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.

 

Friday Gratitude

#21. I'm grateful for a new router and a reunion with the online world.

#22. I'm grateful for the quiet of a few days without the internet. (I wish I could tell you I'd used the time to clean and my whole house. I didn't. See #23)

#23. I'm grateful for cabbage leaves, comfrey, calendula, phytolacca decandra, and the opportunity to nurse and nurse and nurse. If you don't understand, click here.

#24. I'm grateful someone noticed I was gone from the online world.;-)

#25. I'm grateful there are no thunderstorms in the forecast this afternoon. I LOVE thunderstorms. This is getting old, though.

Grateful for Hazy Clarity

The reason that we are not fully at ease in heart and soul is because we seek rest in these things that are so little and have no rest within them, and pay no attention to our God, who is Almighty, All-wise, All-good, and the only real rest. ~Blessed Julian of Norwich

I sit this morning in the unexpected quiet and wonder when it was that I last fully felt at rest. In my mind, I replay my adult life. Was it early in my marriage? No, a difficult job and a first pregnancy troubled me that whole first year. Was it the first year I was a mother? No, I spent that year frantically trying to figure out motherhood, flitting to and fro, book to book, having endless conversation with friends who were also new mothers. And so it has gone, year after year, always something to learn, always someone to consult as I seek to figure it all out.

The explosion of the internet fed the noise in my brain. As I found more and more information, more and more communication, I lost more and more rest. Literally. How many times have I sat here in front of this screen, when really I would have been better off praying myself to sleep?

There's just so much to know! There are just so many people from which to learn! It's such a big, big world. And now it's all right here at my fingertips. Conversation. Discussion. Debate. It's all so interesting.

The closest I have ever come to being fully at ease was the last few weeks of bedrest. Though I was anxious regarding birth, I was not anxious about the other aspects of my life. In order to preserve and pursue my peace, I had winnowed my contact with the world to a very tight circle of friends whom I knew would keep directing me towards Him. Of course, I had none of the "outside world" with which to contend because I never left home. But even at home, I was careful to preserve peace and to preserve interior stillness often enough to hear the Lord.

Even now, I relive the day Sarah was born. Sometimes, I am fully awake. More often, I am half asleep. I remember the ride to the hospital. I remember I tried to make one phone call to one friend. She didn't hear the ringing. She never picked up. And then, it was just Mike and God. There was silence around us as we drove through the countryside in the dark of that autumn night. The midwife on call called about halfway there. She was frantic. No peace there. Just Mike and God. All that blood. Life and death. And absolutely nothing left to say.  Peace settled as night turned to day. Grace was palpable. I couldn't have asked for more.

I settled into a room and continued to wait to see how God would write this chapter. The thing is, I can't remember the phone calls. I know I talked to people that day and I know I asked for prayers but I absolutely cannot remember the conversations. I remember Michael coming in with a dozen roses and I remember thinking how Kimberlee and Molly would so approve of his choice of flowers. I know he stayed a long time; he missed classes and training. But I don't remember a word he said.

I can't remember the conversations. I can only remember the grace.

I do remember the doctor. In my memory, she shone. Very strange. I was sure she was one of God's great gifts. But I'd never met her before that day. Never had a conversation. And really, she talked and I listened. Not much conversation there. And the midwife with whom I'd had all those careful conversations, nurtured that precious friendship over all those years and all those babies? She was out of town. Never did she suspect I'd deliver so early and she'd miss it. No. It wasn't in the conversations of the day that I found rest. Not at all. It was in the willingness to relinquish my will in order to know His. I stopped seeking. Stopped asking. Stopped looking to other women to shed light on this matter or that. For that space of time, I saw the things that were little and I was embraced by something much bigger.

Have mentioned yet how grateful I am for the hazy clarity of the memory of Sarah's birth?

That's #20 on the gratitude list.

Grateful Summer

A long while ago, I thought I'd join Ann's community of grateful believers. My plan was to number all those things for which I am grateful. I stopped counting at #18. First, let me say I'm way more grateful than that.:-)

I don't even remember why the list petered out. It's not important now, anyway. Blogging is such a good way to journal. The pictures, the words, the categories and the careful dating--a history is here of my person in the process of becoming. I read some early thoughts and think to myself, "oh I don't think that's quite the way I see it now." Or I see a good idea unfolding and I know how it all came to be and then more so. This time last year, I was just getting an inkling of the physical and emotional trial that was ahead of me as I waited for our baby's birth. Now, I know how the story all unfolded. I see God's hand: His lessons in friendship, His grace upon my marriage, His willingness to let me make mistakes and His plan to teach me. Mostly, though, I see how profoundly aware and grateful I am for the opportunity to begin again every morning, knowing that I am both forgiven and loved. G.K. Chesterton wrote, "I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder."

Blogging has made me more aware of the wonder in the world. And for that, I am grateful. That's #19. And so, I begin again, and dedicate the summer to noting and appreciating my thousand gifts.

Gratitude and Tears of Joy

 

A few weeks ago, when I posted this slideshow, my good friend Elizabeth wrote me a quick note commenting that she didn't know why it made her cry. I knew right away. Elizabeth and I have a kinship that goes far beyond our shared name. We have both experienced  pregnancy bedrest and we have both lived through traumatic premature births. More significantly perhaps, we are both cancer survivors. [Yes, Elizabeth, dear, you are a survivor. Say it out loud, please:-).]  So, even though she didn't ask me why the post made her cry, I told her why it makes me cry. I wrote:

Here's why it makes ME cry: when I hear that song, it is a wish and aprayer. I hope that when my daughter is 18, she'll think of me what Taylor Swift thought of her mom when she wrote that song. I want the best days to be the ones they've spent with me. And...those are the days I begged for in April of 1990 when the tulips were blooming outside the hospital and I was begging God to let me raise my baby boy. And those are the days I begged for again last fall. I just want the chance to make those days happen for my kids. When I see photo evidence that they do happen, I cry tears of gratitude for second chances. And third chances. I'm just glad to be alive.

Sometimes, when I am awakened in the middle of the night, I remember the midnight ride to the hospital before Sarah was born. I remember the look on my daughter's face when she saw how urgent the bleeding was. I remember leaving my house and wondering how long it would be and who I would be when I returned. I briefly wondered if I'd return at all.  And then, my focus was solely on my baby. I understood then that mothers don't think twice about themselves when their children's lives are at risk. It was all about my baby. And the baby born before her and before her and before her (and so on- you get the idea). All I wanted was to live to take care of those precious children. I wanted to live to love them. And when it was all over and Sarah was safely in the world, though not yet in my arms, I sat up in the hospital bed, looked at my husband and my firstborn and all I could say was, "I'm so relieved I didn't die."

But that didn't begin to express what was in my heart. I'm still learning all that is in my heart.

In the days before Sarah was born, while I was on bedrest, I was immersed in quotations from saints. This was not some strange birth preparation; I was researching a book. But, since I was well aware that the doctors were throwing out the same mortality statistics in this scenario as they had when I had cancer, I did think about death. And life. I commented to a friend that all those saints I was reading seemed eager, ready and willing to die. "And I," I lamented, "am no saint. Because I'm begging God to let me raise my kids. Even more, I'm begging him to let me be there for them as adults." She assured me that she thought that if I did come close to dying--if I needed the grace--it would be there.  Indeed, there was grace sufficient for perfect peace that night and I didn't even use it up dying;-)

So, now I'm alive. And I know again the sweetness that comes with a new lease on life. Every day dawns with opportunity for blessing. Every day brings with it exquisite joy. These children look to me to be the most beautiful creatures on earth. Except for their father. He is love itself. He wrote to me last night, a brief but poignant note composed in midair somewhere over Kansas. He was worried that his current traveling was taking too big a toll on me. He was afraid that I am unhappy, that I need to get away, that I want more than what is here in the heart of my home.  It was a sweet, dear note that made me smile in wonder.

How could he not know? All I've ever wanted is to be here. Perhaps I am a very simple person. Or perhaps I've just been granted the grace to see with clarity the extraordinary joy in the ordinary. On the good days, the bad days, the busy days, the lonely days, I am truly able to count it all joy. And I am keenly aware that time is a precious gift and every minute of it can and should be used to bless. It's difficult to express, I think. And I don't do it very well.  Fortunately, I am befriended by women of strength, and faith, and a way with words. Of her own appreciation of life following a birth that nearly killed her, my friend Kathryn Mulderink writes:

Truly, no day is mundane, there is no time to be disengaged. Knowing firsthand the fragility and brevity of life does sharpen your pencil and make all the colors look brighter. And knowing firsthand that God's grace is always there when you need it, that He will support you through what seems (from the outside looking in) to be impossible, is very freeing.

I have never feared death since the day I almost died, because I know His grace is sufficient. I have never feared crisis since that moment when I saw that God truly does walk with us, and that He really does support us and those we love through very difficult moments and days. And I have never wasted another moment worrying about what I cannot control, because I know that even when things look messy and even wrong to us, He can make it all right as long as we are reaching for Him and taking care of one another as well as we can.

So, each day, we need only be grateful to Him for each moment and circumstance, and focus our energies on living for love. He will orchestrate the rest. We need to trust His love for us.

I know Kathryn well enough to know that she lives that philosophy--really, truly lives it. I'm not quite there. I sometimes worry still. But I'm nearly cured of that, too. I live life deliberately. I measure every moment and ask myself if I'm using it well. And I know that He does walk with me, every single step of the way. When Mike wondered in his note how I do what I do, I reminded him that I do it by the grace of God. And that is why I do it with gratitude, and frequently, with tears of joy.