Six

From May 1998

Last weekend, I had the distinct privilege of serving breakfast to five six-year-olds. They had just "camped" in the basement because it had rained for days and days prior to this much anticipated campout birthday party. They had left Jimmy, Christian's godfather and their great protector from basement monsters and other such things, asleep in his sleeping bag and ventured upstairs for breakfast. Between bites of chocolate chip pancakes, the children discussed really weighty matters.

Alex, who had just turned six a few weeks prior, commented to Christian, the current birthday boy, that "Six is the best age to be."

Matt, who has been six nearly a year, disagreed. "Six is fine," he said, "but seven is better. When you're seven you can have first communion." Matt has just been to his cousin's first communion and was duly impressed.

"Yeah," agreed Kevin, who is nearly seven, "but first you have to have first confession."

They pondered that prospect for a while and Christian's cousin, Catie Lea, asked, "Why do you have to be seven to have confession?"

"Probably because the priests all decided that by the time you're seven you've done enough bad things to make a list," said Christian solemnly.

"Hopefully," ventured Kevin, looking concerned, "we can read the list by the time we're seven."

By this time, I was in the kitchen wishing I had this conversation on videotape. They were all so earnest one would have thought they were middle-aged men discussion the prospects of world peace. Except the children were not colored by years of living in an adult world. Everything in their world was decidedly simple.

Later that day, Christian was on the front porch with his buddy Victor, who had just flown in from England for a visit. It never ceases to amaze me how children can just pick up a friendship right where they left off, regardless of time or distance. These two had several philosophical discussions during the week Victor stayed with us, but the one that afternoon was particularly amusing.

"Cool, look at all these ants," exclaimed my gentle son. "Let's stomp on them."

"Christian, God made the ants and God made you. Now He wouldn't have us smashing them would He?" chided Victor in his very endearing British accent.

"God made cows, too, Victor, and you went to McDonald's in the airport and ate a hamburger for dinner, didn't you?"

I love this age! The last remnants of babyhood have disappeared from their once round faces and they are taking an increasingly sophisticated view of the world. But they are so trusting and so innocent. Life is coming into clearer focus; perhaps it's as sharp as it will ever be. Soon, enough, it will be confusing again. Confession will be real and necessary and debates will be over issues much bigger than ants. All in good time. For now, I agree with Alex.

Six is the best age to be.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled withmy old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

On Friendship

From June 1996

    I unpacked the maternity clothes today and I had a good long cry. In those boxes are tangible memories of a treasured friendship, built and nurtured over eight years of shared experiences navigating a world once unknown.  The clothes are mine now, but they used to be mine and Martha's.

    I met Martha at a prenatal exercise class early in my first trimester of my first pregnancy. She was also pregnant for the first time. The shirt she was wearing that day is in my box- a polo with coral-colored stripes that matched her lipstick and earrings. She dashed into class late (a definite trademark- Martha was always dashing and always late) and I remember thinking that anyone who would wear lipstick and earrings to exercise was entirely to stuffy for me. At the time, I looked like death warmed over and had to excuse my self every so often to get sick.

    Sarah was born a few months later, a skinny little baby who looked ever-so-delicate after a frightening entry into the world. Martha seemed the most competent new mother in the world. The rest of us had a few months until delivery, and in those months she evolved into the expert.

    After Michael was born, our friendship was forged in fire. We were at home, with two small children, learning as we went, and we were to each other counselor, consoler,  confident, cheerleader and coach. In the beginning we traded remedies for nausea, muscle spasms, and water retention, then we moved on the the colic, teething, and midnight earaches. We discussed everything from how to keep Sarah from playing with electrical outlets to when to wean Michael. And soon Nathan was born. Fourteen-month-old Sarah stayed at our house until Martha called with the news of a brother, and we rushed Sarah to the hospital to meet him. Martha wore my jean jumper home from the hospital that day.

    During the following couple of years, Sarah and Nathan and Michael became more like siblings than friends. They are very different in character, temperament and interests and never would have sought each other out on their own. But they know each other inside and out and love each other fiercely.

    The next set of babies, Victor and Christian, were born five weeks apart. The maternity clothes traveled between our houses so often that we lost sight of who the actual owner was. When Victor was born, I woke Sarah and Nathan in the morning, took particular delight in curling Sarah's hair, and once again rushed to the hospital. Martha wore my corduroy jumpsuit home.

    Victor and Christian played together, truly with with each other, at an age which would defy any child development textbook. Victor is the only child I know who always knows what Christian is saying, who knows how to handle his arbitrary moods, and who loves him absolutely unconditionally. To have a true best friend at three is unlikely, but these boys really do.

    I lost a baby a year and a half after Christian was born, and it was Martha who cared for my children while I was at the hospital. She held and rocked Christian through his entire two-hour nap because she knew he couldn't sleep without me, and that leaving him was one of my greatest concerns. She refused offers from my family to help, telling me later that she was driven to do something practical the help herself as she grieved over my loss.

    Her son Adam was born a few months later and my Patrick six months after that. Our youngest boys were just discovering each other when Martha announced plans to move to England for two years. The news didn't panic me. I jumped in with both feet to care for her children while she undertook an enormous intercontinental move alone (her husband was already in England). I worried about the children and offered tissues when Martha cried, but except for a few brief moments, I was stoic.

    Just before she left I told her we were expecting a new baby. Martha, my husband, and I were the only people on earth who knew. She cried. She didn't want to miss it all and didn't want me to experience pregnancy and postpartum without her.

    Now, I am not stoic. I cry all the time (pregnant women do that). I miss Martha's ministry. I miss peppermint tea in her bright, messy kitchen when absolutely nothing else will stay down. I miss her insistence that she take the children to play while I spend a couple of house alone. I miss having a safe place to complain where no one will shake their head and say, "Well, you wanted this many kids." And I miss the meals. Martha always fixed the perfect comfort foods on the nights when my husband was working late and I was too tired to cook. She'd call and say she just happened to have too much food. We'd go to her house, eat, let the children play, and give everyone baths. I'd return home with nothing to do but put sleepy boys to bed.

    Michael reminds me frequently that he wants to play in Sarah and Nathan's backyard and that by the time they get back he'll be too big for the playhouse. And Christian reminds me almost daily that Victor will return for his sixth birthday. But Christian just turned four, Michael is absolutely right, and grownups aren't supposed to think two years is an awfully long time.

    I was 22 when we first met and Martha was 25. Neither of us had any mothering experience. Now, eight years and eight children later, I can honestly say that it is Martha and me, even more than the children, who have grown up together. The maternity clothes are faded and worn, stretched and torn. Most of them will have to be replaced. But a few favorites will remain in my collection, their threads tightly interwoven in the fabric of a treasured friendship. And the first new item of this pregnancy, bought with a gift certificate that Martha gave me just before she left, is a pretty white nursing nightgown for after the baby is born-- a thermal gown, cozy and warm, to comfort me when my best friend is an ocean away.

The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled withmy old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.

Man of God

Dear Patrick,

Did you know that you just kept singing all day, the day you were confirmed? We all know that you are not the most gifted singer, but sing you did. All day long, sheer joy bubbled up from you. Joy. You have found joy in Our Lord.

Two years ago, you told us that you could not honestly profess our faith. You had too many doubts, too many unanswered questions. You had learned too young that the Church is made of imperfect people. Alongside your seeds of faith, seeds of doubt had been sown. We appreciated the courage and honesty you showed in that moment. And we began a long, hard journey with you to find Christ.

There were nights I trembled with fear as I watched the storms rage within you. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed! There was a grain of faith there, I knew. A mustard seed, if you will. You tried to crush it.

We read great books. You talked to brilliant apologists. You remained unconvinced. You faltered. And you fell.  You learned that living in a family of faith means that someone will pick you up and carry you as far as you need, for as long as you need. You saw in your father the face of forgiveness and the example of sacrifice for someone else's sins. You softened and opened yourself just a little bit to the grace of the Lord. You heard the voice of Jesus in the confessional. I will forever be grateful to that good and holy priest. You returned to the Eucharist, tentatively at first.

There were so many, many people praying for you. Among them was a band of brothers in Louisiana and their sweet, faithful Mama. You knew they could be counted on to drop everything and pray through overtime of the State Cup finals. We could almost hear them cheering from so far away when you scored the winning goal. But you also knew that a faithful woman in the deep South joined her prayers with mine and your godmother's and the prayers of so many people who love you for a much, much bigger triumph.

On a warm, late summer afternoon, just as you were beginning to embrace Our Lord, your world was rocked. The baby boy newly born to the merry band of brothers died in his sleep. And that afternoon, as we sat at an outdoor cafe on the way to soccer practice and I tried to make some phone calls, you cradled your baby sister very close and I noticed you were trembling.

We all held our breath. How would tragedy test your faith? How would you reconcile the pain you were witnessing to the gospel?

You, you saw a new saint and claimed him for your own. He is your constant companion. Some of the first prayers Mrs. Mitchell whispered heavenward to her dear little one were prayers for you. We begged his intercession even as we mourned the loss of him.  September 1, 2009 was the day Patrick Foss began to step heavenward with a firm assurance that still astounds everyone around you. 

You began to prepare in earnest for your Confirmation, eager to complete the healing begun in baptism.

You chose Coach Harkes for your sponsor. He is the perfect choice for you. He understands you. He understands your intensity about all things. He understands the formidable challenges that come with your remarkable gifts. And he is a man of God.  He'll be there for you, wherever "there" is. 

Finally, it is so fitting that in the same place where seeds of doubt were scattered years ago, a new priest celebrated Mass. You were humbled by his profound witness of faith. You were inspired by his obvious love for the Eucharist. And, you were renewed in hope and faith in your Church. You left that makeshift altar in a school gym and walked home with the confidence of a man who was very sure of his God. In the Year for Priests, we are so grateful for the holy example of an extraordinary man of God.

Did I cry on the evening when you were confirmed? Oh, yes, dear boy. I definitely did. And no tears ever tasted so sweet.

God bless you, Patrick Gabriel Bryce.

 

And then there is Easter

I have to write this post. It's a little scary though, because I have no idea where it's going. I just know it's going.

There is a place in this big world where I predictably return every year. In this place, burnout is remedied, love comes to life in the budding of flowers and the greening of trees, friendships are renewed and sunshine-starved souls welcome the spring.

Year after year, predictably, I go there. I bring my new babies for their first taste of springtime in this great, glorious world. I even go when extreme nausea and fatigue prevent me from going anywhere else. Somehow, I get myself down there.

I didn't have a new baby this year. And I didn't have a baby on the way. That was different.

And more than a little sad.

My children come with me. They propel me there, begging to be there, begging to stay. There we are. This place is us. And I love it.

But not this year. This year I returned there. And it just wasn't the same. I went through the motions. I took the pictures. I willed it to be so. But it wasn't.

This year, the flowers bloomed early. They caught me by surprise. I was exhausted when they burst into color.

Utterly and completely exhausted.

This was not burnout. At least not the garden variety. This was complete depletion.

Lent had been long. My husband was gone for most of it.

 

It began with a betrayal of trust, an awakening to the understanding that some women were not at all who I thought they were. This was a strange place to be. All through Lent it raged around me; I was oddly calm in the face of it. One friend reminded me that we melancholy types often struggle with something much later--kind of a delayed reaction. I appreciated her concern. But I wasn't worried.

I had good counsel throughout that trying time. I read good things, went almost daily to Mass, surrounded myself with good and holy people. 

Out there, in the computer world, women picked apart my life. They questioned my faithfulness to the Church. They questioned the way I am raising and educating my children. They even picked apart the story my daughter wrote for her little sisters and said all sorts of unkind things about it. That was probably the most difficult of all. Do what you want with me, but really, don't hurt my kids.

Here at home, I was too busy to spend much time dwelling on what was happening in the computer. I had children who needed me in very big ways and they were stretching me beyond what I thought possible. So many of them. So little of me. Such big issues.

In hindsight, I recognize that I did what I usually do when I am stressed, only I did it to an extreme I've never done it in the past. I tried valiantly to perfectly order my environment. It was as if I thought that if I could control every last detail in my house, somehow I could bring healing to my hurting children, and quiet to an unkind crowd, and peace to my troubled soul.

So, I slept four hours a night for all of Holy Week and invested everything I had in my home. I made sure that we did all the traditional Holy Week things we always do, despite the fact that Mike was gone and Paddy was gone and Christian and Mary Beth were both too sick to help with anything. I cooked, I cleaned, I ordered the world in my control.

I pushed and pushed and pushed myself as if I could vacuum away the hurt and bleach out the sorrow.

Easter came. The sun shone. Mike arrived home just after sunrise. All was right with the world.

Or at least is should have been that way.

But I was so tired I couldn't even function. As nature would have it, Easter Monday was our first Bluebell Day. I cried on the way there. I cried on the way home. I cried the next day, too. And the next.

It was as if, now that he was home, I recognized that it was safe to fall apart. And so I did.

It wasn't pretty. I did that melancholy thing. 

And I wondered again and again. Why do I do it? Why do I put myself out there and offer my life in this space and in nearly 17 years of family life columns? Why do let myself be in such a place of vulnerability?

I don't know.

But I do know that every time I wanted to give up, to snap the computer shut and never look back, there was a perfectly timed email from a total stranger. Someone took the time to let me know that the words that appear in this place somehow made life a little better for her.

I was glad for that.

Glad to encourage.

Glad to help.

Glad to have taken the time to care.

But mostly glad for the opportunity to share God's grace.

Because He's here.

He's here even when the hard days stretch into entire seasons.

He gives me time and words and beautiful pictures.

He gives me 10 glorious reasons to get up in the morning.

I went back to the bluebells today. I went with my best friend in the world and her youngest children and a small band of my children. I had a good, honest talk.  I understood the great gift of forever friends.

The flowers are fading--it's a stretch to even say it's still bluebell season. But the trees are a lovely leafy green that wasn't there two weeks ago and the forest floor a regal carpet of lush color.

It's a beautiful life.

Sometimes, even a beautiful life hurts.

And then, there is Easter.

Freedom...from anger

I broke my news fast on Sunday. I'd gone all of Lent without TV or radio news, glancing through the newspaper and reading newsy blogs only infrequently. About noon on Sunday, I wrestled with myself. It was Sunday, after all, and so it was okay to do something I'd given up for Lent. And it was destined to be an "historic" news day. But (don't you love how when you wrestle with yourself you can start sentences with conjunctions?), I really was finding a greater sense of peace in both my soul and my environment without cable news. All in all, the carefully chosen media outlets I'd chosen for my fast were exactly what I needed to avoid. But, on Sunday, I caved. For just  few minutes. And then I walked around angry the rest of the day and, truth be told, into the next day.

On Tuesday, there was more news to fuel anger, this coming quietly in my inbox and not trumpeted by Bret Baier. Still, anger provoked and no where to vent.

And then someone sent me this. A three step program for anger management:

The beginning of freedom from anger is silence of the lips when the heart is agitated; the middle is silence of the thoughts when there is a mere disturbance of soul; and the end is the imperturbable calm under the breath of unclean winds." ~St. John Climacus

Whoa. I read that slowly a few thousand times.

I had already pre-programmed yesterday's quote before my anger management issues arose. Turned out to be good advice. Today's planned quote was all set to be another from St. Francis de Sales:

Complain as little as possible about the wrongs you suffer. Undoubtedly, a person who complains commits a sin by doing so, since self-love always feels that injuries are worse than they really are. Above all, do not complain to irascible or fault-finding persons. If you feel the need to correct an offense or restore your peace of mind by complaining to someone, do so to those who are even-tempered and really love God. Instead of calming your mind, the others will create worse difficulties, and rather than pulling out the thorn that is hurting you, they will drive it deeper into your foot. --St Francis de Sales

The end of Lent is always hard. Satan knows our weaknesses and he throws everything at his last-ditch efforts to make us sin. He doesn't really care how he gets us to sin, he just wants us to turn our back on God. Women tend to sin by talking.

After seeing how many people waste their lives (without a break: gab, gab, gab---and with all the consequences!) I can better appreciate how necessary and lovable silence is. And I  can understand, Lord, why you will make us account for every idle word.

and

This is what that really is: grumbling, gossiping, tale-bearing, scandal-mongering, back-biting. Or even slander? Or viciousness?

When those who are not supposed to sit in judgment do so, they very easily end up as gossiping old maids.

~St. Josemarie Escriva

Anger rarely makes us better wives or mothers. Bitterness sharpens our tongues and hardens our hearts. We are called to bear wrongs patiently, called to turn away wrath. We are called to be even-tempered and really love God. We are created to live in community, too. It's not so much that our talking is bad. We have to talk, even those of us who wish we didn't. It's what we're saying; it's the idle words, the empty words, the words that tear down and destroy. Whether we're angry about national news or news in our own circles, it's in times like these that we need to encourage one another and build each other up, to let our speech be ever more gentle. We need to remind each other that our words can give someone else just that little extra nudge they need to live well for Christ. Or our words can devastate. And what we say to someone else will indeed settle deep into our own souls. So, if we're going to make someone angry these last few days of Lent, let's anger the devil: let's love one another--genuinely, truly and without condition--beginning with the people in our own homes.

God promises us all the grace we need to live in His spirit. We can defeat the devil. We can overcome anger and hurt and injustice and return an insult with a blessing. We simply need to avail ourselves to that grace.

I'm off to make a tea party for little girls (and boys who are ever-so-glad to have a certain strawberry blond back in their midst).

Have a beautiful, blessed, grace-filled day!