Making a List, Checking It Twice.

Most nights at dinner, I ask the kids what the best part of their day was. Last night they were starving and I’d already made soup and bread for dinner, so I let them eat early and I decided to wait for The Athlete to get home from work.

We went around the table and the “bests” were typical – playing in the snow at recess, band practice, computer class etc. After dinner my oldest watched the toddler, my daughter cleaned up the toys and my middle son and I went out to finish shoveling.

While we were shoveling miserable, cement like snow from our city sidewalk, The Athlete arrived from the bus. He grabbed the last shovel and merrily worked away along side of us.  I wasn’t terribly chatty because the snow was heavier and harder work than I anticipated.  

Once we finished, we came inside and I put in White Christmas for everyone to watch. The Athlete and I got our soup and ate in front of the TV with the kids.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what the best part of my day was?” he asks.

“Um, OK. What was the best part of your day?”

“Tonight on the bus a woman and her two year old got on a few stops after me and the toddler threw a full, end of the day, I’m starving, tantrum about scanning the bus pass.” 

He put his soup down. I can see this is important.

“The mom is doing everything right, trying to calm him down, explaining what was allowed and not allowed on the bus for kids or for adults. She’s holding her ground. After a few minutes the bus is getting quiet and everyone is feeling tense because the toddler is still screaming. I’m feeling so bad for this woman because she’s trapped.”

“At the next stop, the seat across from the woman and child opens up and the whole bus is quietly listening to the tantrum. It's so awkward. 

He looks at me with a smile.

“So I think, 'what the hell' and I move to the empty seat.  I look the little boy in the eyes and he's a little startled, but he's already quieting down.  I take a deep, dramatic breath and sing The Itsy Bitsy Spider with big gestures.”

The Itsy Bitsey Spider is his go-to tantrum or go-to-bed song. It’s one of the many small things I love about this man.

“And the kid starts to giggle at me. I’m worried the mother is going to be horrified but all she said was – “That’s all it took?”

“And then what happened?” I ask.

“The kid starts to cry again and begins asking about scanning the bus pass and so I start it up again. And again. And again.

At this point the whole bus is now laughing either at or with me and so I don’t hold back and sing in full volume. The mother is laughing, the kid is singing and the tantrum is long gone.”

The Athlete is still not eating his soup, just smiling at me.

“It was just a great, great part of my day.” 

For whatever reason, we know a lot of people who are sick with worry or grief heading into this holiday season.  Both The Athlete and I feel the weight of it on our hearts.   

Once again, I started the season with a list of what I need to buy instead of thinking about what I really have to give. I'm finding new meaning in making a list and checking it twice.

And so last night, The Athlete and I came to the same conclusion: We need to make a new kind of list. We need to find more room for simple, unfettered acts of kindness this holiday season. 

We can give gifts like the Itsy Bitsy Spider to a tired mom; we can reach out to friends who are struggling; relatives who are distancing; and strangers who just seem to need a little warmth in the cold.  So often people need help more than they need stuff. But why does help seem harder to give?

The Looms, Xboxes, Legos. Smartwool and i-pads will all eventually end up left behind, broken or outgrown.  But a little encouragement, an act of forgiveness, a gesture of healing or support could, I bet, be the lasting kind of gift we’re all desperate to give this year.

I just put my toddler down for a nap and we read an illustrated story of the first Christmas.  It begins with a young family hoping for someone to open a door. Joseph asks over and over: 

“Will you open your door for us?”

Is it that simple this year? Opening doors and letting the light out or maybe, just maybe, letting the light in.

Sometime help is hard work, sometimes its not. I'm not sure which this is...

Victory At The Start

It's been nearly six months since terrorists set off two homemade bombs at the Boston Marathon.  In the frightening days that followed, after repeatedly watching a video clip of 78 year old Bill Iffrig picking himself up and finishing the marathon, I decided I wanted to run another marathon (we ran two others a few years ago). I promptly registered for The Twin Cities Marathon and downloaded a training plan. When I suggested it to The Athlete, he didn't even hesitate.

"Sure."

A lot can happen in six months. I'm two days away from the marathon I said I wanted to run and I'm not filled with the exuberant gesture anymore.

I'm nervous. I'm tired. I'm feeling like I've bit off more than I can chew.

Part of it is because it has been a long month, The Brick, survived a ruptured Abdominal Aortic Aneurysm at the end of August and the first few weeks of September were stressful for me (more on this experience later).  These weeks happened to coincide with the peak training weeks for the marathon and even though I did a decent job of sticking to the plan, it was very, very hard work.

And part of it is because The Athlete is aptly named. He was by no means a jock in high school or college, but after the sudden death of his brother and then his father, he started to view exercise as something he owed the kids and I. He balances staying fit with work and raising four kids marvelously  - he gets most of it done over lunch or during his commute.  He does it all pretty joyfully and up until this point I would say that I did too. We do races together all year round - over the last few months most of our dates involved some kind of run or bike or both.

Not only has he gotten into fabulous cardiovascular shape, but he's also awoken a little of his competitive spirit and instead of getting slower as he's gotten older, he's picking up flexibility and speed. It's amazing really to realize he's so much faster at 37 than he was at 17 or 27.  He's found fun people to run with, people I really enjoy. But I cannot keep up and so we train together, but separately.

He's running at a Boston qualifying pace - around 7 minute miles. I am closer to 11 and nowhere near a qualifying time.

I went to bed last night weepy and feeling stressed about the race and this morning I dropped The Athlete at work feeling even more teary. 

We've gotten to know some elite runners - people who get flown to the New York Marathon. People who don't just watch the Olympics on TV. People who run 50 and 100-mile races.  People who can do things that are unreal to me.

Suddenly I was feeling disappointed in myself for not getting faster - for the first time in a long time I realized I wasn't really feeling like a runner anymore. When you compare what I do to what other people do - it's hard to even call it running.

I never used to mind that I wasn't competitive, but the sudden realization that my partner in all of this was able to hold his own with this crowd, I guess I felt jealous. Or left out. Or just disappointed.

This afternoon, I got called to substitute for another parent and I went up to school to serve hot lunch to 800 some kids and I saw a friend I hadn't seen in a while and it's funny, but it helped.

The midday hugs from my kids and the old friend, the ordered chaos of the lunchroom and the panicky kindergarten faces who still aren't sure how this whole cafeteria process works, reminded me of something I'd lost.

Seeing these tiny 5 year olds balancing their trays and their look of terror at the pile of black bean and corn salad I heaped on their plates, it made my face hurt I smiled so wide.

For whatever reason it allowed me to exhale. 

It's all relative, isn't it?

We all worry. We all wonder how were going to get through. We worry about how we stack up next to our peers. We all wonder if we're good enough. We all face that crisis of confidence sometimes.

As parents we tell our kids not to be afraid of new things. We harp on them about practice and hard work. We tell them not to beat themselves up when something doesn't go how they expected it to. We tell them to have faith. To keep trying. To buck up.

But as parents we often live in the quiet comfort of being the boss and of not having to do much risk taking ourselves. I got a lesson in empathy this week from the universe. 

It's good to feel afraid, to feel left out, to want to quit something that's hard sometimes.

I needed that reminder.

It's a conundrum, really. A marathon is a race, right? We're competing for something.  And yet, for most people, it's not. For most of us marathons are metaphors for dreaming big, working hard and balancing challenging ourselves with being gentle to ourselves. We cheer for each other - and maybe, just maybe we need to cheer a little bit more for ourselves.

Victory isn't at the finish line; it's at the start.

So I'm going to line up on Sunday because a 78-year-old man finished a marathon after literally being blown off his feet by terrorists.  Even when it’s hard, we get back up again and put one foot in front of the other.  I won't be fast, but I'll be steady and strong. I'll be proud that my two legs can carry me forward. And in that sense, no matter my time, I'll know I can win.

Unpayable Debt

This morning I found my kindergartner crying as she was getting ready for school. When I asked why she was weeping, she said:

"Today is the last big day with my teacher. Ever."

The inadequacy of gift cards, bottles of wine, coffee mugs and house plants is sometimes overwhelming. How do you say thank you to a really great teacher?

In a rather happy accident, my three older kids have all shared the same kindergarten teacher.  The teacher exudes "kindergarten-ness" - or at least she has become our family's ideal of a kindergarten teacher.  To teach children at the advent of their education how to love learning, how to be respectful, how to find their way socially in a new world, has to be a task of Herculean effort.

It seems like an impossible chore to show kids simultaneously how to use a scissors, not eat glue, find a bathroom, read a book and not melt down every day on the playground. And to do it over and over again through the years with the passing fads and in spite of many self-conscious parents (oh, boy I can only imagine the parents), must be the definition of vocation.

This woman has loved my kids, but also counseled my husband and I as we navigated the uncharted territory of school with our oldest. She paid attention to details, remembered important events so that when the other kids came through she could put context to every situation.

She doesn't mince words. We appreciate that she is strait forward and honest. It can be hard to tell the truth to parents of kindergartners.

It seems obvious, but still we offer thanks:

• for caring so much about the kids, 
• for making their doorway to education be welcoming and wide open,
• for encouraging them when they struggled, 
• for being firm when they wandered, 
• for being kind when all day kindergarten seemed very long, 
• for being patient when the snow (or the rain) wouldn't stop, 
• for keeping them safe in the shadow of so much scary news, 
• for helping my family make good decisions and valuing us as parents,
• for continuing to sing and smile from September to June,
• for encouraging us when we worried,
• for laughing with us at the humor of five year olds,
• for waking up every day and making the life of my child that much better. 

We are indebted to the good teachers in our lives  - and there is no real ability to pay it back, only forward. As part of her nature, my daughter is sunshine. She is spunky and sparkly. Yet not everything was easy for her this year - she's young and very small for her grade - and tomorrow she leaves kindergarten a shining reflection of her teacher's steady and radiant heart.

Really, how do you say thank you for that?

Middle of the Night Lessons

Last night I got to hold my neighbors' brand new, healthy baby boy.  I forget every single time how incredibly small a new baby really is - it's the epitome of miraculous.  The feeling of such freshness in your arms is at once weightless and heavy. Maybe fresh is a strange word in light of spit up, diapers and the messiness of having a baby. But it is the translucent softness of their skin, eyes still unable to focus, tiny lungs breathing on their own in the world, a fierce act for such a small fragile being.

It was a gift to see this sweet family in PJs and glasses, cuddling and beautiful, exhausted and curious.

New babies give me a strange sort of ache these days - something new to me. I am 37 - ten years older than when I had my first child - and I can see the page slowing turning in our family story. I can't say we won't have another but I am honest that it becomes less likely every year - and I also wonder about our family's ability to balance the needs of everyone.  I don't want to race through their childhoods, crossing milestones off the list. I want to have the chance to relish as many of the moments as I can, marking them in my heart like dogeared pages in a family album.

But sitting with this new mother and remembering that strange sensation of recovering from childbirth.  I remember feeling an odd balance of being heroically strong, unbelievably exhausted, totally relaxed sprinkled with unexpected waves of panic.  I felt peaceful and terrified all at the same time.

As our kids get older, we live in the moment (THIS is hard - not THAT). We often forget what was challenging or exhausting - I am lucky because I've written a lot of it down and it surprises me all the time how much my memory is different than my actual experience.

The old adage, "Little people little problems, Big people big problems" is true - but it devalues that we learn as we go along and it's all important. An unexpected middle-of-the-night-baby-screamfest is not the same as a middle of the night phone call from an adult child - but we become parents in steps and they all matter.

My general sentiment for new parents is that a crying baby or a tricky sleep pattern does not a bad mom (or dad) make. You will have a life time to ask yourself what you're doing wrong, don't get started on it too early.

As parents we all have strengths - some people are better with babies than toddlers, teenagers than adolescents. We are not the best at everything. Some parents become the best sort of parents when their kids are grown - better late than ever has never been so true.

The lessons we learn in the middle of the night getting to know a new baby serve us well through the raising of that tiny person. 

• Be gentle with this tender new being, with yourself.
• We cannot do this alone. No one will give us a prize for never asking for help. 
• Sometimes holding them close is the answer, sometimes walking away is best. 
• We can love them to the moon and back, but we can't know everything that's going on in their head. We just do the best we can.
• We can love someone who is making us crazy - in fact in this case, we have to.
• If we don't take care of ourselves, we aren't doing anyone any favors.
• Tomorrow is a new day. Literally. And it comes too fast.

We won't do everything right, sometimes we won't do anything right, but if we loved that baby (toddler, teenager, adult), I think, we did exactly what was asked of us.  

Parenting is not a competition - and when treated as such everyone loses. Parenting is more like pilgrimage. Make friends with your fellow travelers and you'll never be lonely. There are no books with all your answers, no parent who did everything right. Many paths lead to the same place. We use our best judgement and we walk on our own two feet, and God willing, we all get to that promised land.

Up, Up, Up

I went for a run this afternoon under the first wide open, blue sky we've had in what seems like a while. We live near the banks of the Mississippi River and I have a favorite route that winds it's way high above the river.

My run began with the sounds of fire engines and police cars somewhere near by and as I got down near the river I could see they were stopped above the dam, lights still flashing.

People were starting to gather near an intersection - other runners and bikers and I decided I didn't need to involve myself, but also that I didn't need to invite trauma into my line of vision either. We have a choice - sometimes the right answer is to look towards and sometimes to look away.

I stood for a brief minute watching the helicopter hover above the dam. I turned and ran with my back to the firetrucks and police cars, grateful for our first responders who don't get to make this kind of choice. But I ran none the less.

We've been watching the terrible news from Oklahoma, also trying to understand a local tragedy yesterday that killed two fourth grade students, and the death of Zach Sobiech this week as well.

On the way to help my parents last night we heard the song Clouds on the radio and all my kids heard the announcer say that Zach had died and my youngest asked if he ever got to see the video that was made for him.  I said, yes, I believe that he did.

So we sat in the car and watched the YouTube clip a few times on my cell phone (technology is amazing). I asked the kids why they thought that he felt like he had fallen "down, down, down" and they said because he was sick and scared.

I asked why did they think that even though he is the only one who falls, "they" go "up, up, up"? And my oldest said because he didn't want his family to be sad, he wanted to help them be alright.

And I finally asked why did they think that Zach says he's going "up a little higher" and they all agreed it was because he's going to heaven and that would make his family feel better.

"I think that Zach is a saint.  Not a canonized saint in the church, but a saint in the way that he was able to lift people up, in fact people all over the world with just his voice and his heart."

I asked the kids who else they knew in their lives like that and they went down a list of people we know and love.

"What can you do to be more like Zach?  To lift people up at school or at home? How can we make his impression on us be a lasting impression?"

They agreed to go to school the next day and look for people who might need lifting "up, up, up."

We all felt better, taller, stronger.

I finished my run with the sun on my face and Springsteen on my shuffle:

"Now I believe in the love that you gave me.
I believe in the faith that could save me."

I don't know yet what happened on the river this afternoon, but I hope we keep finding the way to go up, up, up and fly a little higher.

Cheating To Win

As we're in the final sprint of the school year, I realized that I am a cheat. A rotten, cheater. And I'm proud of it.

The old dock weighs a ton and is more crooked than strait. But it's perfect.

Escapism is a key tenet of our parenting.  When we're feeling disconnected as a family, exhausted or over scheduled, I jump ship. Instead of facing the deluge of filling the days with baseball, science camp, language camp, swim team, soccer and summer school - I turn tail and run. 

A lot of people think I'm nuts, but it is the best mistake I make every year.

Every year right after school gets out, I pack the car and we head up North. I grew up this way.   A few years before I was born, my parents bought a run down fishing resort  (seven tiny cabins) with another family. The main dock was submerged in the lake and people had been using the woods as their own personal garbage dump. The Arch Mother imagined it to be a get-a-way for the family but also as something for the teenagers to do to stay out of trouble.

At the time, they didn't realize they'd be having another baby. I wonder if they would have done it if they'd have known I was coming along. Those first few years involved a lot of work cleaning, painting and fixing. Actually, its still a lot of work but conveniently my siblings and I have grown up into people who love to work.

The Lake taught my siblings and I how to share space, work together, make decisions, handle conflict, give generously and receive graciously and as The Arch Mother would emphasize, how to treasure family and have fun as a family unit.

So I spent every summer in this small town in northern Minnesota.  I got my first job at 13 and stayed working summers there until I was 23.

My parents, siblings and I continue to share the old resort. It is more or less the same - though now you can tell it is well cared for and loved.  We don't operate it - we keep it packed with the 41 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren. The Athlete and I bought the cabin next door when it came up for sale (just as irresponsible and unnecessary as my parents purchase nearly 40 years before).  I also promptly had another baby. The Athlete, God bless him, drives a lot of hours during the summer and works shorter weeks, but much longer days. He arrives Thursday night and leave early, early on Monday morning.

It was another great, bad decision.

We've had a long winter, a nonexistent spring and I'm pretty much ready to just launch into summer. So as I'm prepping the kids for the end of school all I can think about is getting away.

We don't do summer sports. We say goodbye to our wonderful neighbors. Kids tell everyone they'll see them in September. I trust that my friendships will survive a few months without lots of face to face time. I let my yard go to seed. I pretty much let everything go to seed.

We stock up on books, board games, puzzles, swimsuits, sunscreen and play clothes. And we head out of town. I know we're lucky. I know not everyone can do this. I know that not everyone would want to either. We proudly hang out with wood ticks, leeches and tons of mosquito's. We feel very blessed, and we don't mind the critters if they don't mind us.

But the gift is about slowing down, about unplugging, about letting a day unfold and not be scheduled out.

The neighbors are noisy.

My parents started out with one phone between the seven cabins, eventually came cell phones but the coverage was spotty at best, Now everyone seems to have WiFi and iPads. The trick is going to be unplugging even when we don't have to unplug. Leaving the cell phone turned off so that the only ring tone is the loon echoing off the lake or the hummingbird wings at the feeder.

I'm cheating. I'm getting our of town. And I can't wait. Every once in a while it's OK to break the rules.

Not every creature is sweet. But they are all cool.

Finding Space & Saying Sorry

I've had a hard time making space in my life for writing. Everyone who has ever considered themselves a writer (I think) has gone through one version of this or another.

Writing is the thing that helps me find perspective, centers me, allows me to evaluate and move on.  I see my life differently in my written words.  I told my sister recently that writing is cheap therapy.

In my free time instead of writing, I've been gardening.  Planning parties. Playing outside. Scheduling summer. Wasting time online. Starting to run again (slowly). Teaching my daughter to ride a two wheel bike. Dreaming about house projects we're ages away from doing. Dealing with a toddler who doesn't know what "quiet" means yet.  Reading too much of the news. Learning we don't need every detail.

I apologize that I've been absent, that I haven't made this part of my life a priority. And maybe this apology is for the few of you who read along here - but mostly it's for me.  We should be tough on ourselves. We should be honest about what we're choosing, but we also have to be gentle.  It's the balance that's tricky.

Life is like learning to ride a bike. It takes lots of practice. Up hill is hard work.  Down hill can be a relief. Fast is exhilarating (and sometimes scary). Falling hurts. A great ride is euphoric. Even professional bikers crash sometimes. The only option is to give up or get back on.

We fail ourselves sometimes. We don't live up to our own expectations. It's no ones fault but our own.  So we say sorry and move on. We remind ourselves we can do better next time.

Sorry. 

Here we go.

Turbulent Waters

-->Sometimes, you've just got to write it down.  When we are followed by the joyful, the precious and the sorrowful shadows of our past, we must remember it is the sun shining on our face that casts the shadow back. Therese Steinhoff shares her story of witnessing the suffering of loved ones. -BTH

I don’t know how to explain it but the happy memories of my childhood are bringing me to tears of sadness this week. I haven’t cried myself to sleep in a long time, but I did last night.  I actually woke my husband up and asked him to hold me as the tears and words flowed. Between sobs I said “I feel such a heaviness pressing on my heart right now.” A happy picture from my childhood of a 12 year old version of me dancing with a sweet kid I used to baby-sit was the catalyst for the tears and the words.

I was so fortunate to grow up in a small town with wonderful adults to look up to and their beautiful kids to look after. My parents really knew how to pick good friends.

When you grow up in a town far away from your extended family, your friends become your extended family. When my parents first moved to our town they didn’t really know anybody. My mom made a friend named Cindy, who she worked with. Cindy was from Beaufort, South Carolina and had a thick southern accent to prove it. Within years they were good friends and my mom and dad drove down to South Carolina to watch her marry Gary.

 By the time I came around they were great friends. I am pretty sure one of my first words was “CindyandGary.” They were like an aunt and uncle to me. They didn’t have any kids of their own, so they doted on me. They ended up moving on to Lancaster, Pennsylvania where they would have three kids and send us Christmas pictures set on the swing on their front porch for the next 30 years.

We visited them a few times and they visited us almost every Thanksgiving or Christmas when they went to see Gary’s family. They always brought laughter and joy with them on their visits.

A few weeks ago I learned that Cindy was dying. Her first grandchild is due in May. Last night her daughter wrote on her Caring Bridge site that Cindy was losing her battle with cancer. She was suffering. She was buoyed by her strong faith accepting that God had a plan for her. Her children and husband are following suit.

**************

Tom and Lori were the couple across the street that I babysat for. I loved their two children like they were my own cousins. Lori became a mentor to me and was the reason why I majored in Journalism . She freelanced from home when you had to fax your stories to news institutions. Her passion for her job and her family appealed to me. She was a great mother who had found a good balance between a career and motherhood during a time when women were forced to choose one or the other. This was what I craved for my own life. I wanted to write, but I also wanted to be home with my kids.

 Lori had married her high school sweetheart Tom and they always came back from their date nights refreshed and laughing. Lori once told me that it was nice that she and Tom had known each other for so long, because they could talk about people from their past with each other. They had grown up together.

A couple of years ago Tom was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease). They told them that it was a slow moving form of the disease which made us all take a deep breath, but soon Tom exhibited signs of dementia in which he would act out erratically. He would embarrass Lori in a grocery store parking lot, and then would tell her she was the most beautiful girl in the universe. Last week Lori told me that Tom now has home health care full time and they just received his lifeline clicker in the mail. You know the one you click when you have fallen and can’t get up? Tom is in his late fifties.

************** 

If my parents close friends were like aunts and uncles to me, their children were like cousins to me. I have known Claire before I can remember. She and her sister Erin were so musical and cool. They acted in many plays and were always singing. Erin was two years older than me, and Claire was a year younger than me.

My dad and their mom became ill at the same time. They died within months of each other.

Claire ended up going to Stanford Law, met her husband, settled in San Francisco and then became pregnant. Her pregnancy was rocky from the start. She delivered Nora at 25 weeks and Nora weighed less than two pounds. We all held are breaths for months as Nora tried to breathe on her own. She never has breathed on her own and she is now three years old. A few weeks ago I learned that Nora is on the list for a full lung transplant. She is a happy, spunky, little girl who runs around trailing her oxygen tube behind her. She has her mom’s smile and curly hair. She has her grandmother’s strength. She is like any normal three year old—she just can’t breathe.

************** 

Life is a lot like the lake I grew up on. Some days you can just float on water that is smooth as glass. And then a storm comes and the lake gets choppy and tosses you around. Sometimes you feel as though the heaviness of the dark water is pulling you under. Then the sun comes out and you are floating on the calm water again. Right now I feel like this turbulent time in our friends’ lives are pulling me under. The happy memories are the only thing keeping me above water. I remember hearing all of their diagnosis’s and thinking “well they are OK for now” and that kept me floating on the calm water. These past few weeks the waters have turned dark and choppy. I feel the heaviness of what’s next for them and their families weighing me down. I feel guilty for being so far out from shore. I want to swim up to land and help them out.

I know that the sun will come out and that the water will be calm again. I am grateful that my own family is safe on land. My heart is physically aching. Right now I wish I could go back in time and be that 12 year old girl who is watching the calm water from the dock and laughing. The girl who hasn’t even seen the dark choppy water of life. The girl who has never had to swim against the waves. But if she never had to struggle she wouldn’t have gotten strong. Right now the woman she has become must gather that strength to swim against the current swelling around her today. She knows she will be back on shore soon. Her family is waiting for her.  

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.