Cleaning

From February 1998

This column is about clutter. It wasn't supposed to be about clutter. I had several other ideas- some practical, some heartwarming and spiritual, even one humorous- but clutter has overtaken my life. So here it is in my column. My house is cluttered, my calendar is cluttered, my mind is cluttered, my very soul is cluttered. It is time for spring cleaning.

    I do not think it is a coincidence that we get the urge to undertake spring cleaning during Lent. Our environment mirrors the state of our souls. The peaceful order of the Shakers and Quakers were a cornerstone of their worship. Order, in our homes and our lives, is necessary for spiritual peace.

    I have confessed that my life is in disarray. Within the course of the past few weeks, I have cluttered my life considerably with things which at first seem unrelated but are actually conspirators to rob me of my fruitful prayer.

    First, as I write this, my husband is, euphemistically speaking, between jobs. My mind is awhirl with "what ifs." What if he takes a job out of state and we move? What if he doesn't and we can't find what he wants here? Where are we going? What will we be doing? Am I going to leave the familiar for the foreign? It is difficult to drive the doubts and the fears from my mind in order to leave it empty. And emptiness is what my soul craves. Because only when I am empty can the Holy Spirit pour Himself into me.

    Secondly, I splurged on a new planner (before we were in between jobs). At a glance, a planner would appear to be the perfect tool in creating order in my life, but I'm afraid all those blank spaces have just called me to fill them. I have been playing with setting up everything that "Franklin-Covey" devotees promise that it can do. I have spent so much time researching the system that I see little squares when I close my eyes at night. Unfortunately, I have been so busy planning to plan that I haven't found the time I'm sure I will have when I use this thing the way it was intended.

    The third conspirator is a new computer. What fun we have had with this machine! We have e-mail and the Internet and wonderful games on CD-Rom. I have waited year to take this technological leap. It has been heartwarming to watch my son build a long distance relationship with his godmother as they send e-mail back and forth. I have thoroughly enjoyed "surfing" with my eldest and even delighted as the baby says "bye bye" to the voice when we sign off.

    So what's the problem? Information overload. Every time there is a quiet moment, I am tempted to check to see if I have messages or to find a new site. My mind is hopping, jumping, flying through cyberspace And God still requires stillness. I had trouble being still before. Now I can be in constant motion without leaving my seat. Pretty scary.

    The final conspirator is the junk in my house. It seems that while I have been busy worrying about jobs, planning my life, and playing with the computer, "stuff" has multiplied in my house like mushrooms in the rain. It is with the stuff that I will begin my Lenten penance.

    I have resolved to spend a day alone, without the computer, or the telephone, or the myriad of details of daily life which crowd my mind. I will sort, throw away, give away, and scour from top to bottom. Believe it or not, I will relish this work. When I am finished, I know that I will find peace in a well-ordered home.  But I will also find something more.

     I will find that having spent my day alone, working with my hands, in the quiet of my home, I have cleared a space for God. I will have had time to think and to cast thoughts aside. The dust and debris of daily life that had crowded my mind will have been purged. And before the children return and I turn the ringer for the phone on again, I will spend some time in prayer. I will pray that God grants me empty spaces and stillness. I will pray for grace to discipline myself to quiet my soul every day. For the remainder of Lent, my resolution will be to plan time for stillness in my soul. I will use that wonderful new planner to commit my time to the Lord first. It is time for spring cleaning. It is time for Lent. In my house, they go hand-in-hand.

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.

Chapter's End?

It's a road I've traveled hundreds of times. When we first moved to this town, it was the road to Little League. But soon, it became the road to the midwife. Back and forth, back and forth, I'd drive, the rosary CD keeping me company, all the way there anticipating hearing the sound of a tiny beating heart, all the way home reveling in the joy of it all. But that's not why I'm driving here today. I'm on a mundane errand.

Except in my memories. In my memories, I'm re-reading all the stories of their births. In my memories, I'm smelling newborn hair.

All my adult life, with the exception of the year I had cancer, whenever I've had a toddler, I've had a baby on the way. Even in the long gap between Katie and Karoline, there was a baby; we just never got to hold that one. But not this year.

This year is different. It is springtime again. Eight--no, nine-- times, springtime has brought forth the bud of early pregnancy (Christian was the only exception--he was a summer bud). First there is the pregnant spring and then there is the infant spring, the lovely pattern of my life. A sweet, predictable story.

It's not an infant spring, so my mind keeps telling me that it must be a pregnant spring. Except it's not. And that feels very strange.

I remember once when I told a friend that my sixth baby was on the way. She said, "You know, one day, one of them will be the last." And I did know. And that day was always somewhere in the future. I was glad of that. I didn't like to think about it.

Except now I think it might be today. And I'm not quite sure what to do with that thought. I'm reading the last few lines of this chapter very slowly, trying to savor every word. Because really, once I turn the page on these very long, exceptionally sweet phrases, the chapter will be over.

Forever.

Never again.

Never.

That's a long time.

Mother's Day Manicures and More

My babies were sick for Mother's Day. Both Sarah and Karoline had wicked coughs and fevers.  Mike was gone, so Christian dragged himself out of bed to drive Stephen to a far away soccer game and Paddy went along to make sure they didn't get lost keep them company and cheer Stephen on.

I snuggled my  little girl and nursed my baby. And ran out of ginger ale and generic Motrin. I called my mother on the way to the grocery store. Dropped the call

I actually ended up at three different stores. Generic Motrin is hard to come by in these days of the McNeil recall. And Tyelenol alone wasn't touching the fever. When I finally found what I wanted, I wandered down the aisle with bubble bath and nail polish. There were three little girls there with bouquets and cards. They were holding their Daddy's hands as they chose bubble bath gifts.

I have little girls.

I briefly pondered the possibilities of a pity party.

Nah.

Instead, I decided that bubbles are a girl's best friend. Especially when she's not feeling well.

I picked Mike up at the airport in time to for him to take all the boys to Nick's game.

And then I revealed the Plan to the girls.

Flowers on the tub.

An assortment of yummy smelling goodies for during and after a warm bath.

 

Fun in the bubbles.

Pink bathrobes for all of us.

A baby massage while we sing, "I rub, rub, rub you 'cause I love, love, love you." (It usually makes her much happier.)

Pink pedicures and Pink manicures.

Tiny fingers and toes and a wee bit of a smile on those faces.

Our favorite cookies

Gingered tea punch.

And an unexpected  phone call with the news that Gracie will soon be home. To stay. Not long now, and there will be ten children under the roof, if Michael still counts as  a child.

Dad and the boys came bearing gifts: flowers, an Indian feast, espresso chip ice cream and the promise of a darling movie. We ate together around the big table and then snuggled up for the movie. Sarah felt well enough to dance little jig to the Irish tunes and Karoline sighed contentedly at the end, "Now they are married and they will have babies and whole big family. What a happy story!"

I put my babies to bed and my husband put me to bed.

Mother's Day. Lovely.

What a happy story!

Seedlings

I gathered my girls in the morning, just after Morning Prayer. The day had dawned a brilliant, beautiful sunshiny blue. This is the day the Lord has made!

My mood did not match the day, nor did it reflect our stated mission. I was decidedly melancholy. And I was decidedly determined to shake the sadness. I considered my options. I could try to figure out why I was feeling the way I was or I could just determinedly push the feelings out of the way. I chose the latter, though I knew full well that strategy hadn't always worked in the past. The former, quite honestly, just seemed like too much work.

This was a much anticipated traditional trip to the nursery near our home. As I loaded four girls into the van, I remembered the first time I ever visited the nursery. Mary Beth was a baby. It was three boys who tagged along with us. I was so thrilled to be in a new house with room enough for a proper garden. I learned quickly that the farmers at this renowned nursery took their plants very seriously. Their gruffness caught me by surprise and I wondered if perhaps I should not have brought children. Now, thirteen years later, I wonder the same thing. Actually, I have wondered that every year, as the ownership has transferred from Tom deBaggio to his son, Francesco. But now, I have come to expect his manner and not to take it personally. I even giggle a little at the predictability. When, I wonder, will the words of other people roll so easily off my back. Ever?

When I returned home after my first outing here all those many years ago, I wrote about it for Faith and Family. Only it wasn't called Faith and Family back then and it wasn't in color. It wasn't even a magazine, but a newspaper, all in black and white. Come to think of it, I don't even think I filed the story via email...

What a long way we've come.

I push thoughts of the book from my mind and focus on the task, the joys, at hand. I read tomato descriptions with Mary Beth and let Karoline rub and smell every variety of basil (watching carefully for Mr. de Baggio out of the corner of my eye).

I say Yes when the girls ask to buy rose-scented soap, even though we have a generous stash of lovely soap at home. I carry Sarah from the back porch to the greenhouse to the pond to the store, pointing to this plant and that, trying not to notice that it is growing increasingly hot and she is growing increasingly heavy.

At the checkout, Francesco de Baggio offers his annual stern warning. "I don't want my peppers to see nights below 55 degrees, nor should the basil. And tomatoes don't go in before you are sure it won't go lower than 45." I solemnly assure him that I wouldn't dare plant until the seedlings are properly hardened off, all the while wondering if I can get these plants in before the weekend. He reads my mind." It's going to be in the 40s Saturday and Sunday night." I consider taking my chances. Nah. The forbidding in his foreboding gives me pause.

These are his precious plants. He spends the whole year preparing them, tending them, researching how to make them better, loving them into existence. How hard it must be for him to send those plants out into the world! He doesn't know me at all. Will I appreciate the toil he put into bringing them to me. Will I love them? Will they bear fruit under my care?

Suddenly, try as  might, I cannot forget the books. There they go, out into the world. Every long bedrest afternoon, spent surrounded by books of saints' quotations. Every  early morning, up before the rest of the world, crafting prayers and praying for inspiration. Every warm friendly conversation, headset in place, reaching across geography to write with a friend in New Hampshire.  Every revision of manuscripts. Every consideration of format and layout and font. Out into the world

Seeds of my heart, tended in my own greenhouse, cultivated with care. Out into the world.

I can only hope and pray that they blossom brilliantly.

Not mine any more.

They are yours.

 

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.