Much Easier to Give up Chocolate

I have thought and thought about a final sacrifice post; written a couple, actually, and left them in draft. Last night, as I was listening, these verses jumped out at me. I've quoted just below from the New American Catholic Bible on the USCCB site.

Avoid foolish and ignorant debates, for you know that they breed quarrels.

A slave of the Lord should not quarrel, but should be gentle with everyone, able to teach, tolerant,

correcting opponents with kindness. It may be that God will grant them repentance that leads to knowledge of the truth,

and that they may return to their senses out of the devil's snare, where they are entrapped by him, for his will.

~2 Timothy 2: 23-26

In the Revised Standard Version, which is the audio version, it reads:

    

Have nothing to do with stupid, senseless controversies; you know that they breed quarrels.

 And the Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kindly to every one, an apt teacher, forbearing,  correcting his opponents with gentleness.

God may perhaps grant that they will repent and come to know the truth, 

and they may escape from the snare of the devil, after being captured by him to do his will.

Stupid, senseless controversies are good things to give up. Sacrificing harshness and unkindness? Also good.

~~

"You didn't give up chocolate for Lent, did you?" my friend Becca asked Christian, as she presented him with some Belgian chocolate from her recent trip to Europe.

"Nah. I was going to give up chocolate, but this whole blood mess started the day before Ash Wednesday and with all the medicine, it seemed like a better idea to give up caffeine."

"Ahh, the Lents when we give up chocolate are always so much easier than the ones when we don't choose what to sacrifice."

Indeed. It's one of those "universal truths," time-proven by the faithful, that Christian is learning this Lent. Sometimes, God chooses our sacrifices and, not surprisingly, those are not the easy Lents, but they can be the most fruitful.

I had one of those fruitful --but not of my own choosing-- Lents one year.

For years, I was at the tipping point. Something's got to give, God, I'd whisper aloud. I have too much to do. Something is robbing me of the time and energy to live with grace and joy. And always, the same idea would present itself. And I'd reject it. No, not that. God doesn't want me to stop doing that. It's helping people. I'm surrounded by religious women. They're teaching me so much. Even my husband doesn't think I should give that up.

And then, one Lent, it was completely wrenched away. Painful Lent. Brutal in its glaring honesty. It was nearly a year before I could understand how kind God had been to me, how patient He was as He tried to show me. 

God knew. He knew the tangled relationships, the snares that fed my weaknesses, the way that this investment of time and energy was really robbing me, even as I thought I was growing in holiness. He knew the ways that I had sinned and sinned and sinned again. And the sacrifice had been forced. For my good.

I had been forced to let go and turn instead to Jesus Himself for support.

Mine is not a unique experience. We are social creatures and most of us fall into companionships and associations that at some time are not healthy for us. It's not even that the people with whom we are associating are bad. They are just not good for us. In hindsight, God has always warned me of such relationships before the wrenching. Sometimes, I've heard and listened. More often, there's been a wrenching.

As my children get older, I see them wrestle some of the same things (of course they do; it's universal). Particularly tricky are people who go through all the right motions: attend the right church, show up at the right activities, profess to believe all the right things. But they don't lead to God Himself. They don't bring their companions closer to Jesus. They don't walk hand in hand with the Savior while offering the other hand to you. They don't make you better for knowing them.

Not bad people, necessarily. Just the wrong companions for you.

Giving up those relationships, sacrificing the human comforts they bring, is undoubtedly difficult.

It would be much easier to give up chocolate.

There is someone in my life today who has brought me closer to Jesus just by allowing me to be in her presence. And she is pure gift. A gift I didn't seek, a gift I never expected.  She is the embodiment of "let the children come". And she teaches with utter gentleness.

Just yesterday, I told her that I want to be her when I grow up. That is, when I am a mature woman of faith, who lives with the love of Christ, I think it will look and sound a lot like her. At least I pray it will. I told her I want to speak to children the way she does, with genuine respect and honest encouragement and profound appreciation for the gifts they are.

Come to think of it, I want to speak to everyone like that.

Time with her is time well spent. Lessons she teaches me are God's lessons. Gift. Grace.

My friend is struggling. Every breath is effort.

She doesn't get to choose what to sacrifice.

Please pray for God's most tender merices for her.

Please join us in prayer. If you'd like to post this reminder on your blog, the code is

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that {our} hearts may be encouraged as {we} are knit together in love, to have all the riches of assured understanding and the knowledge of God's mystery, of Christ,
in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge

~Colossians 2:2-3

Small Steps Together: Fasting

Right around Christmastime, I was really sick. In hindsight, I don't think I recognized how sick, even though I knew something was wrong. I gained fifteen pounds in fifteen days. My body temperature struggled to get above 96 degrees. I could barely keep my eyes open. I had sores all over the inside of my mouth. And I really felt as if my body was attacking itself.

I have long known that I have a gluten sensitivity. Back in my wheat grinding, four-loaves-a-day-baking days, I would get hives on my face if I reached up to push my hair away from eyes with flour-dusted hands. My mouth itched when I ate bread. After struggling with these symptoms, infertility, and depression for a few years, I got serious about cutting gluten out of my life. Four months later, I was pregnant. And then, I was really good about keeping gluten away. Sarah was conceived shortly after Karoline's first birthday. Then, on bedrest, gluten crept in. I was at the mercy of people bringing me food and I just didn't want to be picky. I was too shy to ask people to avoid wheat. So, I tried to eat around the wheat and just did the best I could. I never really cleaned up my act again.

During Advent, it's particularly difficult to stay away from wheat. Just a little bit here and there, a cookie (or even a piece of one), something fried at a party where there is nothing but appetizers with some form of gluten. I didn't do well, despite my best intentions. So there was the gluten allergy--an autoimmune response with intensity.

At the same time, my thyroid did its own autoimmune dance. Not entirely unexpected; pregnancy is hard on a thyroid (nine of those, even harder) and radiation is really hard on a thyroid (but good for curing lymphoma). My thyroid has done it's very best well past when they thought it would quit, but it's tuckered out.

I plodded through January with thyroid medication. Some relief, but really, very little. And then, someone connected dots for me. There is quite a connection between gluten intolerance and thyroid disease. The more I looked, the more I found. And there is also a connection between gluten intolerance and lymphoma. There's a lot medical science has not yet discovered, but what's already there is really enough for me. Those dots, they were connected.

No more gluten. Not even a little. Ever.

I talked to my pastor. I talked to the priest at the mission church. Both of them were very supportive. All I needed to do to get a very low gluten host was to ask before Mass. And to come up before the rest of the congregation to receive. What a gift!

But, for an introvert, that asking--every time drawing attention to my special need-- and that setting myself apart by going up ahead, that's hard. If you are naturally extroverted and not at all shy, you'll have to take my word for it. That's effort. It's sacrifice. It also requires that I always, always get to Mass early, so that I can ask. If we squeak in just before time or we are even a second late, it's too late. I have to go without Communion.

But it's a sacrifice necessary to receive our Lord!

It's gift. It's grace. Actual grace.

And this time, it's not so hard to stay away from even the little bits of gluten. I look at that puddle of carmelized deliciousness that has pooled in the center of the monkey bread and I know that it has slid down warm, yeasty rolls. So, it is forbidden. And instead of swiping my finger through just a little, just a taste,  I remember that I won't even meet Jesus in the wheat. If I won't have even a wafer of wheat for God Himself, why would I have it for that sticky sugar? And with the thought of Him comes all the strength I need to abstain.

When I pull up at the fast food restaurant, all of us far from home at dinner time, and my stomach is growling and I'm met by a sign that says "All foods come in contact with other foods. Nothing is gluten free" I order a big lemonade and I am grateful, insanely grateful for something filling my stomach. Another time, another place, and it's water. No food at all; there is nothing for me. But somehow, the liquid is enough. God fills the space.

This Lent, I am encouraged to go beyond wheat, to embrace the spiritual discipline of fasting and to trust that God will bless my efforts to the benefit of my soul.

 And Jesus rebuked him, and the devil went out of him, and the child was cured from that hour. Then came the disciples to Jesus secretly, and said: Why could not we cast him out? Jesus said to them: Because of your unbelief. For, amen I say to you, if you have faith as a grain of mustard seed, you shall say to this mountain: Remove from hence hither, and it shall remove: and nothing shall be impossible to you. But this kind is not cast out but by prayer and fasting.

Matthew 17:17-20

I remember that He comes to me in the wafer that tastes like brittle burned rice, but He comes. He offers the grace to abstain. So too, does He offer the grace to fast.

When my children ask what to give up for Lent, I always tell them to give up something that they cannot possibly give up on their own, something that will make them call upon God for help. Sometimes, God decides what that will be. When He does, He provides all the grace we need. We are just called to cooperate.

I can do this! By the grace of God.

As Lent begins, the thoughts of the church turn to sacrifice: prayer, fasting, almsgiving.  Small Steps focuses and sacrifice this month. Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.

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.}

Small Steps Together: Hear Him well, Lest It be Lost

"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost." –GK Chesterton

It is, without a doubt, the greatest lesson of my life--that every day is a gift and I'm created to see the sacred offering in even the ordinary days. He offers us each and every moment to fill as we will. And when we hold those moments as the precious, priceless gifts they are and fill them intentionally with the things of God, we truly live our lives.

It's really very simple.

So why do I mess it up so often? Why do I miss God in the moment and trash the gift? Why do I waste time? Why do I hurt the people I love? Why do I take an errant comment and make it an epic argument? Why do I act like a spoiled brat surrounded by way too much after a sugar-laden, way-too-many-people birthday party?

Because I forget that I am the daughter of a humble, heroic, awesome God.

It's so simple.

Why do I forget?

"True simplicity is like that of children, who think, speak, and act candidly and without craftiness. They believe whatever is told them; they have no care or thought for themselves, especially when with their parents; they cling to them, without going to seek their own satisfactions and consolations, which they take in good faith and enjoy with simplicity, without any curiosity about their causes and effects."--St. Francis de Sales

I want to walk in the light of God, to carry myself through my days in such a way that it is umistakable that I am His and He directs my paths. I want to be the child who believes what He tells me and then acts on that belief as naturally as I breathe the air. I want to remember that He is the good parent I so desperately need.

I want to go about my daily round serving the people He has entrusted to me, recognizing the places He wants me to go. I want this with all my heart--just to live the life He intends me to live.

I want to cling to Him.  Can I cling to Him?

Can I be selfless, caring not at all for my own satisfactions or consolations. Can I turn away from the affirmation of other people and seek only to know that I walk confidently in His will?

Will my life ever be that simple? Will it ever be the gift He intended?

Yes.

Yes!

I think it will.

But only if I can do that one thing. Only if I can fill myself with Him. Only if I can be the child who surrenders to Him completely and entrusts Him to care for me tenderly.The thing is--the simple, important thing is--I can't walk confidently with God throughout the day if I am not intimately acquainted with God and I can't be intimately acquainted with God without having His Word be the firm and gentle hand of a loving Father to which I cling.

Only if my day--my every moment--echoes with His Word. This is how I can know Him, in the Word and in the Sacrament. So that as I move through the world, in every corner of my home and the vast expanses of the marketplace, God goes with me. I hear Him in the Hours that punctuate the phrases of my day; I hear Him in the words of the daily Mass-- a familiar cadence of Scripture; I hear Him as I cultivate new habits; as I listen while I fold, and wipe, and cook; as I deliberately hide Him in my heart.

It's simple, really. When I hear Him well, when I hear Him always, I live the gift.

Did you take small steps towards simplicity this week? How has Small Steps blessed, challenged you, encouraged you on your journey? Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. 

"Love-ly" Afternoon

We have a brand new girls' club in our mission church. The girls meet once a month to talk about virtues and craft a little, and, hopefully, grow in Godly friendships. This month, the older girls discussed the different kinds of love.

Then, they sat down to a plethora of cardstock and stamping materials and made spiritual bouquets with a Valentine theme. The bouquets were intended for the pastoral staff of the mission and for shut-ins. These girls outdid themselves.

The little girls listened to the story of St. Valentine and then talked a bit about acts of charity. Together, we memorized a Bible verse.

Let all that you do be done in love.

1 Corinthians 16:14

On watercolor paper, they drew acts of charity inside hearts, using good quality colored pencils (that resist water) and crayon. Then, they colored their pictures with a watercolor wash.

They also made huge stacks of heartfelt spiritual bouquets. We had several pre-printed verses on hand for them to attach to their handmade cards. The verse reads:

I said a prayer for you today

and I know God must have heard.

I felt the answer in my heart

although He spoke no words.

I prayed that He'd be near you at the start of each day,

to grant you health and blessings

and friends to share your way.

I asked for happiness for you in all things great and small,

but it was for His loving care I prayed for most of all.

On your behalf, I will offer

___a rosary

___Holy Hour

___fasting

___acts of charity

And when they were all finished, they sat and sang and enjoyed Valentine Dots.

Sweet, lovely girls.