Rites of Passage

I used to like driving Patrick to soccer.

Three or so times a week, we'd make the trip. He sat next to me up front and we talked about all sorts of things. Sometimes we just listened to music on the radio in companionable silence. Those days are over.

Last Monday, he got his Learner's Permit. Now, he drives and I sit next to him up front. We talk about driving, both of us very intent on the task at hand.

And I'm sort of sad. Because I know what the next step is.

He's going to drive alone.

A Childlike Faith

Dear Mary Beth,

Sweet girl! You came to this day as you have come to every day of your life, with deep, unwavering, childlike faith and gentle grace. You do not have a story of tribulation to tell; indeed, there isn't even the slightest hint of doubt or searching or rebellion. Instead, you have a love story. As you approached the altar to complete the work begun in Baptism, it was so easy for me to remember your baptism. Behind you today, with her hand on your shoulder, was your beloved Mel.  She sang for you on your baptism day. "Rejoice and be glad! Blessed are you, holy are you. Rejoice and be glad! For yours is the kingdom of God." Blessed you have been. You are one of those rare souls who has been blessed with an extraordinary faith. You don't wrestle; you don't fret. You believe to the core of your being and you live what you believe.

It was Mel who first led you to the Atrium, where you sunk into the environment and seemed to come alive before your Lord every week. Mrs. Bishop nurtured that gift of faith and we all watched as it bloomed brilliantly. As soon as you were too old to be a child in the atrium, you became an assistant, sometimes twice a week, once with Mrs. Bishop and once with Mel. There, in the hush and the joy of children embracing the Good Shepherd, your own childlike faith grew.

 

Make no mistake, it's not a childish faith. You are not the slightest bit immature. Instead, it is a faith reminds me daily of your Confirmation patron, St Therese of the Child Jesus. She has been your companion for so long, hasn't she? Remember how you begged her for a little sister? You were the only girl, stuck between five boys. Tiny little one, you wanted to wish every day for a sister to love. I suggested we pray instead. So began our perpetual novena to St. Therese. And then, there was Kirsten Therese. With sure faith that your prayers would be answered, you begged your sweet saint for a "shower of roses." Mel was with you the day you helped Daddy and I welcome Karoline Rose to the world. And on the night you called the scariest of your whole life, you sat up all night with St. Therese and begged some more. What a gift you are to sweet Sarah Anne!

And there's another thing that has struck me in the days we've spent preparing for Confirmation: with the gift of extraordinary faith, God gave you another gift. He gave you the gift of a rare and enduring friendship. You really do have a best friend for life. I will never forget how you and Bailey giggled with sheer delight when you discovered that independently you'd chosen the same First Communion dresses. What a sweet picture you made that day, lovely little girls with darling curls. Your curls didn't come naturally but you begged me to help you make some for that day so you and Bailey could really match. I've watched you this year as Bailey has suffered. I know how your heart breaks for her and how constantly you hold her in prayer. And I know that Bailey, well enough to be sitting with you, being sealed in the Holy Spirit right alongside you, brought you a special joy.

 

Finally, it is fitting that girl whose heart nearly broke when Patrick chose not to be confirmed when it was "his turn" two years ago and who never lost faith in him and never stopped praying for him should be granted the great privilege and joy of standing right next to him as he was confirmed this year. No one loves Paddy the way you love Paddy and no one could have been happier to share her moment before the bishop with him.

As I kissed your forehead confirmation night, I inhaled the sweet scent of chrism that took me back to a beautiful baby in a white dress and bonnet. A first daughter. The answer to a lifelong prayer. In all my imagining, in every hope and wish and prayer, I could not have begun to grasp the gift that is you.

God bless you!

 
 

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.

 

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.

Time to Build Another Trophy Shelf

This fine collection is the weekend's rewards.

 

The first one went to Nicholas, whose team won the 3rd grade boys league championship. Nicky has been a nervous wreck the entire season and threatened to quit before every game. Now, he has decided that basketball was "pretty cool." And he says he can't wait to do it again next year. We'll see...

The second trophy belongs to Mary Beth. Her team made it all the way to the championship and then their point guard didn't show up because she had a soccer game at the same time. Poor Mary Beth did every thing she could to play her position and the point guard's. They fell just short of being the champions and lost in the finals. Her trophy is slightly shorter, but Karoline likes it best because of the pony tail:-)

 

Trophy #3  belongs to Stephen. The last Championship Game of the weekend was Stephen's. They were down by 13 at halftime. The stands were packed. It was hot and loud and the place pulsed with excitement. Stephen was on fire (and everyone was calling him "Super," short for Superman). I have never seen a little boys' basketball team with so much heart. They won 39-36. Stephen had 14 points, giving him 199 for the season.

 

That leaves three more trophies. They all belong to Christian. He coached all three teams.One grateful parent after another came up to tell me how much they love him and how happy they were to have a coach with such a wonderful way with kids. He's intense and passionate and very quiet. A most unusual combination. He inspires kids with a love for the game and then he is the most patient teacher I've ever witnessed. And when the season came to end, the league commissioner singled him out as the only coach with three championship teams and the other coaches rose and gave him a standing ovation.

 

 

[Note: Patrick, who can't bear to be left out of a good sports story, reminds us that his Soccer tournament in Richmond was rained out. He managed to get himself invited to a local tournament, played entirely on turf. So, he played in the rain, scored 2 goals and 3 assists. His team lost in penalty kicks. He also reminds us (incessantly) that he made his penalty kick. By all reports, it was a beauty.]

The most miraculous thing of all must be that Mike saw every single game this weekend. I'm thinking that St. Joseph and John Paul the Great had a hand in that.