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!

What is it with me and carseats?

I was hanging the lining of Sarah's carseat to dry after the barfing episode and Katie wandered into the laundry room.

"So, I guess now that it's all clean and beautiful, you'll put it away until we have another baby? Sarah hates that carseat."

And the tears spring way too easily. I lean into the dryer even though there is nothing in there. I don't want her to see.

"No, we'll put it away until we find someone who needs it. My guess is that Mommy's too old to have another baby."

"That's ridiculous. We should adopt."

She skips away to discuss Haitian adoptions with Nicky, who would really rather adopt a boy his age than a baby.

I finish hanging the rest of the items from that offensive load; the Ergo is last to find a hanger. It smells so sweet now. We have at least one more season with my little one nestled against me in this carrier. I remember one of my favorite hugs ever, right around this time last year, when Sarah was asleep in the Ergo just after Paddy won the State Cup. She was sandwiched between us. Life was perfect that day: funny, interesting teenagers; utterly engaging middle kids; twirling, dancing toddlers; and a baby asleep on my chest. My dear husband utterly delirious to be in their company. One more season of the Ergo. I know that it is unlikely that I will give it away. It will end up in my hope chest with Michael's Peter Pan costume and Stephen's and Nicky's matching gecko shirts and Katie's crocheted bunny hat. All little pieces of fabric in the quilt of our lives.

Sarah's nearly 17 months old. She gets sick riding backwards. It's time to move on to a bigger carseat. What the heck? It's a carseat. Why do I care so much?

Because I know.

I've been here before. If I blink--if I dare to blink--the tears that fill my eyes will surely run down my face.

Remember this, from five years ago?

Don't Blink

For the first time in a very long time, I am neither pregnant nor mothering a baby. My "baby" is now two years old. And with a certainty that takes my breath away, I suddenly understand why wise women always told me that the time would go so quickly. To be sure, I’ve had more "baby time" than most women. My first baby will be 16 in a few days. I still think it’s over much too soon.

This column is for mothers of infants and toddlers. I am going to attempt to do something I never thought I’d do: I’m going to empathize while not in your situation. My hope is that it is all so fresh in my memory that I can have both perspective and relevance.

What you are doing, what you are living, is very difficult. It is physically exhausting. It is emotionally and spiritually challenging. An infant is dependent on you for everything. It doesn’t get much more daunting: there is another human being who needs you for his very life. Your life is not your own at all. You must answer the call (the cry) of that baby, regardless of what you have planned. This is dying to self in a very pure sense of the phrase. And you want to be with him. You ache for him. When he is not with you, a certain sense of restlessness edges its way into your consciousness, and you are not at complete peace.

If you are so blessed that you have a toddler at the same time, you wrestle with your emotions. Your former baby seems so big and, as you settle to nurse your baby and enjoy some quiet gazing time, you try desperately to push away the feeling that the great, lumbering toddler barreling her way toward you is an intruder. Your gaze shifts to her eyes, and there you see the baby she was and still is, and you know that you are being stretched in ways you never could have imagined.

This all might be challenge enough if you could just hunker down in your own home and take care of your children for the next three years; but society requires that you go out — at least into the marketplace. So you juggle nap schedules and feeding schedules and snowsuits and carseats. Just an aside about carseats: I have literally had nightmares about installing carseats. These were not dreams that I had done it wrong or that there had been some tragedy. In my dreams I am simply exhausted, struggling with getting the thing latched into the seat of the car and then getting my baby latched into the carseat. I’m fairly certain anyone else who has ever had four of these mechanical challenges lined up in her van has had similar dreams. It’s the details that overwhelm you, drain you, distract you from the nobility of it all. The devil is in the details.

You will survive. And here is the promise: if you pray your way through this time, if you implore the Lord at every turn, if you ask Him to take this day and this time and help you to give Him something beautiful, you will grow in ways unimagined. And the day will come when no one is under two years old. You will — with no one on your lap — look at your children playing contentedly together without you. And you will sigh. Maybe, like me, you will feel your arms are uncomfortably empty, and you will pray that you can hold a baby just once more. Or maybe, you will sense that you are ready to pass with your children to the next stage.

This is the place where nearly two decades of mothering babies grants me the indulgence of sharing what I would have done differently. I would have had far fewer obligations outside my home. Now, I see that there is plenty of time for those, and that it is much simpler to pursue outside interests without a baby at my breast. I wish I’d spent a little more time just sitting with that baby instead of trying to "do it all."

I wish I’d quieted the voices telling me that my house had to look a certain way. I look around now and I recognize that those houses that have "that look" don’t have these children. Rarely are there a perfectly-kept house and a baby and a toddler under one roof. Don’t listen to the voices that tell you that it can be done. It should not be done. I wish I hadn’t spent 16 years apologizing for the mess. Just shoot for "good enough." Cling to lower standards and higher goals.

I wish I’d taken more pictures, shot more video and kept better journals. I console myself with the knowledge that my children have these columns to read. They’ll know at least as much about their childhoods as you do.

I wish I could have recognized that I would not be so tired forever, that I would not be standing in the shallow end of the pool every summer for the rest of my life, that I would not always have a baby in my bed (or my bath or my lap). If I could have seen how short this season is (even if mine was relatively long), I would have savored it all the more.

And I wish I had thanked Him more. I prayed so hard. I asked for help. But I didn’t thank Him nearly enough. I didn’t thank Him often enough for the sweet smell of a newborn, for the dimples around pudgy elbows and wrists, for the softening of my heart, for the stretching of my patience, for the paradoxical simplicity of it all. A baby is a pure, innocent, beautiful embodiment of love. And his mother has the distinct privilege, the unparalleled joy, of watching love grow. Don’t blink. You’ll miss it.

Disconnect to reconnect?

Yesterday was golden, really. Sarah woke happy and "chatted" with me merrily before we got out of bed. My morning computer check-in time slipped away as I marveled at my baby and told time to stand still.

As more children tumbled out from under covers and down the stairs, it dawned on me that I'd made no grocery trip for Mardi Gras. I was sick at the end of last week and all weekend and the whole thing passed in an inefficient blur. We had a plan because we pretty much always do the same thing, but I had no ingredients.

Mike texted from the airport. His flight was delayed. The morning reunion was moved to noon. At least I would have my act together by then.

I put together a grocery list and pulled on my boots. Karoline wanted to go along. Sigh. Karoline's company would make this trip a good deal lengthier. She was persistent. Her coat. Her boots. Her doll. Her bear. In the car. Off we go.

Karoline tenderly put her doll in the little cart our grocery store provides for wee mommies. She asked me to please strap the bear into my cart. I did. We found the ingredients for king cake, and jambalaya, lots of sparkle sugar in green and yellow and purple. Half a dozen people smiled at us as we went about our business. Sweet girl, spreading sunshine all over the place. Time moved slowly.

We chose hot fudge and whipped cream and then, she remembered. "I really, really need a hot chocolate." I put the ice cream in my cart while I pondered possibilities. Hurry through the checkout, get home, start barking orders and get this day into full production mode? Stop for hot chocolate?

We stopped at the in-store Starbucks. She chose a hot pink balloon and then settled into her chair and chattered happily about next year when she's fifteen and her feet touch the floor. I took a picture of her with my cell phone and sent it to Mike at Newark. He agreed that she should have hot chocolate when she goes on a Mommy date to the store. On the way home, the radio reminded me that all too soon, she will indeed be fifteen and her feet will touch the floor.

The computer was open when I walked inside. Mary Beth had found the king cake recipe and she was ready to bake. Because Mike would have just enough time for lunch before leaving to direct a game locally, we decided to have our Mardi Gras feast a little before noon.

He came home to happy noises about a sparkly cake and all were fed. Three of the boys left to go to work with him. My neighbor took Mary Beth, Stephen, and Katie to sled on a big hill with her kids a few miles from home. I put Sarah down to sleep and planned to finish writing a talk and catch up on some computer work. But as the big kids pulled away, Karoline melted into a puddle of despair.

We spent the next two hours reading every Jan Brett book we own. 

We made gingerbread tea with lots of sugar and heavy cream. Time moved slowly.

Then, we tried out the new floor in the sunroom by twirling pirouettes until we fell into a dizzy, giggling snuggle.

That woke the baby. So, we played "friend moms" with our babies until the floor guys came to finish their job. Karoline helped them with the tape measure.

Mary Chris returned with the other kids and had time for a quick cup of tea before I had to take Mary Beth to ballet. She took everyone but the baby and Mary Beth back to her house so they could have a "curling" competition in the basement. Mary Beth and I hustled out the door. We had time for an errand and dinner on the run. And she needed to have a big talk. We had time for that, too. All good things.

When I got home, there were messages on the phone and messages on the computer. But I didn't get to them. We had dinner and baths and more books and then I got sidetracked by a book that had arrived in the mail earlier in the day. Almost an entire day without much more than a glance or two at the computer...

Around ten o'clock, I started catching up online. And I worried about the yet unfinished talk. And I saw the drastic changes to the basketball schedule. Grace leaked all over the place. I barely slept.

What if. What if instead of reading 300 words here and there all over the internet all day long, I just read one book at a time? One hundred fifty pages or more of complete thoughts and careful writing. Would I stop thinking in those short, snippy, often snarky phrases that mirrored what I'd read online?

What if instead of posting status updates about what's for dinner and how's the weather, I saved up my writing time so that I could write something of substance a couple of times a week? I really think there's room on the internet for longer, beautifully published pieces. I have seen some incredible ones lately--whole pieces that give chronicling life online the beauty and dignity it deserves.

What if I checked the computer after prayer and before the kids got up and then didn't touch it again until time to make sure all afternoon activities were on as scheduled? And then not again? Certainly not right before bed.

Would time move more slowly? Would I have time for more storybooks and pirouettes? More big talks (and bigger listens)? Would I feel more connected to important people and less distracted by near strangers? 

I hear there are rules in the world of social networking. What if I re-wrote those rules for me and my house?

I think we'd reconnect in the important places.

Shall We Dance?

When we first come to a relationship in Christ as an adult, whether that's through maturing in faith or through a conversion, we are on fire. There is no lukewarm, mediocre feeling. There is fire. There is an urge to shout for joy, to do His work, to join the choir and sing His praises from the rooftops. And then, we settle in. We commit. We live the Christian life day in and day out. We know joy, but sometimes, we grow weary and the fire grows a little cooler. Life happens. We are asked to take turns we didn't know were there and climb hills that seem steeper than we even knew possible. Calm confidence evades us and though we are joyful deep-down, we're not exactly dancing a happy dance.

Because we are committed to a life in Christ, our hearts are restless. We want to rest in Him. We want to feel joyful. Still, our souls are hungry and our spirits are weary.

I've been there.

The first time I was there, I had four young children and a major case of burnout. As I battled back, I kept notes. I shared those notes in a talk at a conference. While shopping at the conference, a lady who had heard my talk introduced me to a book. More importantly, she introduced me to a mentor. I went home, read Educating the WholeHearted Child and was forever changed. That was the weekend I "met" Sally Clarkson.

Sally Clarkson is a woman of vision. A woman of conviction.

I inhaled everything she'd written or spoken (this was back in the day of "just books" and audio cassette tapes--no blogs or podcasts:-). The following year, I wanted to talk about whole books education at that same conference. I took a chance, sent Sally some things I'd written, and asked her if I could have a WholeHearted table for her when I spoke. Then I forgot all about it.

One February day (exactly 11 years ago), when I was bringing my fifth baby home from the hospital, the phone rang as we walked in the door. Mike juggled the infant seat, I went for the couch, and  Michael headed for the phone. "Just tell whomever it is I'll call her back."

"Mom," he said, his hand over the receiver, "it's Sally Clarkson."

I took that call:-). Sally told me--briefly--about her time in Poland, her fondness for Cardinal Karol Wojtyla, and her vision for ministry.And then she told me to inhale deeply the sweetness of my baby.  Over the years, we have kept in touch sporadically and she has continued to mentor me through her many books. Recently, the blogosphere has blessed us with connection. So, it was with great pleasure that I agreed to read an advance copy of her new book Dancing with my Father.

And once again, her timing was perfect. She found me in a low place and like the best of mentors, lifted me up and challenged me onward. She equipped me with wisdom and example and inspiration-- and just a little bit of a kick in the pants.

This is a book of vision; a book of the joy that comes with loving well. It's a  breath of fresh air for weary travelers on the ministry road. Withcharacteristic grace and wisdom, Sally Clarkson acknowledges that even the most devoted Christian suffers discouragement, disappointment, and disillusionment. She meets us in our crashed idealism and burnout—but she doesn't leave us there. With God at her side, she leads us to the gentle peace and quiet trust of a mature Christian. Dancing with my Father will challenge you to think the thoughts, pray the prayers, and do the work that will bring you to a better understanding of the magnificent dance the Lord of Love has choreographed for you.

Can  you hear the music? He wants to have this dance...

Do Drop In!

It's a rare occurrence. Comments are open here and I'm actually engaging in an online conversation. Pull up a chair. I'd love to hear your thoughts.