could be said about you in the first few days after you die? One of the greatest management principles going is to begin with the end in mind. I am not theologically astute enough to offer here an idea of what happens to a soul right after one dies, but I have to think that God is more concerned with the hidden moments of the heart than He is with the resume. I have to think that the peace in leaving and the peace we leave are both about the way we loved when we still had time. And I can tell you firsthand, what people remember are the ways that you loved.

One day, someone will write our eulogies. Right now, we are writing our lives. From my perspective, in the front pews, with the people experiencing great loss, the lives best lived are the ones that seize all the little opportunities offered each one of us every day to stop and have a conversation, to offer our help, to serve in the smallest, least noticed ways. What really defines the life of a truly great man are the decisions--big and small--he makes to live a life that is a genuine expression of love.

 

 

 

A Brand New Ending

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I remember telling a friend on my 30th birthday, “I don’t regret a thing. Nothing. I have no regrets.” I was talking particularly about parenting. I can quickly think of lots of other things in life I regretted prior to turning 30, but at that point, I genuinely had no parenting regrets. Ignorance is bliss, I suppose.

That seems a lifetime ago.

Now, if someone were to pose that question, they’d better pull up a chair and plan to spend the afternoon. Now, I have a lengthy list of regrets. An “if only” list, if you will. A “How dumb could I have been” list. I do not think I am unique in this. Actually, if you have a child older than 10 and if you don’t have such a list, I invite you to contact me. I’ll pull up a chair and sit down. You can take all afternoon telling me all the things you did right and how you avoided doing something you regret.

I suppose there are those folks who look at things that aren’t such good ideas in hindsight and instead of regretting they are grateful for them. They see the lessons learned. They see the growth. They see the great potential for change. I’d like to think I do that, too. And I do. Sometimes. When it comes to my kids, though, I hate to think that my imprudence has somehow hurt them. So, while grateful for the lessons learned, I wrestle around with regret that they were learned at the expense of my children.

I try not to get stuck there. The beauty of a big family is that if a mother regrets something she did when she was young and imprudent, she might just have a chance at a redo with a younger child. The corollary is that I don’t have the luxury of doing what some of my friends are doing as they settle into an empty nest. I can’t look at the regrets, confess the mistakes, be forgiven and relax in the grace. I have more children to raise. I want to figure it out, get it right this time, perfect the process. I try to relax in the forgiveness and beg the grace for the next leg of this long journey. I long to be still and know God, but sometimes, I just keep striving and I forget that God’s got this (Ps 46:10).

A friend who understands this sense of urgency around regret and fine-tuning parenting for the benefit of the younger siblings sent me some wisdom penned by author Carl Bard. “Although no one can go back and make a brand-new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand-new ending.” He’s right, of course.

A brand-new ending? Now there’s a hopeful prospect. How? How do I write a new ending? By holding the pen and letting God be the author.

We are sinners well practiced in examining our consciences and listing our sins so that we can confess them. But then what? Are we equally well-practiced at receiving showers of grace? Or do we think that somehow in order to get God on our sides we have to be good enough, to be free of stupid mistakes? Do we fill up with self-recrimination and think as if we must merit grace?

We don’t merit grace. Ever. We don’t have to merit grace. God promises that goodness and mercy are ours. Even in the darkest shadows, He assures us, “Indeed, goodness and mercy shall pursue me all the days of my life (Ps 23:6).” He’s pursuing us with the brand-new ending. He’s chasing after us with the story that isn’t filled with regret. This ending is the one where God sees the regretful things and offers mercy. This ending is the one where He sees the dark times and offers goodness. This is the new ending. He is hunting us down with a beautifully bound book of our lives — with the brand-new story to replace the tattered regret-filled one. And this story?

It’s entitled Grace.

Why it might be a blessing to do dishes by hand

The air is downright chilly in the mornings and evening soccer practices yield to cool darkness. Autumn is upon us. I’m a big fan of weather, an embracer of the change of seasons. And of all the seasons, I love autumn best. This year, though, I find myself wishing it wouldn’t arrive so quickly. Time just seems to slip through my fingers these days. Autumn comes and with it, the close of the year will soon be upon us. Hurry, hurry. We race on. I’m not ready to let this year go.

Where can we find more time? Amidst the bustle of it all — the super-fast debit card self-checkout that eliminates the need to count out change and chat with the cashier about what I plan to bake with those chocolate chips and the can of pumpkin; the E-Z Pass that eliminates a smile and a “Have a nice day” with the man in the tollbooth; the automated checkout at the library that means we won’t chat stories with the children’s librarian — we are hustling through time. It feels so frantic. We feel so frantic.

Tell me, what do we gain in our hurry? I can well see what we lose. We lose our sense of community. We lose our connectedness to one another. We lose the ability to stop and savor and settle in and notice the details. And in our hurry, we find ourselves feeling cheated, as if we just pushed our way through but didn’t really live the life we’ve been given.

Last week, our dryer was broken. In a family of 11, when the dryer breaks, we all get pretty creative about places to hang clothes. Our homeowner’s association prohibits clotheslines, preferring the aesthetic of efficient dryers trapped inside stuffy laundry rooms to the messy beauty of linens blowing wild in the breeze. Go figure.

We hung clothes from portable soccer goals and relished the warm windiness of the day. For the few days of our inconvenience, I was not-so-secretly enjoying being “forced” to stand in the sunshine and shake out clean laundry. It was terribly inefficient, made the chore much more time-consuming, and would likely become wearisome over time. But in the moment, it was a golden opportunity to relish the moment, to linger long instead of tossing clothes inside the drum while looking ahead to the next thing to do.

The day we got the dryer fixed, the dishwasher decided it was no longer communicating with the water source. Admittedly I grumbled a bit before I resigned myself to filling my sink with warm, soapy bubbles. Surveying my “help,” I decided it was probably easier to wash dishes by myself than to coach my reluctant dishwashers through this new way of tackling the typical Tuesday night table set for eight. Or 10.

Here’s what you can’t do while washing dishes by hand: You can’t get distracted by your smartphone. You can’t wander out of the room when a child keeps adding to a longwinded, very detailed, not-even-remotely true story. You can’t quickly go check the laundry. Or your email. You have to stand there, hands in the warm suds, and be fully present in the moment. It doesn’t much feel like time is slipping through your fingers.

Where’s the slow in life? Can we seek it, find it, perhaps even create it? Can we deliberately pull into the slow lane sometimes? Can we embrace the wait time? Take a few extra moments to pay in cash and count out exact change, looking the cashier in the eye and sharing a warm word or two? Can we breathe more deeply, park a little further away and enjoy the walk? Can we plunge into the sink full of bubbles and invite someone we love to pull up a stool and chat while we rinse away the hurry with the dirt?

When we do, we catch moments that glisten like soapsuds in the early evening light across the sink. And time swishes warmth around us instead of swirling forcefully down the drain.

 

The Mission of Motherhood & the Gray Areas

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We all noticed it the year Patrick was fourteen. It seemed like overnight, but really, it wasn't. It was the whole fourteenth year. And my husband turned gray.

It wasn't all Patrick, of course. That was the year of the fragile pregnancy and the fragile baby, and the college athlete who spent too much time on the bench. And then there was Patrick.

Gray hair.

This has been my year to turn gray. My friend the stylist is out on maternity leave. My hair was long overdue for a cut, making me crazy, curls more out of control as they lose color. I couldn't wait for her to return (and I have a hunch she won't), so I went to see the lady who cut my hair last year. To remind her of how it is supposed to be cut, I showed her a picture from the wedding.

"Oh my goodness! It's turned so gray!"

Is this how they get people to beg for color to go with their cut? No, thanks. I work too hard to keep color and chemicals out of my food to pay someone to allow it to seep into my scalp. If it's going to be gray, it's going to be gray. And apparently, it's going to be gray.

It's not Patrick, this time. Well, there is that dang bench in college again, but no one thinks that will last long. He's discouraged, but he's just building character.

There are other things this time around, things that pull on a mama's heart. And things that make her hair turn gray. She wonders, remembers, that it's not all turning out the way we thought it would.

Way back when we thought life was black and white and there were no shades of gray...

Now? Now there's gray. There is the benefit of experience. It stands in the gap where once stood the confidence (and naivete?) of youth. 

And my problems? They are decidedly first world problems. In the morning, as I pull gray hairs from between my fingers and ask if perhaps today could be calm for my children, my neighbors, and my friends, my husband reminds me that life is hard. Really hard. Gently, he pointed to the idea that when it's hard, there are children and young adults who look to our home for refuge. They call this home. And I didn't give birth to all of them.

Life is hard and we are called to be Christ to one another in the midst of the hard. 

Later in the day, a friend reminds me that children are starving, wars are waging, young fathers are dying of AIDS. All a world away in a place that is not at all first world. That's hard life, she says. I am chagrined. And silenced.

The question burns though, all day, as I answer text messages and call in resources and troubleshoot and cry and pray and wait and worry on the behalf of people in my here and now: Is it somehow less when we suffer in the first world? Do those who suffer the pains of affluence--who know exactly how far their disease has progressed because they can afford a CT scan after they've drunk horrid yellow radioactive dye; those who struggle away from home for the first time because they've been afforded an education and tuition to university; those who wonder about paying the bills of a middle class lifestyle because suddenly costs will rise and income will decrease--is their suffering less worthy of my time and attention than the suffering across the ocean? 

St. Therese wanted to be a missionary to foreign lands. Instead, God called her to the cloister. Still, the Church calls Therese of Lisieux the patron of missions. Why? She shares the patronage with the great Jesuit missionary, St. Francis Xavier. His spiritual principle was, to “love those people to whom we are sent and to make ourselves loved by them.”

St.Therese never left the cloister, never. Her motto? “To love Jesus and to make him loved.” She lived this mission wholeheartedly: “Just as a torrent, throwing itself with impetuosity into the ocean, drags after it everything it encounters in its passage, in the same way, Jesus, the soul who plunges into the shoreless ocean of your love draws with her all the treasures she possesses. Lord, You know it, I have no other treasures than the souls it has pleased You to unite to mine; it is You who entrusted these treasures to me.”

To other people He has entrusted populations of impoverished natives of foreign lands. 

Me? He has sent me to a small town in the shadow of Washington, DC. He knows this small circle in suburbia is all that I can manage. I'm sure He's wondering at how poorly I "manage" even that some days. Then again, He has numbered every gray hair on my head. Nothing surprises Him.

Mothers are mostly little and hidden. St. Therese had great apostolic zeal, yet it wasn't until after her death that the example of her life, the simplicity of her spirituality, and the intercession of her spirit, made her an apostle to the nations.

St. Therese is a good patron for mothers at home, particularly mothers at home who might occasionally be distracted by the proliferation of blog posts and books that urge them to move beyond their "comfortable selfishness" to evangelize and bring comfort to the remote corners of the world. 

Go! By all means, whatever it takes, if it is God's call, go.

It's not always God's call. Sometimes He calls us to quiet witness in our homes and communities. Sometimes He calls us to remain little and hidden in our domestic monasteries, nurturing the few souls in our spheres of influence. Loving them as unto the Lord. We can't bring healing to the impoverished masses huddled in their obvious suffering. We can't know what it feels like to fill the bellies and bind the wounds of the poor on foreign soil. Instead, we trust that giving a sippy cup of water to the least of these in our own kitchens is still doing His work.

Vatican II defined missionary activity in these terms: “The special end of this missionary activity is the evangelization and the implantation of the Church among peoples or groups in which it has not yet taken root.” By golly, I assure you, that work is not yet finished in my home:-). At first it seemed so black and white, but really, this mission is colored in shades of gray. A woman can feed them, clothe them, educate them, comfort them, but in this culture, she is not guaranteed that they will stay close to God all their lives. The thing about the first world? There is a myriad of shiny things with which the devil can distract. The mission field is physically comfortable and spiritually very, very dangerous. It is one that requires the constant care and attention of the missionary, lest they are all blinded by the gray. 

I'm not a very good multi-tasker. The task at home is quite enough. I cannot serve soup in Africa. Right now, I cannot even seek the suffering in the cities close to my home. I'm just a mom in the suburbs, ladling chowder at my dining room table. And my hair is turning gray. 

Now. Here. This is where I'm called. 

This is where I pray He finds me, offering hope, serving unconditional love, and counting gifts. I'm giving until I've nothing left to give. I have to trust His grace to fill in the large gaps I've left when I feebly offer these days of relative comfort. I have to hope it is indeed enough.

Click here for the  Recipe for Chubby Hubby Bars because someone in your household is probably in need of them;-)

About the photos: I have two friends who periodically encourage me to try to learn my camera and look at life through its lens. Independent of each other, they are firm believers that I am a very good candidate for this kind of Joy School. Today, I was a willing student of said school.

Late update: as I was uploading pictures, I was watching Paddy play. And there was this:

In the Mirror, Whose Image do You See?

A few weeks ago, some fine men with whom my son has coached basketball for the last six years organized a party to send him off to college. Christian has grown up with these men on his bench. He’s been both the assistant coach to their coach and the coach to their assistant. They’re good guys and a common acceptance of Jesus as the foundation of each of their lives has always been understood. But they’ve never really talked about it. Just lived it.

 

At the party, they honored Christian with a sweet video, some very kind speeches, plenty of food, and a giant trophy. Inscribed on the trophy was Ephesians 2:10:  For we are his handiwork, created in Christ Jesus for the good works that God has prepared in advance, that we should live in them.

 

They chose that verse for him and truly, it suits the time he has ahead of him as he transfers and begins his junior year of college away from home. That’s the whole point of education isn’t it? Isn’t our purpose in pursuing knowledge to humbly acknowledge that He crafted us for a specific purpose and He has specific things He wants us to do?

 

True joy in this life lies in discerning His purpose and living His will. It’s a verse not just for young men in college. It’s a verse for all of us. It’s a verse for living life intentionally, every day.

 

God created me to be someone. I want to be the person He intended. Not only do I want to live intentionally. I want to live His intention, not mine. In order to live a life of true integrity, I have to be the woman He created me to be, not the woman whom I think I want to be (this woman seems to morph and change all the time), nor the woman I think the world wants. God breathed life into me with a plan just for me. Life is all about becoming.

 

Becoming.

 

As we struggle with the insecurities that can come with navigating relationships, we can relinquish our need for approval. Just let it go. God has gifted each of us extraordinarily. We can embrace those gifts with confidence, unapologetically. So, too, we can see how our weaknesses, even our inabilities, are the nudges that push us towards exactly what He envisioned. It’s OK. He’s got this.

 

Not only has He created us uniquely for His purpose, He has created us in His image. Next time you stand in front of a mirror, look closely. Do you see it?  There, in front of you, can you see the brilliance of your Creator? No? Perhaps you can’t readily see it in your own reflection. If you sit in the quiet and put yourself in His presence, can you see it deep within you? Keep looking. It’s there.

 

We spend so much time in life trying to figure out who we really are, trying on someone else to see if it fits. It doesn’t. It will never work to pursue a false life, never be comfortable to be anything but genuine. True liberation lies in flinging ourselves into God’s perfect plan.It’s incredibly freeing to be whom He intended instead of a poor reflection of someone else’s influence over us. Becoming genuine brings peace.

 

Blessed John Paul II wrote:

“It is Jesus that you seek when you dream of happiness; He is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you; He is the beauty to which you are so attracted; it is He who provoked you with that thirst for fullness that will not let you settle for compromise; it is He who urges you to shed the masks of a false life; it is He who reads in your heart your most genuine choices, the choices that others try to stifle.

 It is Jesus who stirs in you the desire to do something great with your lives, the will to follow an ideal, the refusal to allow yourselves to be ground down by mediocrity, the courage to commit yourselves humbly and patiently to improving yourselves and society, making the world more human and more fraternal.”

 

He has good works prepared especially for you, whether you are student on a campus in the mountains of Virginia or a middle-aged mom at her kitchen table. You can only do those works well if you are genuinely, seamlessly, and wholeheartedly the person He created you to be. Be who you are.

 

And off they go! But your job isn't finished, Mom:-)

The sun sinks into the mountains behind us as we drive away. Goodbyes are said. The van heads home a whole lot lighter. One seat is empty where just a few hours ago it was full. Clearly, we are well entrenched in this new season of life—the season of goodbyes. We first sent a child to college six years ago. He returned home a graduate and then lived with us a couple of years while he worked to save money. We said goodbye unexpectedly three years ago when a child left at fifteen to take up residency in Florida with the U.S. National Team. We had four days to prepare for that leavetaking. He, too, returned.

 

For awhile, all nine children lived under one roof.

 

Late last December, the eldest left home again. Hard-earned money invested in a home of his own, he took a wife and left our home to create a family of his own. Two weeks later, his brother left for college. Yesterday, another brother followed. “The big boys,” as they’ve been called collectively since the youngest was two, have all gone. It’s eerily quiet in my house this morning, though six children remain.

 

I think it a happy liturgical blessing that the Church prepares for the feasts of St. Monica and St. Augustine in the last weeks of summer. Just as we send our children out into the world—whether to kindergarten or college—we have the reassurance that comes with praying novenas for the intercession of a mother-son pair whose faith is breathtaking.

 

St. Monica is the mother of St. Augustine. Her story is so worth the time of every mother. The brief version is that Monica was the wife of a pagan, who had a violent temper and a problem with alcohol. His mother was a difficult, irritable woman, who lived with the couple. Monica bore them patiently and with kindness. She prayed for their conversions and ultimately, they both died Christians.

 

Monica was also the mother of least three children who survived infancy. Augustine, her eldest, was a bit of a handful. He was a wild child who sorely tested her limits with immoral living and heretical philosophies. Monica stayed close to him and prayed mightily for his conversion. In the end, St. Augustine, under the direction of St. Ambrose, was baptized and grew into his vocation as one the greatest saints ever and a Doctor of the Church.

 

 

As I’ve witnessed the grief of mothers as they send their children off to school, I’ve noticed several things. The first is that every woman comes to this time a little differently. For some women, the grief is wide and deep and raw. I’ve seen that this is not the case for everyone. Unfortunately, a woman who aches cannot assume she will be supported and consoled. There is the real possibility that someone will scoff. This is unfortunate, because mothers do need community. The experience of launching a child into the world is not unlike the experience of childbirth. Birthing became a much happier, more humane experience when women began to share collective experiences and to advocate for measures that would bring comfort and support. So, too, we need to empathize with one another in the transition and the sending forth of our children from homes.

 

I’ve listened intently to other women this time around. Eyes wide open and ears alert, I’ve noticed a trend. Mothers worry that they haven’t done enough. As her daughter leaves for college, you give a mom a hug and assure her that she’s done a good job and all will be well and she returns your well-intentioned words of encouragement with wild-eyed panic. She worries. She worries about all the conversations they never got around to having. She worries about all the lessons in faith she never taught. She worries about all the moments of instruction and guidance and reassurance that slipped through her fingers. Was it enough? Did she do enough? Now that her job is over, will everything be ok? Sometimes, the grief upon leaving is commensurate with a mother’s fear that she has somehow failed to adequately prepare her child for the day of departure.

 

We are certain—because we know our child so well and we love her so fiercely—that it is not enough. We are certain that we’ve forgotten something. There’s more to do, more to say, more to love. And there is.

 

Here’s a hint, mom. It’s not over.

 

We don’t stop mothering when they leave home. God’s not finished and neither are you. St. Monica prayed for her son for seventeen years after she kicked him out of her house. She stuck close. He left Tagaste for Rome and she followed him there. She stay tuned into him, engaged in his life, and was prayerfully incessant. She wasn’t a nagging mother (or nagging wife, for that matter). Instead, she was a faith-filled servant of God who never stopped loving and was relentless in her firm resolve to live the Gospel. She was a teacher, a role model, and an agent of change in the conversion of people she loved well past their childhoods.

 

It’s not over.

 

It’s not too late. You aren’t finished mothering. Indeed, in many ways, it’s just begun. One of the saddest stories I’ve ever known is the story told by a grown woman whose parents were “finished” when they left her at college. They considered their “jobs” done. It’s not a job. It’s a vocation. Parenting is for a lifetime. In this age of entitlement, one thing is certain. If there is anything—anything—to which a grown child is entitled, it is the ongoing prayers of his parents and the sweet assurance that they will forever hold him tightly in their hearts. Whatever lies ahead, no matter where he goes and what he does, no matter the challenges, we will dedicate ourselves with confidence to the gentle kindness and firmness of conviction that St. Monica brought to mothering adult children.

Hope in the Morning

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The day began with Mike vlounteering to take Nick to soccer on his way to work. Soccer is absolutely not on Mike's way to the office, but he was being really sweet and I took him up on it. The coach always gets there 15 minutes early so Mike planned to drop Nick and dash to work. 

I gave him the address (all these fields are new to us since we've just switched leagues), and off they went.

To the wrong field.

I had given him the address of the field where Stephen trains tomorrow. Go me! I'd looked up all my travel desitinations before the week began...

They got there eventually. Mike apologized on my behalf.

And then he called me and spoke sweet, unmerited words of grace.

It seems like a very good morning to unplug, refill pots of watercolor, and paint some hope into the week ahead.

Christian leaves tomorrow. I'll be back in this space on Wednesday.

My prayer for each of you is for someone to speak grace into your day.

My answer to, "How do you do what you do?"

 

Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. — “You’ve Got Mail”

There is something about this line that rings so true it makes me smile and reach for the pencil sharpener every time it comes to mind. Especially in the fall. Read the rest here.

 

It's Not About You (or maybe it is)...

...just not in the way previously thought. You knew it was coming didn't you, after yesterday? I was bound to write my annual "please stop whining about your kids" essay. I actually wrote it a couple of weeks ago. It just seems more improtant in light of yesterday. Read on, please...

 

Bright Days

It's 7:45 on Saturday morning. I've already worked out. I sat on the front steps with a mug of Red Zinger infused with raw honey and cayenne pepper. My bags are at the ready as soon as the Famer's Market opens. 

Weekend.

Mike was gone all last week. Did you notice without me even saying so;-)? He arrived home yesterday late afternoon and began to put my world in order again. (Not literally--he's not much of cleaner-upper.) It amazes me how much effect one person can have on the heart of a household. For me, it's the presence or absence of my husband that is most notable. But I notice the comings and goings of children, too.

This weekend brings us very much into graduation season. This is the year of Patrick's graduation. Well, not really. Patrick graduated early, but it is the year he would have graduated. So, it's the year his friends graduate. Patrick collects friends like a dog on the trail in the autumn gathers burrs. He has lots and lots of them. And Patrick keeps friends. They've all grown up together. So, we are drawn into his flurry of activity this week as all those little boys he played soccer with since he was four celebrate this rite of passage. 

We also have some matching cousins. Mike's sister and I were pregnant at the same time four different times. Our babies were within weeks of each other. For Christian, there was Catie Lea. For Patrick, there was Erin. For Stephen, there was John. And for Katie, there was Brian. I look with amazement at my lovely niece, Erin, who has grown into a woman of incredible grace and courage and I am so grateful that these days dawn bright for her. With her big sister, and with Christian, they will be a community of cousins in the same place next fall. That makes my heart happy.

Hilary, too, crosses this bridge. For nearly two years, it's been Hilary-and-Paddy, Paddy-and-Hilary. We're all kind of holding our collective breath to see how this transition is navigated for them. But Hilary's leaving will be felt somewhere else as well. One of Hilary's costumes rests on my counter. It's awaiting a temporary adjustment so that it will fit Mary Beth. It's a costume of a ringleader. It's still Hilary's. She will wear it again when the girls all dance together in their spring recital and then compete one last time together in July. But Senior Beach Week calls Hilary away from a performance next week.  Mary Beth will be the ringleader. Still, no one will fill Hilary's dancing shoes.

I can't keep my mind from reminding me that all her life Mary Beth has followed Patrick and Erin. She's been right behind them. This year, she's here to slip into that costume. She is firmly rooted at the studio day after day, eagerly soaking up even hand-me-down roles. Still, whatever they've done, she's done soon after. Don't go there! Don't think for one moment today, Mama, about the day when your three little girls say goodbye to their personal ringleader. Stay in the moment. You must in order to survive. It's here in earnest: the season of a mother's goodbyes.

Patrick, of course, came home for the weekend, bringing Zach along for the ride. He wouldn't miss this for the world. It's a weekend of carefully planned parties, each timed so that one doesn't encroach upon another. Instead, my social butterfly can just flit from one to the next, reveling in merriment. Patrick definitely brings his own energy to the household. This weekend, he'll be sharing energy all over Northern Virginia. 

And I'll be doing what I do. Filtering the energy. Storing it. Letting it soak in. These bright days are fleeting. I'm trying to capture them like fireflies in a Mason jar on a perfect June evening.

Healthy Ways to Give and Get Love

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I've resolved to finish both the book studies begun here. I noticed that both of them petered out in the fall, one last year and one the year before. I figure if I start now, I can finish them both before whatever happens in the fall that makes me not able to finish things.

We were on Habit # 7 of The 10 Habits of Healthy Mothers.

Meg Meeker writes:

"We start to dream about her future because we want more. Maybe we want more than we had, whatever that was or wasn't. We want her to be polite because we weren't. We want her to come home during her summers in college because we never wanted to. She'll have a perfect mom. Our daughter will be the lucky one. We'll give her everything we missed.

"Can't you see? Early in our son's life, we lay out our hopes and dreams, not based on who he is, but on who we are. While we say that we will let him be who he wants to be and that we will love him unconditionally, the reality is, none of us mothers can actually do that. When we go to give him our love, our own needs become kneaded into that love and pretty soon, love can feel messy. But it doesn't have to be."

Ah. That collision of hopes and dreams with the reality that pains mothers so much, particularly as their children move through their teens and early twenties. We have talked about that before and you had plenty to say. It's interesting to me that I think I read this chapter differently than I did two years ago, when I first began this study and first read this book. I think that's because I'm more practiced in collision care. Happens all the time: they don't act according to my perfectly scripted daydreams. It doesn't always go as I'd hoped. Actually, it frequently doesn't go as I'd hoped.

"We fear that if we admit that it's going any way other than what we'd hoped, we'll also have to admit that something is broken in our children, or that something is off in our mothering. Neither of these is a fun thing to accept and so when it comes to feeling humbled or hanging on to a slow burn, we opt for the latter. Being angry is safe. It is easier to swallow than admitting that something is cracked. And it protects us from further hurt."

So let's just get that admission  out of the way right now. Let's say it aloud to one another: My kids are broken and so am I. If we can tear down the illusions of perfection and even the expectations of perfection, we can be genuine support to one another. Think about it: how approachable is the perfect woman in the PTO? How eager are you to share a cup of coffee and a heart-to-heart with the lady who has it all together? Let's struggle together. One point that several people spoke to when we listened to the Pat Gohn podcast was the pain caused by competition in friendships. I think we compete with each other and I think we compete with the ideal version of ourselves and our children. Chances are, we learned to do that from our mothers, who had their own ideal versions of themselves and of us, carefully guarded and perpetuated. Depending on how unhealthy this was, those lessons in accepting nothing less than the ideal can be very well ingrained.

It's not too late. We can learn this lesson. Our survival depends on it. If we can give and get love in a healthy manner, we will age beautifully. If we cling to the old paradigm, we will become lonely, embittered shriveled-up old women. I mean that. Nothing will age a woman faster than trying to make her children into something God never inteneded them to be. I promise you that your vision--no matter how lovely--is not God's vision. His is better. It might be really messy getting there. Nothing will make you uglier and more miserable than tightening your controlling grip when love goes awry.

Dr. Meeker suggests four ways to give and get love in a healthy manner.

#1 Take Calculated Risks

This means mom goes first. We tell them first how we feel, we apologize first, and we express our needs aloud. It's a good thing to be vulnerable and to take risks with our love. It's not a good thing to lock our hearts up in a chamber of anger in the hopes we won't be hurt again. With this vocation, comes ample strength and grace to do what we need to do. "If you lay your heart on the table and the person doesn't respond, you handle that. In reality, you can handle far more disappointment than you think you can." What you can't handle--really, truly--is to walk away with your lips pursed and your fist clenched inside your pockets. What you can't handle is anger. It will kill you.

#2 Don't Take Loved Ones So Personally

I think this one is my biggest change since I first started this study. Every time one of my children rejected a component of my Perfect Picture, I took it personally. What was wrong with my ideal? Why deviate from that plan? As they grow, there is great joy in seeing who they are unfold, in seeing the Creator's fingerprints on them. It is somewhat startling, I think, when we begin to recognize that the road to becoming who they truly are is strewn not with rose petals but with all matter of debris. The idyllic path is actually not often trod. Most kids take one of the messier routes and frequently they don't want us along for the ride (or at least they think they don't). They tell us so rather bluntly. Sometimes, "they have temper tantrums directed towards us and try to pull us into their private tornadic whirl."  This can be quite startling, to say the least. Tornados suck mothers in. We believe the anger in the vortex. 

"We can't afford to do this. When we are hurt by loved ones, we must stand back and assess their words as if we were mothers of toddlers. No, they aren't toddlers, but this helps us be more objective about the problem. When a loved one hurts us...review the words as thogh they were driected at a friend, not us. By removing ourselves from the moment [even if the moment is a season long], we can objectify the words [or actions] and try to see if they are reasonable of not."

#3 Learn to Read Loved Ones and Let Them Read You

The best resources on reading a loved on and letting them read you are Gary Chapman's books. I cannot recommend them highly enough:

The 5 Love Languages

The 5 Love Languages of Children

The 5 Love Languages of Teenagers

"Many mothers show love to their kids by cooking their favorite meals, driving them everywhere, or buying them gifts. While our intentions are good, these gestures don't ensure kids feel loved. Certainly kids learn to appreciate the work we do for them as they mature, but in the meantime, it is important to find the small things we can do to let them know that they really are loved by us. While they are growing up in our homes, much of our interaction with our kids is negative because we are correcting them or disciplining them. So find out what makes each child feel loved. When you do this and express it, it will come back to you tenfold.

#4 Express Love Even When You don't Feel Like It

Just be a big girl, already. Quit whining and complaining. Don't stay stuck as an adolescent. Do the hard things. Do them well. And do them gratefully. 

"Let's not be foolish The best love relationships require rolling up our sleeves again and again and saying a lot of things we really would rather not. Love requires that we take a deep breath and ask loved ones to forgive us for acting like jerks. It requires saying "no" to our kids and then being willing to reinforce the "no" for hours afterward. It means telling daughters that they can't wear teeny tops and skirts to school even when they wail and cry that kids won't like them. And it demands that we have the "talk" with our sons and daughters over and over about sex too soon with too many partners because hurt always follows. We do these things because we love our kids, but nothing is easy about doing any of them. "

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And it's not just about the kids. One of the greatest predictors of happy mothers is happy marriages. That doesn't mean it's impossible to be a happy single mother with happy kids. It does mean that the path is smoother for women in happy marriages. And by golly, ladies, we have to work at making marriage happy.

"So when a spouse drives us crazy, we must draw on the same internal gift that we use with our kids. Instead of complaining, we need to focus on appreciating him." When we live this model of appreciating over complaining, counting blessings instead of itemizing annoyances, we create a climate of love. Children learn from watching us. Let them learn genuine love in action.

{{This post is the 11th in a series discussing The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity.}}

The rest of our discussions of  The 10 Habits of Happy Mothers: Reclaiming our Passion, Purpose, and Sanity can be found here. 

Part 1(discussing Habit 1)

Part 2 (still discussing Habit 1)

Part 3 (still more on Habit 1)

Part 4 (Habit 2: key friendships)

Part 5 (Habit 2: your thoughts on friendship_

Part 6 (Habit 3: Value and Practice Faith)

Part 7(Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 8 (Habit 4: Say No to Competition)

Part 9 (Habit 5: Create a Healthier Relationship with Money)

Part 10 (Habit 6: Make Time for Solitude)

 

Disconnected

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It's been nearly a week since my iPhone suddenly stopped working. I made a call to my husband that went off without a hitch. Then, I tried to text Colleen. My phone popped up a message that said there was no SIM card. Since there had been a SIM card three seconds earlier for the phone call and I was sitting the same place, with the same phone, I figured it was a little cyber hiccup. Tried again. Same message. Colleen is in the jungle in Costa Rica; only God knows where half the texts I send her actually go. I tried to text Katherine. Katherine is in very civilized Dallas. She has a fully functional iPhone. It didn't work. I tried calling home. Nothing. I tried calling Mary Beth. Nothing. 

Over the next couple of days, I backed up everything on my phone and then deleted and reset. Well, I tried to reset. One cannot reset without a SIM card and my phone continues to insist I don't have one. After two very disappointing trips to AT&T and Apple, I still don't know why my phone doesn't work. I do know that, at the time it suddenly quit working, I was 24 days past my warranty. 

My husband is going to try to see if he commands more respect from either AT&T or Apple. Mike spent all last week in Miami. Just as he arrived home for the weekend, his studio in DC flooded. My sense is that between catching up at the DC office and mopping up at the DC office, phone relacement for me is going to slip a bit on the priority list. I'm actually fine with that for now.

It's become a bit of an experiment. I decided not to fight it too much. This was as good a time as any for an Instagram break. I set a limit on Facebook to 5 minutes a day, mostly just to check local groups with  pertinent kid information. And I promised myself to embrace this opportunity to re-think my habits before getting a new phone.

I figured it would be a day or two. It's not, but God knows I'm a slow learner.

I do miss my phone. First, I miss it for the genuinely important things. There are at least three life-or-death situation text messages I have not read. Two are from friends facing tragic illness. One is much happier. When one of my friends in a tragic situation told me on Friday that she was worried I was mad at her because she'd been texting with bad news for three days and I hadn't responded, I felt terribly. I had put the word out on Facebook that my phone was out of commission, but that's not very reliable, is it? She and I made a promise to have a good, long face-to-face chat. Still, though, I'm haunted that I wasn't there to help in the moment.

When my phone first died, I felt very out of sorts. My phone, for better or worse, is an integral tool in many of my habits. I quickly learned that I check my mail far more often than necessary. Still, since I wasn't checking mail, I nearly missed the email demanding that I fax Stephen's sub order before a deadline or leave him to go hungry on a long out-of-town soccer trip. I've been checking too often, but how often is enough? I have no idea. One of the reasons I wanted a smart phone was because so many people associated with my children assume everyone has one. Checking mail whenever, wherever makes my mom job more efficient.

My prayer routine was seriously affected. Nearly everything was tied to my phone. I've since transferred prayers and such to paper, but I do miss the ease with which it was all there, ready and waiting. And I miss my chapel bells. On the other hand, I like very much that my phone isn't the last thing I put to bed at night these days. I think I will continue to keep night prayers in paper format even after I have a new phone.

I miss my iPhone camera. Ideally, its absence will force me to get to know my new camera and lens. My iPhone was instrumental in developing in me an eye for capturing moments in pictures. Before my iPhone, my brain always processed even the simplest things in words. I did--and still do--think in narrative. After getting an iPhone--now 1 year and 30 days ago--I began to think in pictures too. Or, maybe I always thought in pictures, but now I had a tool for capturing those thoughts with images. I miss that. A lot.

And I am pretty bummed that I missed the virtual waiting room texting party while a small group of us prayed for Patti as she labored and delivered her baby boy on Mother's Day. Early in the labor (the day before Mother's Day), I got an "I'm so sorry your phone doesn't work" email and I suggested that updates be texted to Christian's phone. Poor Christian, it was more than he really wanted to know! Poor me. Christian passed along news when it was convenient, not as it was happening. I had promised Patti to pray and pray I did. I didn't need to know the details. God knew. So often, when we get a prayer request, we press for details. Those details don't make us better prayer warriors. They just satisfy our curiosity. So, I prayed without knowing the updates in real time. I will admit, however, that I broke down on Sunday and asked for Mary Beth's iPhone so I could log out of her Instagram account and on to my own, only to see pictures of Patti's baby.

I was very late to the cell phone party. Everyone I knew had a cell phone when I first got mine for Mother's Day, 12 years ago. It was a super simple phone. I didn't want a phone I could take with me, but our house was on the market and our realtor really thought it was a good idea. I rarely called anyone but Mike. And when Mike called me, he could almost never reach me. It drove him nuts. I always deliberately left the phone in the car. I figured I only needed it when away from the house, so why even bring it inside? If it was in the car, I wouldn't forget it. I existed that way until about last year.

Until 1 year and 30 days ago, I didn't have a smartphone. I didn't even have a QWERTY keyboard. And I didn't much mind. I really wanted an iPhone for the camera. Since acquiring a smartphone, I've learned to appreciate text messaging. Mostly, I love to be able to send little notes to my husband and children. With Mike, I flirt. With my kids, it's so handy to be able to text, "Dude, I just put Sarah to sleep AGAIN up here. I don't care if it's overtime, do not yell at that TV, no matter how great the goal." And yes, I write it all out, just like that, with commas and such, because by golly, if we are all going to being writing so much more than we used to, let's practicing writing well.

Frantic bedtime texts aside, I am definitely missing being able to text my kids. I didn't recognize what a great tool texting has been in staying very connected to my teens.

When my phone first went down, I posted to Facebook. I was looking for suggestions on fixing it and I wanted to let people who usually call or text know that I was out of touch. Gretchen wrote this comment:

I haven't had a cell phone since December...sadly, that coincides with the date I lost all my friends. I am completely isolated from all my real life "friends."

I replied: do you still have a home phone? Can you call that way? Can you email them?

And she said:  I can call them or email them...but, most people want to text so they won't call me. I have a whole blog post going together on how the cell phone/internet ruined real conversations and friendships.

I thought she must be exceptionally unlucky in friendship. I have since discovered that there is a certain degree of truth to what she's saying. People are in the habit of texting instead of talking. It's been very quiet around here, despite my repeated attempts to persuade people to call my home phone. And of course, I'm much less available to those people because I'm only available when I'm at home. It's been really interesting to see how that dynamic works. It's also been very heartwarming to know that there are some people in my life who will always find a way to share.

It's going to be at least a couple more days until I have a cell phone again. I'm still thinking for that perfect balance of use. Surely, most people who read this will think I'm overthinking and it's ridiculous.

Regardles the outcome of this experiment, I need to cultivate a big camera habit. I have no pictures of the beautiful Mother's Day dinner Mike and Christian crafted. I have no pictures of Patrick (and Zach), bearing roses and surprising me with a visit on Mother's Day. I have no pictures of the glorious place where Nick played soccer. Well, actually, Mike took about a zillion pictures of Sarah there and they are wonderful. I asked him to send them to me, but he must have sent the small files. They're all pixelated. Maybe I can share those tomorrow. There no chance I'm calling the flood zone (from my home phone) and asking him to send the large files.

Mary Beth did grab the big camera a few times last weekend. Nick and I spent several hours on Saturday trying to tame the jungle that wants to be my rose garden again.They were mostly prickly weeds and it was slow going. Thank goodness for Christian, who bagged eight lawn bags full of the debris. I was undistracted by texting or by photographing. We made great progress, but there are still plenty of weeds to pull. Maybe once they're all gone, a phone will appear. Or maybe not.

For more about the lovely chair (including a tutorial) and for an introduction to my new favorite blog, click here. You will be so glad you did.

Let's Try This Again

Last week, I introduced you to  Pat Gohn, author of Blessed, Beautiful, and Bodacious.

I had hoped to spark some conversation about friendship and about spirtual mentors. Since I know you all are interested in both, and since usually it's not terribly difficult to strike up a conversation here, I was surprised to see so few people chime in. I'm thinking I just picked a super busy day for almost everybody. But this is a topic thtat's become a bit of a passion for me, so I'm going to go out on a limb and give it another go.

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I am truly amazed at the wisdom Pat has crammed into these ten minutes. I think her insight is so valuable that I stopped and let my girls listen. We had an excellent conversation about how these five principles can be adapted even if you're only ten years old. Life with four daughters has given me lots of insight from an adult perspective on what makes for healthy friendships. What a lot of friendships I witness these days! Some are genuine blessings. Some, not so much. Some girls have a gift for friendship. Some must overcome some real deficits to be or to have good friends. Just as we train our children in good academic habits and good moral habits, we need to train them in good friendship habits. These are valuable lifeskills. This book is a valuable life book.

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This time, after the podcast link, I'll recap Pat's five talking points, so that even if you don't have ten minutes to stop and listen, you can walk away this morning with some truly priceless food for thought.

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Pat has recorded a thought-provoking (and sweetly short) podcast for you to listen to with your morning cuppa. She's got me thinking about spiritual motherhood. I'm reflecting gratefully on the women who have taken the time and care to mother me spiritually throughout my lifetime. They have firmly imprinted goodness on my soul and I am eternally grateful. I mean that. Eternally. Those women who have mothered me spiritually have affected eternity for me. And, through me, they have affected eternity for my children.

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Spiritual mothers aren't just mother-figures, they're the good friends in our lives, even the ones who are from our peer group. I can think of at least two women who fill that role in my life who are much younger than me, too. We are all called to spiritual motherhood. And, I think, it's in answering the call to that particular vocation that we become genuinely good friends.

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Pat has some wonderful concrete suggestions for us. They aspire to help create spiritual mothers and strike right to the heart of creating really good friends. Oh, how the world of women is desperately in need of good friends!

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This is a ten minute podcast that might change your life-- and your friendships. I'm not exagerrating here. Take some time --just ten minutes-- to listen today. The world and your world will be a better place because of it. I know mine will be.

>>>Click here to listen to ‘In the Heart of my Home hosts the Blessed, Beautiful, & Bodacious Blog Tour’ on Audioboo<<<

Five recommendations for aspiring Spiritual Mothers (Pat fleshes out these ideas in the podcast. It's only ten minutes. You'll be glad you listened.):

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1. Make friends with one another. Create a non-competitive sisterhood. 

2. Find THREE. Find three friends: one younger, one from your peer group, and one older than you are.

3. Raise the fun quotient. Do things that bring a smile to the one you want to befriend.

4. Pray for one another.  Ask. Seek. Knock. 

5. Use the four gifts of receptivity, generosity, sensitivity, and maternity. 

After you listen, come back here, because there's something in it for you and for the community here at Heart of My Home. 

Let's have a conversation. I really, truly want to hear your heart on this topic and I want to share with you in the combox. 

Who has been a spiritual mother to you? Describe her ways. You don't have to name her, but let us know how she's been a help for you. Pat talks about five gifts. How can we live those? How can we encourage one another to be spiritual mothers, both in real life and here online? 

Winning a copy of this book is very simple. Listen to the podcast. And then join the conversation. If you come back here to chat with me, you will automatically be entered to win a copy of Blessed, Beautiful, and Bodacious. I'll announce the winner right here, next week:-)

I'd Dearly Love...

...just one more day of babymoon.

To hold you close all day and night, while the world swirls by.

To know that no one expects either of us to do anything except be here in the quiet and sweetness of each other.

To inhale that precious baby smell, blessedly sure that nothing, no one, has yet hurt you.

To hope and pray, with wide-eyed innocence, that no one ever will.

To rest in the assurance that I can provide absolutely everything you need today.

Right now.

I'd dearly love just one more day of that kind of mothering. 

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Even one hour of it would be a welcome gift.

How Compassionate Are You with Yourself?

It was something I’d done with ease just the previous week. This week, on the same mat, in the same space, I struggled. A trainer spotted me, steadied me and then whispered, “Compassion. Give yourself some.” That’s all she said. I admit leaving the gym berating myself, doubting my body’s ability to ever get the hang of it, and wondering if it was even worth it to return again the next day. I’d been working hard at this, every day for a month, and I felt like a total failure because of the last hour spent struggling. Please read the rest here.

Renew

 

Last year was pretty huge. I was so tired, so completely spent at this year's beginning that I noticed year-in-review posts on other blogs, and just pulled the quilt up tighter around my ears and closed my eyes. I didn't have the energy--physical or spiritual--to revisit it all, even virtually. It was just.so.much.

I went through that year of many, many transitions kicking and screaming. Turns out I'm not a big fan of change. The reality is that I liked the baby years, loved them, really and never once wished them away. And yet, in the big giant year of transition, they were indeed being swept beyond my reach. I left my children for the first time. And then for the second. Someone turned four and there was no one younger than her around the table at dinner. But there was someone new at the table. And she came to be one of us. I gained a new role. The transition was absolutely unmistakeable.

Our culture is so youth oriented. For the most part it seems, no one really searches out ways to be older. We celebrate 21 in a big way. We mark midlife with black-themed birthday cards and bad jokes about being over the hill. I think I bought into that mentality a bit. And I think I know a big reason I was such easy prey.

I was so dang tired. The truth is that this wholehearted, all-in, very attached parenting style had depleted me to the equivalent of soil dust. Nothing rich was growing there. If this was what the mid-forties felt like, I could not imagine sixty.

But I have a four-year-old. And my most fervent prayer is to grow old healthy, and holy, and helpful. I want to be there for her. I want to see how the story unfolds. I want to get out of bed in the morning without my knees cracking so loudly it wakes my husband.

In the blur that was the new year, friends were choosing words for the year--just single words upon which to focus, meditate, seek wisdom. A word to live for the whole year. I couldn't wrap my brain around one. 

And then I could. Aimee said her word was renew. Renew.

That's it. That's the word. It's the word that says that this stage in life is not the beginning of the end. It's the beginning, instead, of something better, stronger, wiser, and yes--older. But older in the richest way. That's certainly being proven true in marriage. Did you know that the sweetest wine is grown from the oldest vineyards? Grapes grow best when the farmer works in harmony in with the earth, when he embraces the whole and considers that plant and the land around it as they were endowed by the Creator, with an eye towards preserving the quality for a long time. The goal of biodynamic farming is to be sustainable. When you grow grapes, you draw something from the soil and you have to replenish that. 

When we learned about biodynamic vineyards, one point that came home to me is that growing practices greatly influence how long the vineyards will continue to bear fruit. The vines where the practice is focused upon sustainable growth--where the big picture is considered and every element of farming is oriented towards ensuring health of the vines down deep and over time--are the vines that bear the sweetest fruit. At first, the explanation of biodynamic farming sounds a bit hokie. But then, you can literally taste and see that the fruit borne of the wisdom of old is of a superior quality.

This image works so well for me. The Bible is rich with imagery of vineyards. Clearly, God wants us to consider how to grow in a sustainable way in order to renew the face of the earth. I've never been more certain of that than I was this morning. I had written the above over the course of the last few weeks. I clicked over to visit Aimee in order to link to her in my post. When I did, I learned she's writing today about sustainable homeschooling. My jaw dropped and I smiled widely at God's thunk over my head. If ever I asked for a sign that I was on the right track, I got a clear answer at 7:00 AM on Tuesday January 29th while visiting Aimee's blog. It's a post that just might easily have catapulted to my favorite home education post ever this morning. There is wisdom there, my friends. Rich, rich wisdom. Get this: middle aged wisdom. Yep. There is wisdom and it's invaluable.

I look around at the friends with whom I've had babies and I am blessed to know that they've grown wise. How amazing! We all learned something during those hazy, intense, sleep-deprived years.

So, now I embrace renewal. I look to tend the vineyard of my soul, to be sure, but I am not going to neglect the rest of me any more. The big picture of renewal is one that encompasses physical health, spirtual growth, creative energy and enthusiasm, and an invigorated sense of hope and optimism for the future. I look to my home, to my homeschooling, to the relationships within these walls and to the people I love beyond these walls. Renewal. All of it is waiting to be made new again. 

What a different perspective than that of a withering towards an inevitable end. We can renew and renew and renew again, until our dying breath. God is generous that way.

I've talked a bit about stillness. About allowing Him to come in the silence.

Be still and know that I am God.

The last two weeks at Mass, an old familiar hymn has settled on my soul in a new way. I've listened to You Are Mine and heard the refrain of stillness. I will come to you in the silence. But I've also heard the rest. I heard the echoes of Isaiah 43:1

But now, thus says the LORD,

who created you, Jacob, and formed you, Israel:

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you;

I have called you by name: you are mine.

There is nothing to fear. I am redeemed. 

And the promise of John 14:27

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give it to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled or afraid

Transitions can be scary. Aging can be scary. Renewal, though? The sustainable model of growth that keeps us renewing until we reach heaven? That's peace.

Last year, was a hard year. It was exhausting. It was a compost year, I think. A year of creating very fertile ground for renewal. 

Ten Ways to Make it a Good Day.

After a string of really bad days, I sat down to make a list of ten sure-fire ways to work towards making the day a good one.

Nail the prayer and exercise routine from dawn to bedtime.  

 

 

Make a good meal and eat it at the table, all together; candelight is a good thing.

 

 

Keep the laundry caught up or conquer the backed up laundry mountain.

 

 

Sew something, anything.

 

 

Read stories to my little ones-- the more, the better.

 

 

Make bathtime relaxed and happy for everyone.

 

 

Use online time with discretion, sparingly. Take my time online. *

 

 

Choose joy, especially when it's not the easy choice. 

 

 



Curl up and read a good book for mama. (...and maybe knit, too. I really miss knitting.)

 

 



Um. Curl up with him;-).

 

*Like the necklace? Me, too! You can shop for them here:-)