When Life Demands a Cave

It's a new year, and somehow the propensity to write has returned. Given the gaping lapse of posts in November and December, it's clear that my writing mojo has been missing in action. While life has handed me an abundance upon which to reflect (some leading me deeper into the mystery of the heart of Christ, some making me want to lay down in defeat), the words just wouldn't come when I sat down to write. Grand feelings and emotion. Zero capacity to express them in coherent, non-Neanderthal language. "Unga dunga" just didn't seem to cut it for a post.

For those who don't follow me on Facebook or Instagram, let me catch you up. I'm sorry if what is to follow is more of a narrative of events and less reflective. I'm still truly working through all that has happened in the last month or so. Last we left off I was battling a wicked first trimester with little Jojo. Yes, Jojo! We found out early through blood tests I had done that we are indeed having another baby boy...and he wasn't shy about showing himself at the most recent ultrasound. Meet baby Jojo:

(No. I won't share the other snapshot. That's for his baby book later.)

So there I was, sicker than I've been with either of my other two and utterly exhausted upon any activity. That was enough to keep me away from writing, sadly. Unfortunately, that was not all life would throw at me. 

The night before Thanksgiving, we got a call from my mom's neighbor that she hadn't been  able to reach her all day and that she wasn't answering her door though the television was on. Long story short, we arrived to find my mom on the bathroom floor (the Hubs went in first while I stayed by the car with the kids). She was responsive but not entirely coherent. After we called an ambulance and insisted she go to the ER, we found out she had a massive hemorrhagic stroke, and without surgery, would die within a day. 

Eventually consenting to the surgery (that's right - she refused twice first), we spent  much of that night in the surgical waiting room. Much of our Thanksgiving and the two weeks to follow would be spent in ICU waiting for her to regain full consciousness. 

That was a very long two weeks, friends. There were moments where I didn't think she would make it. There were moments where I wondered if we made the right decision to keep pestering her to have the surgery (we did). I am so blessed to work for an organization that let me take whatever time I needed to be with her. I am forever grateful that my job was never on the line. I know not everyone has that certainty.

She finally made it out of ICU and into inpatient rehab, but she was definitely in bad shape. They didn't keep her long since there was no plan of her returning to her home. I was so overwhelmed with the fast pace at which I was needing to learn what our options were and the gravity of the decisions I was going to be making. 

Christmas Day looked a little different this year.
The kids aren't quite sure what to make of it all.

Mom never wanted to be in a facility in her old age. Independent or dead. That was her plan. Of course, we all know how our plans work out. Since her discharge from the hospital, she's been in sub-acute rehab and receiving intense therapy. She is improving, albeit slowly.  Her mind, though, seems somewhat gone, which is not surprising given the severity of her stroke. Having a tennis ball size clot form in your brain after a bleed is bound to have an impact. Mom now lives in a world where people from her past visit her (like my dad and her dad, both of whom have been gone for quite some time). I'm not sure if we call it dementia as no one has actually diagnosed her as such. I don't know if it is permanent, but it's the one constant that doesn't seem to improve since she woke up. 

We are now diving head first into getting our house ready to put on the market so we can move somewhere that opens up the possibility of mom coming to live with us if she is able. With a new baby on the way and the possibility of having mom living with us, I can't dwell too long on how different my life may look in the next six months or it becomes entirely overwhelming. 

The one thing that people keep reminding me is to take one day at a time. That's a challenge for a rabid planner like me who'd be entirely comfortable with giving God my life plan and having Him rubber stamp it. Yet it seems everywhere I look there is a reminder that He will carry me...carry us. He gives us grace that is sufficient for the day - no more, no less. In this year of mercy, He shows me over and over how tender and new His mercy is - not just every morning, but in every moment and each minute detail. Nothing is too small, and nothing is too big. Just when I begin to despair and sink into the darkness of the situation, He brings me hope and light. 

I don't know how all this will turn out. While mom is improving, I don't know if it will be enough for her to be able to live with us safely. I pray that's the case, and that God would have mercy on her too. I do know that the road isn't going to get easier anytime soon. There are legal issues to contend with to be able to provide her with the best care, and there is just the reality that my energy only lasts so long. I am an only child and can only do so much. I have to rely on the expertise and kindness of others to help us through, to be there for her when I cannot (and let go of the guilt of not being able to be there at all times). I have to let go of the guilt coming from her emotions of boredom and loneliness. I have to remember my vocation in all this and give myself to my own family, two of whom are too young to fully grasp why mommy leaves so much. 

We will all be okay in the end. I know this. I trust Him in this. While last year was my year of empty with God, this year may well be the year of surrender and trust. I cannot do this. He can. This certainty carries me through the waves of grief, exhaustion, and despair when the darkness pulls me under. 

I cannot, You can. It's all Yours, Lord. It is all Yours. She belongs to You, we all belong to You. Have mercy on us. Give us strength for the day and allow us to rest in You. All is Yours. The good, the bad, and the ugly. All. Lead the way and let us follow it instead of running in frenzied circles. You alone see all as it should be. Make it so. 

I hope the holiday season in your own families was far less eventful, and that the new year brings with it much joy and hope for what is to come. I'm back for now, though I make few promises about the regularity or content of my writing until some of these uncertainties are settled. Thank you for keeping me company through all of this despite my absence.

With love and blessings from our family to yours,

Rakhi

On the Disappearance of Joy & the Weight of Guilt

This usually full of opinions, loudmouth on screen has been unusually quiet as of late. It's been almost a month since my last post in fact. My apologies. While it is not unusual for the blog to go silent occasionally, this time around it has not been due to my terrible abilities to keep a journal going that dates as far back as the sixth grade. Dear Diary and I did not have a steady relationship, but we have overcome our differences. 

For those who have been following along on Facebook or Instagram, I have had a very rough first trimester. Beyond the physical toll of nausea and fatigue, this pregnancy has led me into a battle with some deeper emotional and spiritual demons. I haven't been able to pray - really pray - and while I'm not sure we could classify it as clinical depression, there have definitely been some very dark emotions clouding my senses. 

It is sadly not the tortured artist kind of battling of demons. There is nothing creative that has come out of those moments. I am so thankful for the prayers of those who have been holding me up through this time. There is no doubt that that God has been working through them to lift me up and out for air - whether a card or a text sent at just the right time, an encouraging word about my writing or art, or just a hello from an old friend. 

The only thing I can liken these last few weeks to is what it must have felt like to be tortured by dementors (of Harry Potter fame). It is as though any joy, any ability to feel, has been sucked out of me. While I am keenly aware of postpartum depression and its destructive forces, I've never experienced the effects on the antepartum side of things. I say the following with this caveat - we are happy to be having another child, even if we weren't quite expecting it. And yet...I cannot rejoice. It simply hasn't been in me. Instead, the voice of the enemy keeps screaming in the darkest places.

I am fairly certain that I am failing at all things motherhood and wifely. 
The house is a disaster.
I rarely cook homemade meals anymore.
I'm barely functional during the day and pretty much out of commission after dinner.
There is no desire for writing or creating - it seems pointless.
I have no desire to hold a conversation with most people. 
In fact, I'd rather just hole up somewhere and crawl under a blanket and thank you to leave me alone.
In the darkest moments, I am fairly certain that I am a waste of space.

As I spiral downward into these dark places, I am so thankful that over the last several years I have internalized the voice of the One who tells me the Truth about who I am. While the joy doesn't return, there is the knowledge that the above are all lies. All of it. Well, most of it. The house is a disaster and I rarely cook. I am barely functional. Ok, I know that last part about being a waste of space - I know that isn't true. In fact, I have a feeling this child will be another very important piece of my salvation story. Darkness doesn't fight when it's not threatened, right?

And still, when I remember that all of those feelings are lies, the guilt creeps in.
Guilt for not rejoicing over this new little life with all my heart when there are so many whose hearts continue to break under the weight of loss and infertility. 
Guilt for having thought we were done having children and being okay with that - good Catholics don't do that, right? 
Guilt for closing myself off to others so I can lick my own wounds (not literally, of course). 
Guilt over not being present enough when I am at home.
Guilt over not giving completely of myself when I am at work.
Guilt over having to work, but also over wanting to be home more.
Guilt for dreaming about future endeavors that aren't centered around my children.
Guilt for all the extra things the husband has had to do because I'm not functioning.
So much the weight of guilt.

The darkness of disappearing joy. The crushing weight of guilt. This is not the picture painted when you hear about motherhood and pregnancy. These are supposed to be months of joyous anticipation. What happens when those expectations don't materialize? More guilt. More darkness. More self-imposed isolation. Then there is the pressure of the public face. When people know you, and you are a live-out-loud Catholic, there is no room for doubt and darkness. Being open to life must be all joy all the time. It is exhausting.

I finally researched antepartum depression because I know what I am feeling isn't the same as my last two pregnancies, no matter how much the Hubs thinks it is. While the fatigue and nausea are a constant, the emotional turmoil is very different. In reading different articles and trying to assess whether this is just hormonal or something more serious, I realized that part of what I needed to do was to stop putting on a public face. Yes, I am a live-out-loud Catholic. Yes, I will happily accept the little lives God grants me. But. . . yes, there are struggles along the road to that acceptance.

I realized that I never admitted to myself that I really thought we were done having children. I've talked about my mixed emotions at finding out about our newest little one, but there was a great release when I finally today admitted that there was a large part of me that did not want to be pregnant again. Yet, I cannot wait to meet this little bundle of love. 

I've realized that I need to be more open about what I am feeling with my husband, my friends, and my doctor. So far, no one seems to think this is anything more than hormonal, and that is a little frustrating. I want to be sure we are watching for something deeper since this feels so much different. 

I am coming to realize that I also have to let go of the guilt and just muddle through this time as best as I can. No, I won't get it all right. Yes, I'm going to drop the ball on more than a few things most likely. I'll have to rely on the grace and forgiveness of friends and family. My hope is that we will all survive despite the failures. 

Finally, but most importantly, I have to keep my eye on Christ. One of my favorite things about Catholicism is that we have a whole army of warriors to help me through this, and a treasury of prayers that I can turn to when the prayer of my heart doesn't want to flow. The Sacraments feed my spirit when I feel distant from anything else. I am not alone in this battle, even when I forget to, or cannot, pray. I know I have a community lifting me up to the One who will pray through me and for me. 

Please don't think I write this post for sympathy or pity. Partially, it is an apology for not having kept up with the writing, and for dropping the ball if I had promised you a post on something. Partially, it is an invitation to a conversation about dropping the facade of perfection and being open about our struggles to live out our faith, even in moments that are supposed to be easy and happy. It is so hard as a faithful Catholic to admit the failures of our hearts and spirits as we do the work of accepting the will of God in our lives. 

Know that you are not alone. Know that you are loved. Know that there is no shame in admitting the struggle. The battle is real, and we cannot fight it alone. When my joy disappears, when my guilt begins to crush me, it is you, my brothers and sisters in Christ, whose prayers and love bring light back into my life. There is no shame, only love. 

Until next time, let's lift one another up out of darkness and into the light of Christ's love.

Blessings,

Rakhi

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The Diary of Captain Obvious: Why This Pregnancy Is Different

The husband and I did the math last night as I was slowly walking up the stairs. There will be almost four years between Jude and the Sweet Pea. Four years since I have gone down this path. Four years since I have nursed, done night feedings, recovered from the wounds of pregnancy. Four years.

Truth be told, because it has been so long between pregnancies, we kind of thought we were done. Let me explain. We were never done being open to another child or children. We just thought that perhaps God’s plan for our family had seen its fruition. That was a long time of being open with no babies to show for it. Call it secondary infertility. Call it exhaustion. Call it what you will. We were neither happy nor sad about it. While we talked about wanting a large family before being married, we were more committed to whatever size family God was leading us to have. Plus, having two children not quite two years apart brings a new appreciation of what it might realistically mean to have a large family. Either way, we have always remained open to the will of God in the situation.

When we were first married, the first baby was like another milestone we raced to cross, especially since we married a little later in life. Both grandmas were slightly disappointed there was no honeymoon baby, but I didn’t want to talk cycles with them at the time. Truthfully I was still learning all that myself! Then after our first came along, I distinctly remember a night sitting on her nursery floor rocking her back to sleep when I heard very clearly the whisper of God tell me I would have a son. So when the second pregnancy came along right after she turned one, I already knew he would be a boy. Sure enough, he is three now.

Since then God has been kind of quiet. No more middle of the night whispers. No aching in my heart for someone else to complete our family. Every now and then, there would be a sense that we should have another girl. Along with that sense came also the thought of adoption - from China to be exact. That door never quite opened though. God’s voice of recent had not been a clear whisper.

Now here we are expecting our third, and while neither of us heard the booming voice of God, neither of us were surprised. We both had a sense upon seeing that pregnancy test that this was the plan all along. We would begin to dream about never having to buy diapers again, and God would laugh and offer us a chance to try cloth one more time.

Things are different this time around. (Captain Obvious, am I!) I am forty, and while that isn’t knocking on death’s door, my body is definitely different. I don’t remember being so constantly exhausted with the first two pregnancies. (The husband might have a different memory, of course.) I didn’t have any trepidation overall about childbirth. After experiencing complications with my last delivery, now I am anxious about whether there will be a repeat performance. While with my first I had a dream she was actually a cat in a buggy stroller, this time my dreams more vividly reveal my fears of miscarriage because as my support network has grown, so has the number of women I know who have suffered the loss of a child. Enter in also a little guilt knowing the growing number of women who are heartbroken that God has not answered their aching desire for more children.

That’s the thing, though. Light and shadow play together, always. The beautiful part of this pregnancy that was missing for my last two is the large number of women who make up my village. Some of them I know in person, and many of them are a name on a screen. That makes little difference in the connections and friendships that have been formed with my sisters in Christ, my sisters in motherhood. There are now more women I can turn to without fear of judgment whenever I have these crazy dreams which may or may not involve birthing a baby at 27 weeks that looked slightly like a cross between Simcha’s youngest and a manatee with two bottom teeth. (This is NO reflection on your children, Simcha – I promise!)

This baby will be prayed for in a way that the other two did not ever experience (but reap now, of course). These mamas I know will pray me through every fear, will lavish my family with God’s immense and abundant love. I know, because they lavish ME with that love. I have an army of faithful mamas at my side who all choose to parent differently, who have birthed their babies at home and via c-sections like me, who have known grief and felt great joy, who are breastfeeding champions and who mix a mean bottle of formula, who stay at home and who work out of the home, all of whom love their vocation and are struggling through just like me, desperately trying to find joy in the ordinary to make our families’ lives extraordinary.

While the shadow side of this community includes knowing more of the tragedies that continue to pierce a mother’s heart, there is the overwhelming comfort of having beside me women who have walked the road before me and continue to walk it with me. These women offer their joy, their wisdom, their patience, their encouragement, their laughter, and their tough love when it is needed. I have been able to share my crazy to the tune of, “What? You too?,” in ways that befuddle my husband, because he only knows crazy through my eyes. (Sorry dear, there is a whole cadre of crazy out there – you might want to find their husbands and grab a beer.) I have more confidence that I can do this, over the hill or not. 

There is something beautiful that happens when women drop their facades and defenses. We become sisters. The mommy wars fade out to the understanding that each mom faces her own battle, because there’s nothing the devil wants more than for us to fail in our vocation. I know that it is his voice that continues to feed my fears in an effort to place distance between my heart and the joy of a new child. I know it is his voice that continues to whisper to me all my failings as a wife and mother to keep me from embracing my vocation with confidence. Sadly for that dastardly devil, I have more voices around me now that continue to remind me of the One Voice that matters. The One who tells me that I am never alone, that He will be with me until the end of the age, that He has come to give me life in abundance, that with Him all things are possible, the One who reminds me that His mercy is new every morning – every. single. morning.

So while it is sobering to realize we haven't done this in almost four years, I am also looking forward to this pregnancy in a new way - with an even larger family of sisters to share in my joys and sorrows, come what may. Because these women have shared with me their ups, downs, and in betweens, I know now that there is no shame, no judgement in reaching out for help, for making the best decisions I know how to make for the good of my family. The struggle is real, but many hands and hearts make light the burden . . . and keep me focused on the joy that each life brings.

Until next time, let's keep our hearts open and love the world like Jesus!

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Children, Church, and Why It's Time to Bring Da Noise!

Taken from CatholicVote's Facebook Page.

I shared the image above this morning after seeing it on a friend's Facebook page last night. In case you can't read it, here is the text:

Relax! God put the wiggle in children, don't feel you have to suppress it in God's house! All are welcome! Sit toward the front where it is easier for your little ones to see and hear what's going on at the altar. They tire of seeing the backs of others' heads.

Quietly explain the parts of Mass and actions of the priest, altar servers, choir, etc. Sing the hymns, pray and voice the responses. Children learn liturgical behavior by copying you.  

If you have to leave Mass with your little one, feel free to do so, but please come back! Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me."

Remember, the way that we welcome children in church directly affects the way they respond to Church, to God, and to one another. Let them know that they are at home in this house of worship. 

Please let your child use the back of reverse side of this card to draw and doodle. 

TO THE MEMBERS OF OUR PARISH

The presence of children is a gift to the Church and they are a reminder that our parish is growing. Please welcome our children and give a smile of encouragement to their parents. 

How much would you breathe a sigh of relief if you found this as you corralled your children into a pew? This post definitely struck a nerve with fellow moms. While I'm no Kendra, Kelly, or Haley with hundreds of responses, I noticed an uptick of activity rather quickly this morning. It made me wonder if perhaps our churches are missing the mark on helping parents of young children feel welcome. I wondered if maybe the message that has been sent loud and clear on the whole (and of course this is a generalization) is that young families were welcome to worship, but only if they kept their kids under wraps. 

Even at welcoming parishes, I have often felt the glare of others as my children make more noise than what is expected. This is the number one reason I do not go to daily Mass. I miss out on the Eucharist during the week because I do not want to deal with people who think I should have to silence my toddler. I miss out because the thought of having to chase and silence him is so exhausting that it is just doesn't seem worth the effort. That is a failing on my part, but also a failing on the part of our churches, I think. When I think of worshiping with my family, the first thought that comes to mind should not be how much energy might it take to keep a three year old quiet. 

Another friend commented on my post that perhaps our trouble is that there is just a little too much of a Victorian remnant to our worship sensibilities. Children should be seen and not heard, right? Isn't that how so many of us feel at Mass? Yes! We want big families - but for God's sake keep 'em quiet! I retorted back to Amy, who I have known since my awkward teenage years incidentally, what a revolution it would be if instead our churches presented the norm of noise - healthy, reverent noise - as a sign of life-giving, life-sustaining worship. Noise which welcomes our young ones to be - wait for it - young and restless! (No, not like the soap opera!)

I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that while there is great value in silent prayer, silence is NOT always golden (or in some cases, it is golden like a calf - it becomes an idol in itself). What if silence was NOT the norm for communal worship? What if we raised our voices in praise? What if we allowed people to go off script every once in awhile to pray in the Spirit? What if we allowed our children to be children without removing them from the premises to be children at "children's church" as though there are two separate houses of worship?

This would definitely require a dramatic paradigm shift in our Catholic worship. It would be a shift that could take a whole generation, but what if that was our lasting legacy? A church who truly welcomes - noise, mess, stink, and all - those who come to its doors. Let's face it. If we take an honest look, while we have the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist, people are not beating down our doors, especially young families. If they DO marry in the Church, where numbers are also declining, it is not a given that they will be back to establish themselves in a parish. (Don't even get me started on the obstacles we present to those seeking marriage in the Church. That's a post/rant for another day . . .)

Even for our family - a committed, worshiping family - parish life seems to be in existence around us. There is little outside of the school community that brings us together with other young families. Luckily we know some in our parish through our former ministries and our connection to the schools. Yet, at a stage of life where time is short and stress is high, perhaps this is one ministry where the church should not rely on a do-it-yourself model. 

Welcome. Engage. Affirm. Support. Feed (both the soul and the body!). Stick with us even when we aren't able to give back the way we should because we are exhausted from chasing midgets and working multiple jobs to pay the bills. If you get this right, I guarantee you will get a lot of the other ministries right too. 

While not every parish has the resources to create full-fledged ministries (meal ministries, mom's groups, dad's groups, play groups, prayer groups, etc.), the one thing we can do is be sure that when it comes time to sit at the banquet table of the Lord, even the wiggly food-throwers feel free to come join us, booster seats and all. If you feed us well now, we promise we will return the favor.

What do you think? Does Catholic worship have room for those who are a little noisy and perhaps rough around the edges? How does your parish welcome young families while keeping the Mass reverent for all to worship?

At the end of the day, let's remember that our job is to love 'em like Jesus, and He wasn't afraid of a little noise. 

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8.30.15 Sunday Scribblings {Every Good Gift}

It's been quiet on the western blogging front. So many thoughts swirling about in my head, but my focus has not been present. With visions of back-to-school for the first legitimate, pack-a-lunch, bring-a-snack, all-day-every-day, time, I've been up to my eyebrows in uniforms, nap-mats, school supplies, and new schedules. The only pitter pattering here right now is my heart, even as I type these words. It is a lot to think about. It is a lot of responsibility, and I must confess I don't always think of myself as a grown-up. Yes. I will be 40 this weekend. A young 40. 

So . . . many thoughts, few words. 

What I have been indulging in, because it calms my soul, is more art and lettering. I recently took another Skillshare class because they had a special "get 3 months for 99 cents/month" enrollment, and how could I pass up a deal like that? Between that and dabbling in some new calligraphy tools, I've been expanding my repertoire from amateur watercolors and hand-lettering to amateur digital design and modern calligraphy.

I want to grow my skill and my business, so I am dedicating some time each week to creating new pieces using new skills. Some might rock, others may demand I throw rocks at them. We shall see. Here is my first piece up for the Sunday Scribbling feature. It is free for you to download - just right click and save!

A full resolution and print version of this will be available in my Etsy shop later this week. 

For now, I'm off to bed because I have a schoolgirl to wake in the morning who loves mornings as much as I do. 

Prayers for a peaceful night and sweet slumbers. Remember, you are so very loved. Rest up so you can love the world like Jesus!

PS - Yes, I know it is Monday night. Sunday ran away.

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5 Saints To Call On When Your Parent Needs Parenting

So . . . did I mention that I am starting to write for CatholicMom.com? I'm over at CatholicMom.com today talking about adjusting to life as my mom gets older. Don't get me wrong - my mom is not anywhere near an invalid, but there are some real struggles as aging and life start to take their toll. 

. . . As time has gone on and the effects of age and illness have left their mark, I admit that I struggle to connect with my mom at times. I remember the woman who was fearless and full of life. Now she is a woman who seems withdrawn, easily frightened, and forgetful that there is joy left in life. She is not the woman I remember and want her to be, and in some ways, our relationship has reversed. While she would never admit it, my mother needs the nurturing of a mother, not a daughter . . .

Read the full article at CatholicMom!

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7 Valuable Reasons I Allow My Children to Suffer

Yup. I'm that mom. I'm the one that you will see equally hovering over her child at the playground and telling them to shake it off when they fall or a kid won't play with them (minus a Taylor Swift impression). To some, I seem callous and unaffected. 

Truth? If it is a situation that has been magnified in a child's head to be the end of the world when there is little connection to the reality that surrounds her, I probably am less affected.  If it is a situation where there is immediate hurt, all I want to do is take it away. (I had to refrain here from differentiating between "real" and "perceived" hurt, because perceived hurts can feel very real.)

Don't get me wrong. Even in those situations where drama is a major player, I will of course talk with them after the fact about their feelings and allow them to talk it out. At the end of the day, though, what I refuse to do is to play into an idea that my children should never have to feel suffering or pain. Keeping my children from experiencing any suffering, or from a Christian perspective, keeping them from the experience of the cross and crucifixion, denies them the opportunity to grow in so many ways. 

It may make me feel better to not take them to the emergency room or to not see them cry. At the end of the day, though, I am only delaying the inevitable consequence. They will fall. They will fail. They will experience suffering. There are so many things I want to teach my children. If I hold them back from learning how to function in a world where we will have troubles, there are essential lessons they will never learn. Here are just a few.

1) There are natural consequences to our actions - if you jump off the play bridge when I ask you not to, you will likely hurt yourself. Better now, when it's a scraped knee or twisted ankle than later when the stakes are higher and it is your life. I have come across so many young people in my work at the collegiate level who simply don't understand the concept, "You reap what you sow." Your actions have natural reactions. Basic law of physics. (I hope Sheldon Cooper would be proud.) You cannot run forever, and there will not always be someone there to bail you out when those consequences come knocking on your door. You must think your actions through before you jump in head first. 

2) The world is not fair, and people are not treated equally. Just because mom and dad always made sure you and the siblings had equal portions, an equal number of toys, matching pajamas, and presents for everyone at every occasion, does not mean that is how the world works. There are days when the world is not celebrating you. It's okay. Life goes on. You are still special and important even if no one is greeting you with fanfare. Know who you are and cling tight to that. Jesus is fair, and at the end of time, that will be the only important thing. 

3) It's our job to speak up for those who have no voice. Because the world is not fair, we have to use what God has given us to work for the other, not just for ourselves. Because you have suffered, you know what it feels like. Don't inflict that suffering on anyone else, and when the world does pound the "other" down, be their cheering section. You know who you are as a child of God. Remind the downtrodden to Whom they belong also. 

4) You won't always be the best at everything and that is a marvelous thing. Guess what? You're going to fail, and that will be a great teacher. We don't expect you to do everything better than everyone else. We do expect that you will give your very best effort, not because you get an award at the end of the day, but because it is the right thing to do. We hope that you will discover through your successes AND failures what you are good at, what you are passionate about, and then live your life in pursuit of your purpose which is rooted in God and live it with passion. 

5) Failure brings with it the opportunity to lift up another's talents. It is precisely when we discover that we stink at something that the door opens for someone else to help us in that area. When we stop competing with one another about trivial things over some misplaced notion that we must be a one-man band, we can bring people onto our team who can help us complete our masterpiece. We are stronger together, especially in the midst of suffering.

6) Suffering produces endurance. Endurance will be essential in making it through life with any shred of joy or dignity. There is great satisfaction in beginning again when we fail, or in succeeding after great effort. If we give up any time we encounter resistance or hardship, we may as well stay in bed. (And that would be a bad thing. Really.) Plus, there is St. Paul's discourse from Romans (one of my favorite Scriptures) which shows us how suffering leads us to hope: 

And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. Romans 5:3-5

7) Suffering unites us to Christ. At the end of the day, if we withhold suffering from our children, we deny them the experience of uniting themselves to Christ on the cross. Jesus tells us over and over that we must take up our cross and follow Him. This is no different for our children. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted. I think it is important to allow children to feel that consolation after great heartache.  

Before anyone gets the wrong idea, I am in no way saying that we should inflict suffering upon our younglings. Not. One. Bit. Our every instinct leads us to want to minimize pain for them out of love, and that is as it should be. What I am asserting is that we should allow our children to experience the reality of the world, a natural part of which includes pain, suffering, failure, and loss. If we do not teach them to be gracious losers, resilient failures, and compassionate sufferers, we do them and the world no favors. How many more self-indulgent, entitled adults do we need? I'm going to go out on a limb here and say zero.

It's not just about ditching the participation trophies, though that's a good start. It is about something so much deeper that holds such greater importance. Follow Christ, my dears. You will fall. You will be pierced. You will suffer. I promise you . . . or rather Jesus promises you this in return: you will rise in His glory. So much better than a dusty, plastic trophy and no scars to show your kids when you're older. 

Until next time, let's get out there and love 'em like Jesus, even in the midst of suffering!

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One Big Lesson From Demanding Vultures Children

These kids.

They eat constantly. There are those days where I just can't come up with another snack, and yet they keep coming back. Breakfast, lunch, dinner - back. Morning, afternoon, and evening snacks - back. They don't come quietly either. These children of mine make sure I know they are hungry and demand their fill. If I'm being completely honest, their hunger is exponentially greater when they see food in my hand. I'm fairly certain they believe my meal is their meal. Vultures.

As I was driving home today thinking about what I could possibly feed the family for yet another meal, because as I said, they expect to be fed and just show up demanding food, this thought hit me. Jesus is the bread of life. He is the bread. The food. The nourishment. Of . . . LIFE. 

“I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” John 6:35

All this time I am trying to figure out how to get more out of life, and the answer is in front of my face all along. Jesus. The Bread of Life. 

For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world. John 6:33

Image from pixabay.com

There lies my renewal. There lies the sustenance I seek. The Bread of Life. The Eucharist. Literally, the Thanksgiving. Jesus offers Himself for us every day of the week, every week of the year, waiting to feed us. The Church exists to FEED us. It isn't there to affirm our righteousness. It isn't there to provide us programming or opportunities to make ourselves feel better. It exists to bring us Jesus in the flesh. The Church waits for us every day to come and be fed that we might be given life. Abundant life. THAT is what Jesus wants to give us if only we come to Him and receive. 

In the little part of the homily I heard this weekend, Father Sal was talking about how we tend to come to the Church with a consumer mentality. We look at her as a place to get what we want, when we want, how we want. Father urged us to remember that we are not consumers. We are the children of God, and we approach Him as a child approaches a parent. We do not come to buy, but we come to praise and give thanks. We come to the Eucharist. Thanksgiving. 

If we take a note from my kids, we will come to eat and come loudly. Instead of making excuses for not making it to dinner, we will be racing to the table demanding to be fed. Maybe we will sneak into the kitchen just to see what is being prepared. Maybe we won't sit still because we are just too excited. Maybe we will want to talk through the whole meal because we want to share our lives and hearts with one another. Maybe we will fight a little because we think the other is getting fed first. 

No matter how we slice it, our demanding "feed us now or reap the consequences" children teach us an important lesson. Come to Jesus hungry and expect to be fed. It will fill us with abundant life. I hope I remember this the next time my sweet little vultures are begging for food or sneaking morsels off my plate.

How often do you get to Mass to be fed? Do children or work responsibilities keep you away? Have you found a secret to fitting the Eucharist into your week amidst the other duties of life? Please let me know in the comments - I would love to know how you do it! After all, if we are gonna get out there and love 'em like Jesus, we need to become what we eat!

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The Gift of a New Perspective

My mom went in for shoulder surgery today. 

She admitted she was scared, more so than ever before. I remember my own fears about my laparoscopic procedure just a couple months ago, so miraculously, I was able to muster up some empathy for her rather than mock her in true bratty, childish fashion.

She is almost 80 years old. She has seen the good, the bad, and the ugly in her life. She has been filthy rich and dirt poor. She has felt the sting of infertility and the unbridled joy of a miraculous answer to prayer. She was an older first-time mom at the age of 37, and a young widow at the age of 58. She has lived with a house full of extended family, and in a house where she was her only companion. 

She has been brave, traveling across the world with her husband + two suitcases and moving to Oregon on her own to escape the Texas heat. Now she is spent. She frightens easily and has slowed down considerably. Her hearing is questionable, and often she lives in the memories of her mind. 

And I have been a brat. 

You see, the years following my father's death toughened me. I had to move on, and do it quickly. We moved from Iowa to Texas (where I would pursue my graduate degree) so she could escape the constant reminder of him, and because she had family in Houston. I had the cushion of constant activity to keep me focused away from what lurked below: grief.

After graduate school, I moved to Michigan to begin work, and the woman who grew up in Calcutta moved to Oregon to escape the Texas heat. Between the miles, the infrequent visits, the busy life I was diving into head first, I built myself a safe little silo to live in. She was part of it, but I had barricaded my heart. 

Because I ran my life at a frantic pace, her slowing down became an annoyance. I kept having to repeat myself. At times, more recently, there are things I have told her that she doesn't remember. While I am running to capture every little second of my day and squeeze the life out of it, because at this pace boy are those little seconds precious, she has the luxury (and the burden) of being a woman of leisure. I am never home. She never leaves the home. 

I grieve the superwoman mother I knew as a child. The one with the boisterous laugh and quick temper who would have supper on the table and clothes sewn up at the drop of a hat. The woman who was the neighborhood's mom, because she stayed home and everyone was always welcome for the most part. I grieve the woman who became my friend and confidante in my college years. The one who would stay up late with me and listen to my escapades and soften the blow for my father when there were stories that might make his hair fall out. 

In the years following my father's death, her fire has smoldered. There are embers there, but too often they live in the past. My life has become my own, and I have too often lost patience with her, forgetting about all the sacrifices she made for me, and the behavior she has tolerated because I, too, have become a strong, independent woman with a belly of fire (sometimes).

As I brought my mom to the hospital today, I could feel the same impatience and annoyance begin to rise. This time, I rebuked it. I don't want to be that daughter. Sadly, I'm not sure I know how to be different, but I am willing to try and take baby steps. As she walked behind me, because her knees are shot and her gait is slower than I can walk, I again felt the annoyance creeping. "Mom, do you want a wheelchair?" escaped my lips more than once. Each time, she insisted she could walk. Slowly, but she could do it. (That fire is still there, however cooled.)

We got registered for pre-surgery, and when they took her back to prep, I walked to get some coffee. I threw our bags on my shoulder and scurried along the hallway we had just crawled along to get to the waiting area. Then it hit me. How it must drive her mad to have to move so slowly now when she used to run around with me. How being crippled by fear and grief must be devastating when she used to be so daring and full of life. How humiliating it must be for her to have to repeatedly ask for compassion from a daughter who just wants her to snap out of it and go back to who she was.

She is not that woman anymore. Life has changed her. I have to make peace with it, and learn to encourage without expectation. I have to learn to communicate with her in a way that honors her, but acknowledges me as well. We two fiery ladies have to learn to fight with each other again, and not just close ourselves off. Hey - the fight keeps you young, right?

At the end of the day, she needs to hear and feel, just as much as I do, that we are not alone. That she is fearfully and wonderfully made. That her life has worth and meaning even if there are no mouths to feed, kids to raise, or husband to walk with her. That she has life left in her, and I want and need to be part of that. 

Yes, all this from walking to get a cup of coffee.

Until next time, let's get out there and love 'em like Jesus . . . especially those at home!

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Edel Recap: Take One {Punching Satan In the Face}

It was a whirlwind weekend, dear readers. The whole Edel Gathering experience seems like it took place over at least a week, but in reality it was just a brief 36 hours. A day and a half of laughing, loving, crying, enduring the heat with the reality that there would not be a shower in the near future, many long-awaited hugs and "selfies," and a few drinks here and there. Maybe.

As an introvert (yes, I really am no matter how crazy I can act!), I know that the fruits from this weekend won't really begin to fully hit me with their best shot until I'm able to revisit all those wonderful moments. I give you below what I call Take One of my reflections from this weekend. Knowing how my mind works, you can fully expect that as the experience unfolds over the next several days and weeks, there will be more. But first up, a look at punching satan in the face. Thank you Kelly Mantoan for that image. My life (and my family's) is forever changed.

I was on my final flight with a tiny shrapnel of battery life left on my phone and this came across my Twitter and Instagram feed:

“Extremists have shown what frightens them most: a girl with a book.” - @malalafund

I knew right then what I needed to write about first, because satan is an extremist when it comes to trying to lure us away from the love of God. Enter the Edel Gathering. Ladies, it's clear that satan be running scared given all the hiccups and hijinks we all experienced leading to and during our time together.

Satan has shown us what frightens him this weekend. A hotel full of life-giving, soul searching, faithful women of God coming together to build community, however sweat-drenched and showerless they may be. In this community we find the Aaron and Hur to our Moses, the ones who will hold us up when the battle makes us tired. We find our Veronica, who wipes us clean when we have fallen and the tears have stained our faces. We find that soft, gentle breeze whispering the truth of God as we peek out of our caverns (or bathrooms) where we have barricaded ourselves amid life's storms. We find our people. Our tribe. Our family. Ourselves.

We find Him who our soul loves, and Who loves our whole being to death and back to life again.

Gazing at the Lover of my soul as He gazes upon me.

God is calling us through this experience of sisterhood with a smattering of women, of His daughters, to go back to our homes and build sacred space for the sisters in our backyards. He is calling us to be the face of joy, but to open our arms to shelter our sisters' sorrows. He is calling us to share our weirdness with the world (within measure of course) so all our sisters know they belong.

Why? Because God knows darkness fears a woman of light.

Satan fears us because he knows God has made us to build cathedrals and to nurture temples where His Holy Spirit resides. Satan knows that when we come together and shed ourselves of false piety and the facade of propriety and begin to build places where it is safe to air out our wounds and bring our shame to the light, we will no longer live in that wounded shame but be stronger in Christ. Satan knows when women come together in unity and solidarity that we give each other the strength to take our spirit, our gifts, our life-giving love back to our families and build them up to fight another day.

Sister in Christ joined together in prayer outside the AME Emmanuel Church
where nine people were senselessly murdered. Mercy and grace won. Praise God!

What does all this mean in the context of our own lives, though? As tempting as it may be because we are conditioned by our structured environments, I don't think it means we go home and create more women's groups and fellowships. It just isn't enough.

One of the fruits of Edel in my own heart has been a desire to love my people better. I want serve my people better. I want the idea of loving better not to be just an abstract thought of what we need to do as disciples in a broken world, but rather a desire that is grafted into my DNA that spurs me to action despite my own brokenness and selfishness. Who are my people? They are God's people, so . . . all people.

Maybe, just maybe, this desire is about keeping our eyes open to notice those around us who seem weary and worse for the wear. Maybe it is reaching out in those moments just to let them know they are not alone, that whatever they are facing, God is with them, and we can be too. Maybe, it is being humble enough to admit when that person is us and being willing to raise the white flag of surrender and shoot up an SOS to our tribe. Maybe it is sitting outside an empty ballroom and making that a safe space to let down our walls and just be, so we can laugh and cry and say things we shouldn't, and the one thing we should: me too, sister, me too.

We do all this within our vocations and to strengthen our vocations, not hiding from our womanhood, but embracing the beauty and variety within it. We shatter that notion that there is one way for holiness to look as a woman because satan wants to trap us there to trick us into thinking we are not enough. He wants to cajole us into desiring another life instead of surrendering in thanksgiving to the one we have so we can set the world on fire. The only fire he wants is the fires of hell. What I am convinced of this through this weekend is that when you get a group of faithful, honest women together, you can unleash the fire of the Holy Spirit and with that fire we can light the world out of darkness into the bright, burning light of the love of God.

We may not have started the fire, Billy Joel, but we know Him who did and we can keep it going until the whole world is ablaze!

Let's get out there and love 'em like Jesus! 

Short PostScript:

{Husbands - please do not feel excluded. You hold our hands, dry our tears, face our anger with steadfast love, dream our dreams, and fight alongside us. And yet, there are some parts of us that for all the tea in India, just mystify you. Admit it - there are times when we make zero sense. This is where the sisterhood comes in for you. Just send them in and breathe easy, dear man. Breathe easy.}

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5 Tools to Free Yourself From Worthless Guilt

Image from Wikipedia Commons

You've all felt it, haven't you? That sinking deep feeling in your gut. That ache that gnaws around the edges of your heart. That thought that keeps fluttering about your mind in the wee hours of the night when it should be silent and at rest. Guilt. 

Guilt for various sundry items like not being present enough with the children, not being loving enough to your husband, not working hard enough to keep the house clean, the laundry finished, meals home-cooked, on and on and on. 

Guilt for yelling when you should have kept your calm. Guilt for not wanting to make a thousand cupcakes for that event at school. Guilt for wanting more for yourself and not giving enough of yourself. Guilt for not being the fun mom you want to be. Guilt for not praying enough. Guilt for not being a fiery disciple of Christ. Guilt for just not being good enough or measuring up to that image of what you thought you'd be as a wife and mother and woman of God. 

As much as you would like to, you just can't take Elsa's advice and let it go (though maybe secretly you wish she would let it go because you can't hear that song one more time!). I've been there too. I am there too. I fight those demons every day. Those voices that want me to keep measuring, keep striving, keep reaching without taking stock of the reality of the current day.

The truth is while we are all works in progress, the current self probably isn't as rotten as we sometimes imagine ourselves to be. We're not all sunshine and roses, but we're not all manure piles and flies, either. It's taken me a long time to realize that when those debilitating whispers come in the dark, it isn't the voice of truth. Here are five ways I have learned to distinguish the difference between the whispers of lies and the voice of truth pushing me to grow into the woman God desires me to be. 

The voice of Truth leads to conviction. The whispers of the liar lead to condemnation.

The voice of Truth will motivate us. The whispers of the liar will paralyze us.

The voice of Truth will always affirm that we are fearfully and wonderfully made and move us to realize greater depths of that. The whispers of the liar will challenge that and tell us we are worthless.

The voice of Truth will lead us to compare ourselves only to the Cross. The whispers of the liar will lead us into the cross-hairs of comparison with the rest of the world. 

The voice of Truth will lead us to look in the mirror and reflect His beauty. The whispers of the liar will have us forever looking out a window toward the distorted belief that everyone else has it together. 

God has already told us enormous truths about ourselves:

You are created in the image and likeness of God.
Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness. . . So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. Genesis 1:26-27

You are wonderfully made.
It was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. Psalm 139:13-14

You are a child of God.
But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God. John 1:12-13 

You are victorious with God through Christ Jesus. Nothing can separate you from the love of God.
Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are accounted as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:35-39

You are a temple of the Holy Spirit.
Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person. For God’s temple is holy, and you are that temple. 1 Corinthians 3:16-17

Knowing these truths about ourselves can help us to dig ourselves out from the pit of self-condemnation. Don't get me wrong - I think sometimes a healthy dose of good guilt that leads to transformation is a good thing. We all need to be honest with ourselves about where we are in our journey to look more like Jesus. I know I've got miles to go before I sleep! I have to be able to go, though, and worthless guilt has no other purpose that to keep us stuck in deep manure. 

Knowing these truths and claiming them also helps us to free others from their pit. If we know these things to be true about ourselves, we can be quicker to realize them about one another and let each other off the hook for trivial things. Claiming the truth of who we are not only frees us to grow into our fearful, wonderful, victorious selves, but it prompts us to help other claim the victory and freedom that is there for them in Christ Jesus as well.

Grab that shovel today and get to work!

Photo by eprater on Flickr

Until next time, let's get out there and love 'em like Jesus...and into the likeness of God!

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