Pontificating

I was raised Catholic. Today, I'm an actual, practicing, Catholic. In some circles, I'm not near Catholic enough. I'm not sure where the grading scale is or who is the "decider" of our quantity or quality of Catholicism. I don't worry about it too much.  The Arch Mother, who raised money to build their parish church, worked for Catholic Charities, and hosted half the Archdiocese in their home, never had time for people who wanted to "judge" your level of faith.

I know who I am and what I believe. But I do understand that the Catholic church is dealing with an identity crisis - too many people associate it with scandal and decadence and not enough with social service and faith. 

Yesterday when it was announced that white smoke was drifting above the Vatican in Rome, I had an emotional response.  Honestly, a startling response. I stopped my car and sat quietly in a parking lot listening to the media reports. For me, it was a stark reminder of how deeply I care about my faith and my church family.

When the kids got home from school, we concluded it would be fun to make Argentinian food in honor of Pope Francis for dinner. Great!  Except while I love to cook - Latin influenced food has not been a big part of my repertoire (ANY part of my repertoire).

I Googled some recipes, decided that I didn't have time to reinvent the wheel and it was a bright, sunny, March afternoon (to my Minnesotan mind it looked warm).  So the four kids and I grabbed our coats, scooters and walked to the grocery story.  My thought was that while last minute Argentinian food was probably unreasonable at the end of my busy day, we could at least find some good Latin options.

No dice.  Actually, no Chimichurri. Our local grocery store, considers tacos and salsa to be the extent of their Latin foods. Maybe it's silly, but I was shocked.  Scratch that. Decided we'd go home and watch the news coverage of the new Pope while we ate our decidedly NOT Latin dinner.

Hmmm. By 6:15 pm, the bright, March afternoon was significantly chillier. The return mile from the grocery store was a lot quieter and significantly quicker.  If we could have cut through people's yards, we would have.

Arrive home! Turn on TV! American Idol? Survivor? No pope. Damn our cable free household! So I grab my laptop determined to make the kids see how fascinating the election of a new pope can be (and hoping to distract them from the slow turn towards exhausted meltdown that mom is taking - might I mention that I washed all the sheets in the house and had yet to return them to their rightful beds).   I find the clips of the new Pope's first waves and comments, finally relieved that some part of this memory making plan is working out. 

We watch for about an minute, listening to the calming translation of his Italian, when my middle son says:

"Who is that guy?"

"It's the new Pope, Jorge Maria Bergoglio, Pope Francis," I say.

"Umm, no it's not," says he.

"Yes, honey. It is. See - that's why he's standing in the balcony waving to the people in Rome."

"You're wrong. The principal told us that the new Pope was father Mark."

Father Mark is our parish priest who is very involved in our parochial school.  He's well known to the kids and we've had him a few times to the house for dinner. Clearly there had been some confusion at school and so my son was absolutely, positively certain that the principal, whom he views with reverence, had told him that Father Mark was the new Pope.

"Nope, Buddy.  Father Mark isn't the new Pope, he's not a Cardinal and he's not in Rome."

"Right, but you said the new Pope didn't have to be a Cardinal."

He was right.  I did tell him that. What I didn't say was that of course the new Pope would be a Cardinal. While the church could break with tradition, no one expected it to do so.

My son was terribly disappointed by Pope Francis.  He did not look near as young or as cool as father Mark. I made a note to call the priest and let him know that at least one person thought he deserved a promotion.

I have been critical of the Catholic Church, my most popular entry on this blog, deals with some of my struggles, and yet I found myself defensive yesterday. Listening to the critical chatter on Facebook and Twitter about "another scandalous, conservative Pope." The lines and lines of judgement without any real sense of information or experience. I was surprise by how strongly I reacted.

One poor friend got a real diatribe from me because she said she was hopeful but concerned about this new Pope and the direction of the church.

Pope Francis will have neither a perfect history nor perfect future. He is human. But because we are human, we can be honest and still be hopeful; we can be forgiving and still forthright. And so I agree with my friend. We are called to face every day and every situation with hope and concern, if we can promise to always live to this standard, everything would probably turn out better, both for our church and in our world.

We must view the church with our intellectual talents, our honest hearts and our open minds. For the first time in a long time, I feel how true this really is, and I feel we have a renewed opportunity to receive the Holy Spirit. 

Discrimination, abuse and the role of women in the church are not issues that will be solved tomorrow - but with faith and our own energy - we have a better chance today of leaving our children and grandchildren a church that is a beautiful instrument of love, light, joy and peace.

So, while Pope Francis is not Father Mark, he is a fresh step in a new faith future. We, Catholics, must take that step, that first hopeful and concerned new beginning, together. 

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

Losers Weepers, Finders Keepers

We got take-out Chinese for dinner last night and watched Wreck It Ralph. As it ended, my husband sighed and said to me:

"I miss my brother."

 

We're having a little bit of a hard time.  My husband and I can't quite put our fingers on it. Winter doldrums? Stress at work? Just the effects of keeping so many balls in the air? Who knows. But we had the realization a few days ago that tomorrow will be the sixth anniversary of his brother's, The Chef, abrupt death.

The kids piled into the car this morning and my daughter got accidentally kicked in the head, one son threw a pencil at another and everyone was just being sour.  I turned the car off and looked at them.

Deep breath.

"I'm going to tell you something.  Look me in the eyes. Dad is having a hard time right now because he would give just about anything in the world to have another night with his brother." 

Everyone perked up, wide eyed and nervous. Maybe not my best parenting, but like I said, we're both having a hard time.

"You have many gifts. But the people in this car are the best things that have ever happened to you. Some day, I will break a hip. And one of you is going to need to get in a car and come help me. And I will be crabby about it. I will not like feeling old and fragile. And you know what you're going to do?  You're going to call each other.  You're going to NEED each other."

No one said anything.

"Someday I am going to drive you nuts. I promise you. And the only people who will empathize with your frustration are the people in this car. You're going to help us with our finances, fix whatever kind of new fangled technology that dad and I can't figure out, and deal with the fact we don't hear so good anymore."

They start to laugh.

"Mom, it sounds suspiciously like a full time job," said my oldest.

I told him, it would be.  I promised to cause him a lot of trouble.

"But it will be happy trouble.  We're going to have a lot of fun.  We're going to take care of each other. Right now I do a lot of the care giving, but soon you'll be taking more and more care of each other, and eventually of your dad and I too. That's what family does."

Everyone softened a bit. We went to the gym. It's not easy to be good to your siblings all the time. We can be competitive. We can be frustrating. Sometimes we have nothing in common except an initial address. But it is a relationship that helps us learn how to be a good friend. I'm guessing that if you were never nice to you siblings, you aren't a great friend either.  Maybe I'm wrong. But it's an interesting thought.

Today is also my friend's, The Hummingbird, birthday. The name is apt because I've never met anyone who talks or works faster. At one point or another she has cleaned my refrigerator, bathed my kids, planted tulips in my yard (in freezing rain), fed my family, cut my grass, challenged me to run faster, rewired my 2nd floor, cheered for me, read to my children, made rhubarb cake at 5 am before my first triathlon, decorated my house for Christmas, shoveled my walk, flown 1,500 miles to hold my kids and help us bury my father-in-law; but mostly we've laughed and laughed and laughed. She is beauty in motion.

We were celebrating her birthday the night The Chef died. His heart just stopped at 32 years old in front of his wife and newborn son. We were devastated.  He lived far away and we were weeks away from the birth of our third child. My siblings showed up one by one and were incredible helpful with packing and planning, with offering support and sympathy. But the next day, The Hummingbird came quietly buzzing into the house and did laundry, took our two toddlers up to her house to play, made lunches, did dishes. She was just a calming breeze that blew through that day. At the very end of the day, when we were alone in the kitchen, she asked

"What happened?"

No one had told her any details, she just showed up and filled in.  She knew he had died but had no idea how or even when exactly. The whole time she just acted with kindness, without question, without judgement or self involvement. I've always remembered. She helped without needing to know why.

This friendship changed my life. 

I love my siblings. We are all very close. But she has helped me become a better sibling by showing me how rewarding unconditional love is. She's not perfect - but she's done a lot of perfect things for me, for my kids.

I want my kids to have this kind of capacity.

About a year ago, her out of town sister learned she has cancer and is really sick. She's angry sick. And it is heartbreaking. Loving and supporting siblings from a distance is challenging work.

It doesn't matter if you lose someone slowly or suddenly, the result is the same. Today, we feel the absence of my brother-in-law in different ways than when he first died. The anger, the shock, the confusion has mostly passed. It's the inability for my husband to call him and complain about me or talk about fatherhood to the only other man who was parented by the same father, or to think through family finances and career planning. These are the phone calls and boys get-a-way trips that The Athlete still grieves.

 

We can't go back. So how to do we go forward?

• By making it count.
• By saying I love you. 
• By putting the petty stuff aside. 
• By reaching out and not holding back. 
• By offering big, generous acts that are unexpected and unnecessary.
• By encouraging relationships, fostering friendships.

This weekend, we were going to the cabin, but instead we offered it to my adult nephews who wanted to have a boys weekend. Some are married, some have kids. We can give them that - a chance to make more memories, deepen their friendships, strengthen their brotherhood. That we can do.

We've moved on in so many ways from six years ago. The physical relationship is part of the past. My brother-in-law is a part of the horizon now. We see him in the distance, simultaneously real and ethereal, yet he is still there resting between our past and our future. When we feel the loss, we grieve, but when we embrace all that we've found in the process, we feel the blessing upon our hearts.

We will see you again, brother.

Because I Said So

During the work week a lot needs to happen between 7:10 am and 7:50 am. The three older kids need to be up and out the door for school; the youngest child needs a diaper change (which is usually a life event) and continual supervision because he likes to stand in the highchair.

The Athlete and I watch the coffee drip into the pot with the anticipation of addicts. After a quick breakfast, he carries his bike up the basement stairs and heads out at about the same time as the kids. Some days those 40 minutes feel like the last six miles of a marathon.

I was grumpy this morning.  I wanted a snow day and we didn’t get one. I got everyone started on the wrong foot by being the child in the house instead of the mom. The Athlete woke everyone up – but we weren’t moving very fast. And now after a few cups of coffee, I’m seeing the morning for what it was.

My coffee did not look this good. If it did, I wouldn't have been so crabby.

For the most part, the first words my kids hear every day is either from my husband or I. 

This is a huge responsibility - those first few words sets a whole day in motion, which in turn is the basis for a week, a month and beyond.

Suddenly, "Hey guys, we're late. Hustle, hustle, hustle!" Feels pretty useless.  Sigh.

How often does the morning start with something like: 

Rise and shine. Time to get up. Hurry. We're running late. We've got to shovel. Do you have that done?

 Let's try this. What if the first thing we say each day is something like:  

Good Morning. I love you. How are you? What did you dream about? I'm so glad that you're mine. Good to see you.

Words are powerful muscles. We flex them unconsciously all the time. 

Let’s even take a step farther back.  To before we’ve gotten out of bed. What is the first thing we say to ourselves in the morning? 

I’m exhausted. I’ve got too much to do. I wish I didn’t have to get up. I wish it was Saturday. I wish I hadn’t overslept. I feel old. I feel anxious.  I feel fat.

Let’s try this.  What if we say something like:   

Thank you for today. For my beating heart.  For the people I love. For the chance to do something special. For the opportunity to right a wrong. For the ability to start something brand new or to finish something important.

Whatever you say, choose your words carefully. Maybe we can start our days by elevating our lives with the choice of these words. If you want to be better, happier, and more peaceful; say so, even if only in the quiet of your heart.

Our words work in conjunction with the words and language of the people around us. We create a verbal tonality in our families and in our communities. Think about how yours sounds? Is it Melodic? Loud? Discordant? Funky? Sharp? Harmonious? Inspiring?  Provoking?

Is it beautiful? If it isn’t, could it be? 

We set a tone. The words we use in our hearts eventually come out of our mouths and our language is contagious. It infects all aspects of our lives and it can make us stronger or weaken us - but it changes everything it touches.

So especially with my children, I remind myself over and over again to choose my words carefully. 

I'm so happy to see you. How was your day? I love you. I missed you.  I'm sorry. What are you thinking about?

In the end, what we do is more important than what we say, but that doesn't mean that what we say isn't important. We have to start with how we talk to ourselves in the silence of our hearts.

Maybe if we use loving words, gentle words, patient words, courageous words, those words will shore us up, give us strength, inspire us so that we have the energy to DO the loving, gentle, patient and courageous acts.

Our words are the foundation for what comes next. So what do you say?

Find that happy place in your heart - this is a view from mine.

Into Thin Air

Another sweet post from Elizabeth Eilers Sullivan. We are all planting, nurturing something in our lives - enjoy the invitation to recapture yours.  - BTH

Sometimes I worry about not sucking the marrow out of my todays. About how fleeting the young years of my kids truly are even if some days seem long. Sometimes my anxiety creeps up on me that time is moving fast. Way too fast. That when I am at home and busy doing other things that need tending, I am missing the present. The now. And, when my boys call me on it by doubling their efforts to get my attention, when I am there but preoccupied, it is a reminder to me that I have gone too far. The scales are tipped. I am no longer the fulcrum, the grounded center, because I am no longer present. 

The other day I unloaded my younger two boys from the car and watched as they gleefully ran up the walkway, and thought Wow I will miss this. Them. Followed immediately by a second thought that softened that grip on my heart, "But man will I enjoy them still as adults!" Like salve for my soul, I exhaled. 

Parenting is not for the weak of heart. Strength is a necessary ingredient, and not just physical the lifting the carrying, the schlepping, but mental. Mental strength is paramount. How we fill our minds, our perceptions, the words we chose internally and externally shape our days. We have choice and control over what we think. But to have this choice we need to hone an awareness of our own minds and their patterns. This morning I read something about being aware of what we fill our minds with for it lives in our subconscious creating a garden for things to thrive. If our perception, judgement, or thoughts are off, instead of our minds flowering they can easily be filled with weeds. This image captivated me.I might add that it is not just a garden but one with a labyrinth where the more aware we become of our patterning the deeper we can go to the center to increase the healthy thoughts and weed out the unhealthy. 

That is why later this morning when my husband told me that the front tire on my car was low and needed air, I drove to the neighborhood Sinclair Gas Station. As I pulled in I noted the opaque grey of the sky, the clouds covered it like a quilt, a protection keeping me from seeing too far down the horizon line. 

Joe, who owns the station and a distant relative of mine, ambled out. "How are ya?" he proclaimed. 

"I'm good." 

"What's new?"

"Nothing much," I started to reply, then I paused, "It's Kiki's birthday!" I said. 

Kiki was sitting with his broad grin in the back, we were on our way to get his birthday treat he'd bring to school with him. 

"Well, how old are you fella?"

"4!" he chimed in.

Joe was reaching for the air pump and bending to fill the tire and laughed. "Enjoy them, my baby is 50."

"Do you remember when he was four?" I asked. 

"Oh yea, we had loads of fun! I have three boys," he added still laughing. 

He filled my tire with air and smiled. For a moment we coexisted in that thin space of his yesterdays leaking into our todays, his history mingling with my present, a view beyond the cloud coverage. A glimpse into what is planted in his garden, a sacred view into his own mental strength. As my tire was filled up to it's rightful level, I realized how much more even my perspective of the road was now, like I had been driving around lopsided, or not inhaling and exhaling enough air for my own strength. That like the tire I can stand to breathe a little deeper, relax a little more with the awareness of my breath, my thoughts, my words. That this air that creates sounds, words, stories fills my todays. Breath is the one thing that when it comes down to it keeps us in this beautiful physical plane called life. I exhaled at Joe's invitation to enjoy my four year old, knowing that I will still enjoy my four year old when he is 50 and still my child.