On My Mind: Easter Week

Sunday, late afternoon...

Outside My Window

It's finally spring. Virginia is greening up nicely and we're sure glad to see it.

I am Listening to

The Ladies of Cecelia perform Be Still and Know--over and over and over again. It's really beautiful. Longtime followers will recognize the amazing vionlist as MacBeth Derham's daughter, Libby. I think you will agree that she's grown into quite the lovely young lady.

I am Wearing

A sweater and a skirt and an apron.

I am so Grateful for

~safe travels. Mike and Patrick are in Amsterdam this week.

~3 goals and a 3-2 win over China. Patrick scored all three.

~decent telephone connections

~knitting

~cotton yarn

~a daughter who knows that baking is art

~Easter with grandparents and cousins

~ a darling picture of a young soccer player wearing Patrick's National Team jersey. Paddy signed it for him and sent it back to his parents so they could put it in his Easter basket.

I'm Pondering

Knitting twelve sweaters isn't insane. It's actually part of what keeps me sane, keeps me calm and focused on the important things, and brings me present into the here and now. Pretty amazing for something as simple as wrapping some string around a couple of sticks...over and over and over again. Until there's a sweater....or twelve. ~Amanda Soule

 

I am Reading

Organized Simplicity 

I am Thinking

about what to keep and what to change from my Lenten rhythm and resolutions. Actually, there's very little I expect to change. The only book I read during Lent was the Bible. I do look forward to delving into the stack I have for myself, but, I'd like to keep the extended Bible reading time as well. And all the other disciplines? All good. It was a very fruitful Lent.

I am Creating

A sweater shrug (number 5 or 6?) and I'm starting a new project this week, too.  With handpainted yarn. Karoline painted it. Much more on that later this week.

On my iPod

Knitting Yarns and Spinning Tales

Towards a Real Education

Mary Beth and I mapped out her first high school year and got everything tidied up and ordered. We'll begin next week. I like to have our school years run year 'round and my goal this year was to finish before the bluebells bloomed so that we could really enjoy some extended time outside this spring. That plan is mostly on track.

I know that she wishes she were attending a one of two schools in the area. The first is all girls and way out of our price range and a long commute. The second is an impossible commute. We're both trusting that God will provide during the next four years. I'm grateful that she is who she is. Pure blessing.

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

This Easter was very different than I imagined just a week ago. I thought we were going to the Shrine downtown and then to brunch at the club. Early in the week, we decided Mike should fly to Holland to meet Patrick. So, that makes it the first holiday without everyone together. That's new. Then, Mike's dad fell for the second time in as many weeks and it was clear that we couldn't do the trek into DC. So we stayed home. I  just sort of did reprise of last year. And it was fine.

But I missed them.

To Live the Liturgy...

Easter isn't time or place or even tradition. It's the awareness of the risen Christ and the intimacy of His forgiveness and His friendship.

Stephen and Nick served Mass Thursday night, SAturday at the Easter Vigil and first thing Sunday morning. This fact might not be remarkable except that before this week, they'd never, ever served. Now, they know what they're doing.

I am Hoping and Praying

for Elizabeth deHority. She is constantly on my heart and in my prayers. She needs you now. Please, please pray with me.

for the soul of Ty Lewis and for his family and for the countless soccer families who grieve his loss.

for Sarah and her family as they grieve the tragic loss of her sister-in-law.

for Mike's dad and for his mom and for his medical care.

 In the Garden

We planted sunflowers and snap peas and spring lettuces and morning glories. The tulips are fading and I need to think about color for the front beds. I'd like to get creative and I'd like to plant some perennials. In the end, I'll probably plant two flats of petunias. Just like last year.

Around the House

A few fun new Easter things.

A copy of Tangled and a very effective new de-tangler.  (Guess whose basket?) Hat tip to Lori.

Fresh supplies for the easel

Chocolate-covered espresso beans.

From the Kitchen

Recipe testing some meals inspired by the farmer's market for the summer issue of Faith and Family.

~Fettuccine Gazpacho Salad

~Mixed greens with Strawberry Vinaigrette

~Zucchini bread

and some more you'll have to read about in the summer issue. By the way, I got a sneak peek at the spring cover last week. So much darlingness:-)

One of My Favorite Things

safe landings

 

Sarah Annie this week

She misses her daddy. And her Paddy. This has been an intense time of travel for Mike. He's rarely been home this spring. Sarah is very attached to Daddy, so his absence rocks her world. And she's a big Paddy fan. Pretty much, we're both hanging on 'til the end of May.

A Few Plans for the Week

homecomings: Mike on Monday and Patrick on Tuesday (but Paddy will only be here for few jetlagged hours.)

For the first time in eleven years, I'm going to meet a friend for lunch. And a visit to a yarn store. I'm giddy with excitement.

More bluebells, no doubt, as they begin to fade. And lots of Bluebell Blogging. I have a billion blue photos to share.

Pretty sure there will be a doctor's appointment for Mary Beth. She had a CT scan last week to address some ongoing problems related to  last year's eye injury.

Make-up State Cup game from the weekend of the deluge. No idea when that will be, except it must be before Saturday, when the Round 2 game is to be played. And it's in Richmond. Can't wait to drive to Richmond on a weekday evening/afternoon.

Picture thoughts:

  

{{Comments are open. I have been terrible about responding to mail. Please forgive me? I do read every single note and I do pray for you. But, I don't always answer promptly. I'm hoping that having comments open on occasion will give me a chance to answer the more common questions for several people at once and will give you dear ladies an opportunity to talk with each other. They are moderated, so if you don't see yours at first, it means I'm busy knitting; it will appear shortly.}}

Quack if you're grateful

It happens probably every day. Usually a fleeting thought that I push away as it comes. I wonder for a moment if I ever will live in the tidy little cottage of my imagination. The one that sits on three acres, tucked off the beaten path, with lots of flowering trees and a picket fence and an enormous raised bed organic garden. The one that is always tidy. I push the thought away because that house is far. It's far from soccer and dance and the airport and Starbucks. And all my kids don't fit in that house.

So, it's pretty much a silly idea.

I live in suburbia. I can have an iced soy latte in exactly seven minutes after I decide I want it enough to go get it myself. Seventeen minutes if I dispatch a teenaged driver. More importantly, I can be sitting at the pedicatrician's office within ten minutes of discovering a child is sick. And I can be at the airport, kissing hello, within 20 minutes of the phone call from the runway telling me he's landed.

But I don't have flowering trees and a great big garden and quiet. I have neighbors. Lots of them. And not nearly enough nature outside my front door to suit me.

I live in suburbia. There are opportunities abounding for my children.

But I don't have wildlife.

Wait! What's this? "Come quick Mommy! The ducks are back. The ones that were here yesterday and the day before and the day before that! They're eating the bird seed!"

We live no where close to the water.

These ducks are a gift. We sit quietly and watch them. Until suddenly Sarah figures out how to say "Quack" and she talks to them. They don't leave. They talk back.

Oh my goodness, Mama Duck is coming to visit! Right up to me, tiptoeing through the tulips.

Well hello to you too, dear.

I think I might be Beatrix Potter.

Ducks, in my front yard. Fancy that.

I can almost see the picket fence.

We're catching up on a couple of weeks worth of notables in the gratitude journal:

~blooming tulips (Patrick saw them)

~blooming bluebells

~rose bushes and peonies promising May flowers

~sunflower seeds, morning glory seeds, sugar snap pea seeds, spring lettuce on the way

~Nicky reading to me as I knit

~Katie chattering to me as I knit

~homecomings

~holding my boy as tears gather and fall

~Patrick home for just a day to say goodbye to a coach and hold his family close

~watching him reach out and touch an unimaginable grief and help to heal a friend

~Mike home on Monday night. Good night.

~Beatrix and Sarah and hugs so powerful they're tackles

~boys who hit it off (at last) and the nature that united them

~sunshine on my face

~godmothers, godchildren and annual reunions in the mud and majesty

~six meals made on the weekend. now we don't have to be home until dinnertime.

~sweet friend who is tinkering around on my blog, sprinkling happy dust, while I'm off playing in the woods.

~a holy week ahead

Shadow and Light

I hardly ever think of it anymore.

The dark in that shadow.

The chill.

The lonely of a sad childhood.

 

I didn't outrun it, though I probably tried.

 

But I have danced in the light of attachment and acceptance.

I have lingered in the glow of unconditional love.

I know the warmth of tender embrace.

 

I didn't run.

Couldn't run.

 

I turned to face the Son.

~~~

blessings in abundance:

the curl of her eyelashes on a soft cheek as she sleeps

the smell of maple syrup as she holds tightly to my face during early Mass

a chilly walk when I didn't want to

a rousing rendition of "Father Abraham"

and the equally compelling "Jesus Loves Me"

new knitting lessons

endless squares of fiber while I sit and listen to him

God's voice in the early morning: Collossians, Matthew

tea without sugar

basketball in the driveway

fish tacos: no meat, no wheat, no dairy.

old friends

a cup of soup offered when I'm so very hungry and it looks like there's nothing to eat

a wink and a smile--and I remember that I'm not crazy

March Madness

a big stack of picture books

baby bedtimes

How does He love me? Let me count the ways...

I sat with Karoline in the early morning light, cuddled up together, candle lit, for our beloved "story time." Karoline has learned that if she forces her eyes awake as soon as she hears me stirring in the morning, she will have me all to herself. And I will read and read and read any book of her very own choosing. Often, almost every day, one of those books is Abraham's Search for God, a book from our family collection of Old Testament picture books.

The story is a legend of young Abraham, who instinctively knows that the idols and statues worshipped by his ancestors are not the true God. So, he looks to sun and moon, to thunder and rainbow, and finds them all lacking. Finally, the little boy Abraham recognizes the one true God in the beauty of the created world around him. He doesn't worship creation, but Creator.

On that morning not long ago, I asked Karoline if she could see God in her world. Could she search like Abraham did? Where was He? She eagerly shared that He was on nature walks, in knitting lessons, in the atrium (the Catechesis of the Good Shepherd), in her little sister, and on Skype with her brother. She chattered on and on, naming and listing with all the sincerity and enthusiasm a four-year-old can muster. I remembered some magnetic list paper I'd recently grabbed from the dollar bin at the craft store. And I began to record her list.

When she took a breath, I said to her, "You know you are really good at seeing God in your everyday life. Look at all these things! These things are the way He tells you that He loves you."

Karoline glowed at the thought.

"And when we make this list, we can think harder about these things and about God and we can stop and thank Him for every one of them."

And she did. She kept searching. I kept writing for her.

I let the idea bubble in my brain for a few days. Each of my children brings a different temperament and personality to his or her relationship with God and then I bring yet another to my own. I wondered if we couldn't all encourage one another to be aware of the gifts. Katie noticed Karoline's list hanging on the refrigerator and wanted one of her own. So I helped her begin. Sarah noticed both lists and crawled up on the counter, drew on them and tore the front page away from the pad. Sigh. Need a new plan.

Could I dare my children--all of them--and inspire them to count the gifts? Could we begin right now, at the start of Lent, and count together as a family, gathering all that awareness into individual books of praise to be filled by Easter morning? I don't know. Maybe. It was worth a try. I gathered them all in one place (something very rare in and of itself) and I told them the plan. I tried to explain the concept of One Thousand Gifts in a way that made sense to them. And then I gave them each a blank book and a dare: Can you count one thousand ways God loves you?

With one exception, they have all taken eagerly to the challenge. Their notebooks are private, but a few glances I've had when they've shared their thoughts have been amazing insights into their souls. And an interesting aside: their lists very much reflect their love languages. It's remarkable how God speaks differently to each them.

For myself, I have a journal on the kitchen counter and another in the diaper bag. Still, I find myself noticng gifts without pen and paper at hand-- at ballgames, at the park, at the grocery store. Sunday morning, as I was leaving home for church, I saw a robin in the rain. I need to remember to write "robin in the rain." I tell myself these things, but often, I do forget. I recalled that Patrick had sent a text to my phone, from my phone, back when my phone wasn't working. Could I text my gratitude notes to myself and then record them later? I almost always have my phone with me. I could and I did.  That phone still isn't working well. Sometimes it takes hours, even days, to receive texts. So, when my phone chimed twenty minutes later and I read, "robins in the rain" I smiled at the unepected joy of it. God messages on my cell phone!

The acoustics in our church are not good and I often have trouble hearing. Given my morning, perhaps it's no surprise that, just an hour later,  I heard our priest say  "May God bless and text you" instead of "May God bless and protect you." Yes, I giggled a little, please, God, keep texting me.

a list:

~robins in the rain

~all nine children home for a grace-filled, peaceful week

~basketball

~hard rain

~safe flights

~a good cry

~late night emails

~yarn that doesn't untwist

~people who will spin such yarn for me

~pay cuts

~child who cleans without being asked

~the man who cooks dinner on an afternoon that begs me to write and write and write, steady rain as my rhythm

~stacks of freshly folded laundry

~old friends

~the boy whose eyes light up when he recognizes grace and he suddenly runs to find his gratitude journal

~the Facebook wall of an old friend and neighbor on the day her father dies--it's like a block party on a summer evening in my childhood; they're all there, all remembering, all loving her.

~four versions of the Bible strewn about my bed and three of us searching, looking for meaning, for Him

So much more than just a basketball game.

I'm in a comfortable chair in the coffee shop, Stephen delivered to a frosty field on this early Sunday morning. I volunteered for the early shift, even though sleep was ridiculously short last night. I want the time to sit here to put it all in words, to give thanks, to actually count. It doesn't matter the hour or the weather. I am warm-- basking really--in the afterglow of the nearly Perfect Day that was yesterday. So, I sit here in this familiar chair and I hope I can write without spilling tears all over again. No matter, this chair has seem me cry before.

Friday night, Christian's team won a semi-final game to land itself in the ODACS State Basketball Championship. The rest of the team spent the night in Fredericksburg, but we all hauled it back home because Christian wears many hats during basketball season and two of them are coach of his little brothers' teams. He was up very early to coach 9-12 year-olds through two intense nail biters. Both boys came away victorious, ensuring that the next week will be a whirl of playoff games and unpredictable schedules.

We had a few brief moments at home and then we got back in the van, Granddad riding shotgun, and drove south again. I felt sick the whole way. At first I thought it was just that I'd tried to knit and knitting in the car has the same effect on me as reading. Then I recognized that I was over-the-top anxious about this game, crazy worried about the boy next to me, the one with the heart of gold. The one always seems to just have things harder than everyone else. Please God, please, something good for Christian.

It's been my incessant prayer really, for as long as I can remember. I used to itemize, but somewhere along the way, I just asked for something--anything--that would make him smile. Really, really smile effusive joy. Smile the way he used to when he was a little boy and we could keep his world all safe and quiet, control all the things that are so hard. I want this, worry this, so much. Please God, just something good. This, this day, this would be good. Please. Before we left, I had recognized that Christian had slept in the interim between coaching and heading to his game. He didn't eat with everyone else. I had offered him pretty much everything a refrigerator and pantry can hold. He wanted none of it. Even though he has grown to manly heights, this child still has all the sensitivites he had as a little boy. Food has to be just so. We didn't have time for just so.

In desperation, I had grabbed four pieces of fresh bread from the bread box and warmed them, then threw them on a paper plate. Riding next to him I noticed that he was indeed eating the bread, headphones firmly in place, blocking the rest of the world, just chewing and thinking and listening.

What was going on in that head? How could I climb inside? I remembered the night before, the noise in that place. Noise! Christian's nemesis is noise. We've known this from his infancy. He was the child who cried and fretted through his baptism and the party folllowing. As soon as the last guest left and quiet returned, he was content. I remembered that there, sitting in the midst of the other team's fans Friday night, as the guy behind me kept yelling "Get in front of 24. Just stop 24! If you stop 24, it's easy!"

My son is number 24. All I could do not to turn around and beg the man to please stop yelling. Instead, I remembered 5-year-old Christian in the blazing sun, crumpled in the middle of the soccer field. "I can't do this! I hate this game! All these people yelling! And it's hot! I can't do this. I hate people yelling." And really, he never did play youth soccer again.

 

He wanted basketball. A little more climate controlled. Not necessarily quieter, but all his. He didn't want to be stuck in the middle--between the golden-haired boy four years older who would always get there before him and the boy who has already achieved more than most young athletes dream. He wanted his sport. His own. Funny thing, it's not really his, though. This family began with a first date: State Basketball Championship In Charlottesville thirty years ago. His hand slipped in mine. On the way to forever. Basketball was daddy's game long before soccer. We are, really, a basketball family. And in the winter, we go to four or five games a weekend, cheering for each of them as if the game is that first championship so long ago-- from the biggest, to the very littlest (newsflash: Katie scored SIX baskets last weekend). And Christian coaches. He is the leader, fair and square. His are the eyes those little boys seek when they look for praise or guidance on the court. He is their hero. He is the coach known throughout town for winning, and for never yelling.

We traveled on, getting closer to the game. I wanted to talk to him--to tell him that even if this comes so close and ends in disappointment that there is  much good here. But I couldn't really disturb the bubble he created for himself. Please God, something good for Christian. I noticed that the bread is nearly gone. Bread. These days, bread always brings to mind Eucharisteo. I wondered how I might convey Eucharisteo to Christian in the van, with all these people around. And then, Colleen called. "Hey," comes the sweet, southern drawl of dear friend, "I just wanted you to know that I know that this is so much more than a basketball game and I'm dropping my boys off and then going to church to spend game time in front of the Eucharist."

Eucharisteo. Tell him.

I tapped Christian on the knee after talking with Colleen and told him how she was going to spend the afternoon. A slow smile spread across his face. He was pretty sure no one else had that kind of prayer in his corner. Back to chewing and listening. I took my phone in my hands and sent two more messages--out to dear friends who would pray the blessing of thanks with me. Now, how to give that blessing to Christian now, so that thanksgiving might fill the moments with grace and keep him in the present? Could thanksgiving help him before the whistle even blew?

I sent him a text as he left the car:

Notice all the moments. Really live them. God is in those moments and no matter what there will be moments where you can give thanks. That's where He loves you. In the "Thank God" moments. I'm so, so proud of you. I'm praying you through every moment. There will be glorious ones today!

I could give you a play by play of the game, but honestly, I'd have to have Nicky here to help me remember stats. It was close. Really close. From the first time he held the ball, I prayed. At first, I called upon his saints, his great cloud of witnesses--John Paul II, John Bosco, every saint I could think of with a heart for boys. Then, I remembered that this prayer (something good for Christian) has been a St. Andrew's intention for years. I asked Andrew to pray, too.  Every time he touched the ball, every time he defended, I asked. And every time the basketball went through that hoop and caused the basket to sway with grace, I thanked. I held my fingertips to my chin and signed "thank you." I needed the gesture of the moment.

Thumb frantically spinning that prayer ring, I couldn't keep the prayers straight. That great cloud of witnesses, they were cheering-- but the noise was distracting me. I called to mind a verse sent to me the day before, for an entirely different intention.

For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives,

{Colossians 1:9}

This boy is the one I held after those begging prayers of cancer. Since the day I heard about him, I have asked God to please, please bless him and protect him. Please, please help know how loved he is. Sweet Jesus, he is named for you. Please, please, bless him with joy. I settled into a rhythm of my own. A simple rhythm. When he held the ball, I begged Bless him. And then, Thank You. He didn't always have that ball, though, and sometimes it was in the hands of the boy who has spent much of this basketball season sleeping on the couch in my basement. Could I bless and thank for him, too? The boy who had no mama or daddy here to pray him through these moments? I could. And I did. And though I doubt I will see that child again, he will forever be in my prayers.

The game played on. Me spinning and blessing and thanking. On and on and on. I briefly tried to remember how I got here, a Catholic mom of nine, sitting on a Saturday in a Baptist church. Christian brought me here. The child who is too shy to order pizza walked into a gym one day a few years ago and asked to play. It was the only place he could play and he wanted to play. The Baptists welcomed him. And I found myself sitting next to the pastor's wife as the mintues ticked on. She saw my mama-heart. She knew how much more than a game this was. And she was praying, too. I was grateful. Grateful for her. Grateful for open arms.

With 2:17 left on the clock, my boy smiled. He smiled a smile I haven't seen in way too long. Not the shy, slow smile we coax from him. A big, wide little boy grin.  He smiled and he leapt and he shouted joy!

"Do you think we're safe now?" asked the pastor's wife. No, not yet. I couldn't smile just yet. This child has been disappointed too many times. Even he believed it now. But not me. Because the thought of him hurting now was more than I could bear. Keep praying. Keep thanking.

The final buzzer. The explosion of happy!

Mike texted Patrick, who was sitting in airport, waiting to hear, no doubt praying his own prayers, remembering his own moments, calling on the saint he knows so well. And he texted Michael, who was heroically following the day's activities via cell phone, while coaching second grade girls. Then he turned to celebrate with me. He found me in a puddle, tears falling faster than I could wipe them away. Not quite sobbing, but close. Little boy, grab that joy. All of it. Grab it and hold it forever. That man, the one whose voice endeared him to me first at a basketball game, pulls me close, and says as his lips brush my ear, "It's his moment. All his. He has his moment. It's good."

He is the State Champion

He is the Tournament Most Valuable Player

His moment.

All his. God knew. He knew that Christian needed a moment that was all his.And He blessed.

Something good for Christian.

~

Counting gifts:

~Chapter 7

~praying friends, who never think it's just a game

 ~Granddad fist bumping Nicky

~Little Maggie, baby daughter of the Athletic Director and of the coach, granddaughter of the pastor, sitting in her grandma's arms, entertaining my little girls. I can watch, really watch, the whole game.

~Delph's dad. Wise words. Heart touched.

~Boy without family to watch. Playing for his team, looking to Christian's father for both nods and admonition.

~Mike. Every play. Every call. Every buzzer. His heart calls his son.

 

~Pastor's wife. Praying, too.

~I look up in the stands to find my dad and Barbara in the moments after the buzzer. Do they know? Do they know how much more than a game this is? My dad is looking-- at me. He knows my heart.

 

~Clean house when we get home; Michael soothes when Mama is worried.

~Little girls who napped on the long ride, wide awake to greet Paddy well past bedtime.

~Patrick and Christian in the kitchen at midnight. Quiet grace.

~All nine children asleep under my roof. All nine children happy.

~Words I whisper to Christian in the morning when I wake him: It really happened. It wasn't a dream. He smiles that big smile into his pillow and sleeps on.

~Something good for Christian.

{photo credit: all photos by Mary Beth except the one of me. My dad took that.}