Time to Connect

I think it was about three weeks before Easter that he mentioned it again. 

"You should come with me to Miami." I'm pretty sure I rolled my eyes. This crazy idea was a clear illustration of the disconnect. This man has no concept of what the three weeks before a major holiday hold for mothers. He doesn't understand that we were going to throw Bluebell Week in there a month early, that soccer season began the day we were to leave, that we were going to move most of the contents of two bedrooms right after Easter. He was suggesting that I just take a week off and leave everything. Go in an airplane. For four nights away from my toddler who still nursed herself to sleep.

But just as my eye rolling ceased I saw for a brief moment the look on his face.

I didn't say anything. Instead, I sulked and thought to myself that he was adding something pretty huge to an already crammed to-do list. I needed to finish spring cleaning before Easter. I needed to cook and bake and get ready to host his extended family for the holiday. And besides all that, who takes a vacation at the beginning of Holy Week? The whole idea grated on my liturgical sensibility.

The next day, I dashed off a whiny email about my predicament to a very dear friend--the kind of friend who would read my ungrateful rant and say not a word until much later, when I'd come to my senses. And even then, she would not remind, she would just smile broadly at my note telling her how wonderful this whole idea was. My initial complaint was blown away with a puff of  loving grace.

Shortly after my haughty email, I called my father. Would he, could he, could they, please watch six of my children for four nights so I could go to Miami? Of course they could, came the ready reply. And then he handed the phone to my stepmother. She listened to my litany of ifs, ands and buts. And she wholeheartedly encouraged me to go. She was happy to have them, happy to give us this chance to get away.

The three big boys would remain at home so that they could go to school and to work. I drew up a long list of chores that required manual labor so that they wouldn't kill each other would have a positive outlet for all that energy.

I knew that Mike would be at work all day while I was there. So, I set some intense writing goals. I prepared three embroidery projects. I downloaded two new books to my Kindle. And then, after a conversation about something entirely different with my friend Becca, on a complete and total whim, I ordered this book. I described it a little to you last week. Here's what I said:

I spent Holy Week reading Consoling the Heart of Jesus. There are a small handful of books in my life where I remember exactly where and when I read them because those times and places are turning points. This book is one of those. It is easily at the top of that list. This incredibly readable volume makes some of the most beautiful truths and devotions of the Catholic faith understandable (at last)  and accessible (even to busy mothers of large families).  Fr. Gaitley brings together fine threads of several spiritual traditions and weaves them into a beautiful and exceedingly useful tapestry of a do-it-yourself retreat. It is Ignatian spirituality made accessible. It is the Little Way of St. Therese for all of us. It is consecration to Mary and devotion to Divine Mercy explained in plain language and made clear to little souls. Mostly, it is a rich volume of Merciful Words that brings Merciful Love to its readers. You don't have to have a weekend to make the retreat. You can just read a little each day until you are finished. If it's your heart's desire to get to know and understand Jesus better, tell Him. He'll help you find the time. I heartily recommend that you hurry and get yourself a copy of this book--what a beautiful way to spend the Easter sason.

I started reading on the plane. By the time we landed, I knew that this Holy Week was set apart for me by God Himself, in His infinite mercy. This time would be a time of retreat. I would fill my days with God and spend my evenings with my husband. No interruptions. No distractions. Just the three of us.

I kept to my general prayer program.

I started my days there at the gym. The hotel bike is considerably newer than my 13-year-old one. The voices from divineoffice.org joining me in prayer were familiar, even far from home. Mike and I had leisurely breakfasts at an Argentinian market. We walked hand-in-hand back to the hotel and he went off to work in his office right next door. I returned to the room and to my retreat. At ten o'clock, I went back out for another walk, soaking up the gorgeous sunshine and drinking deep of the lovely town that is Coral Gables. I stopped at a sushi restaurant and ordered a salad to go to bring back to my room. Back to my retreat. When I got there, the bed had been made, the room straightened and it all smelled like a tropical breeze. It's amazing how clearly one can think in the absence of clutter and a to-do list.

At three o'clock, I walked again. One day, I looked see where the closest church was. I walked three miles to The Church of the Little Flower. I wish I had  pictures for you. There's a tour here; you can even see the street I walked. It's actually only two miles, but I got lost on the way there. Then I walked back to the hotel, stopping at a cafe for iced tea to bring back to the room. I sat in the courtyard and read some more. After a day or so of filling this way--of relishing much needed silence--words came back. I found myself drawn to keyboard, fingers flying and thoughts tumbling from my hands. The time I spent at my computer wan't much at all, but it was rich.

The embroidery went untouched. I didn't have my camera, so the very few pictures I have were taken with Mike's cell phone from our table outside at dinner one evening on South Beach. But the images in my head? All art created by Him.

Mike and I enjoyed wonderful evenings. We had all the time in the world to finish conversations, to think deep thoughts together. His workday was pretty intense and he was not on vacation at all, but he was so genuinely happy to have me there. We ate great food and we took in the sights and sounds of the unique culture that is south Florida. I saw through his eyes and my own the places and people he spends so much time with. It was all good.

I returned to my home and my children early Holy Thursday afternoon, in plenty of time to make a seder dinner and go to Mass together. Mike did not join us until Easter Sunday.

Despite all my reluctances, I know I spent those days right in the middle of God's will. I am so grateful that my husband saw much better than I did how much I needed to get away. I'm grateful to my father and stepmother for sacrificing their own quiet and rest for my rowdy, energetic crew. And I'm grateful to a merciful Jesus for the gift of graces he showered on me.

I am so glad I said Yes!

Joining the ladies at Suscipio this week for Moments of Grace.

Grace in the Moment

The bluebells bloomed about a month early this year. I can't tell you how this rocked my world. I already had a jam-packed schedule in the three weeks before Holy Week. I was trying to finish Easter sewing, double up on lessons, do a spring cleaning and prepare to leave my children and go with my husband on a surprise trip. I knew that when I returned, I would be on the threshold of the Triduum, so I wanted to prepare well for that, too. And then, someone broke his nose, someone else got strep throat ( a first time ever for our family), and Mike's father ended up in the hospital for several days. One day, in the midst of it all, I got an email. "Bluebells expected to be at peak next week."

Bluebell Week is my favorite week of the year. It is my consoling thought during long winters. It is the burst of newness and springtime and hope that brings my weary spirit back to life. It is where I rejoice with my whole heart in God's glory in nature. I never miss it. And I never want my children to miss it.

This year, the weather was annoying during the bluebell's time in the sun (or not). Every day that I had a car available, rain was forecast. Friends we've met there every year were mostly unable to come, or couldn't come for very long. Sometime during the flower's blooming I received an email from a friend whose family we especially enjoy down at Bull Run. The subject line was "Bluebell Panic" because that's what I was feeling as I tried to make the calendar fashioned by my hands work with the God's timing of spring. My friend wrote, " I think that my family will have to wait until next year to see the bluebells again."

And in that moment, I felt an envy I have never felt before. I envied the ease with which she wrote "next year." I never do that. I never, ever assume next year. Heck, I never assume tomorrow. For twenty-two springs,  twenty-two seasons of flowers blooming, I always wonder if fear that I won't see them bloom again. And I always, always take the time to make sure my family notices them, too. Just this year, I wanted the easy-breezy "next year" mentality.

Usually, I consider this awareness of the preciousness of time to be a great gift, perhaps the greatest gift of surviving cancer. I just don't take anything for granted. For the most part, it's made me more grateful than most people can imagine for every single heartbeat. It does, however, come with a bit of dark lining. I have trouble sitting still, trouble just being. I always have this sense of cramming every bit of living into every single moment because I don't know how short life is. I have trouble leaving my children--not because I'm worried something will happen to them while I'm away or that I won't return, but just because I know with every fiber of my being that I won't get those moments again. It's a pretty intense way to live. 

This year, I recognized with startling clarity that God knew. God knew the intensity. And God knew the schedule and the weather and the state of my housekeeping. I handed it all to Him and asked Him to direct my days, to help me glorify Him with my time, and bring me the peace of heart and soul I knew I needed.

He began with the bluebells. We managed to squeeze in a couple very brief visits with friends with the promise to meet again. But then, those promises got swallowed up by logistics for those friends. Then, Linda, Nicholas' godmother, called and told me the absolute only day she could meet us there. Our meeting in the woods has been a tradition since before Nicholas could walk. Since before her son, Bobby, who is my godchild, was born. We cherish these days. We were together by the creek with the flowers the day the new Pope was elected. (That's a great story. You can click. I'll wait.) I looked around my house. I looked at my to-do list. No doubt, the house would stay dirty--the dirt would still be there. But the flowers would not stay in bloom. I took a deep breath. I recognized that I would, indeed, have a car available. We'll be there.

We went. The morning was glorious. Linda met me there with a friend. For over 20 years, people have been telling me I had to meet this lady. And for over 20 years, she's heard the same thing about me. We have a lot of mutual friends. One of them is Linda. And on this day, God brought us together. I shared my flowers with her. It's always such a joy to show someone the first time. 

Around noon, all three of my big boys joined us. Nine children --all nine of my children-- together in the place we've made so many memories. Linda knows me well. Sensing that the enormity of the bittersweet was threatening the joy of the present moment, she began to seize the photo-op and direct my picture efforts. From behind the lens, my mind whirled. Next year, Patrick will be away at school, and probably Christian, too. Michael will likely be married by then, but certainly he will finally have a day job and be much less available. This could be the last time I snap a photo of all of them in the bluebells. The log they once sat on--back when there were only six of them--had long since decayed, a natural reminder that nothing ever stays the same.  We have only today. And there was Linda. Directing and orchestrating, making sure we made the most of the moment.

I am so grateful.

I walked out of the woods that day with my new friend. We shared as if we'd know each other forever. I was struck by God's abundant goodness. And then, just when I thought the day couldn't be any fuller, God reminded me that I've had the great gift of bringing my children to this place for more than a decade. My new friend Jean was just beginning to know the bluebells. She came with her last little girl, a daughter my Sarah's age. 

And she also brought her baby grandson.

There is tangible hope in those flowers.

Every spring.

conversation hearts and grace notes

I struggle with being the mother of teenagers. Nobody is more surprised by this fact than I am. I was one of those young moms who truly disliked it when older women said things like, "Just you wait until they're teenagers. You won't think it's so fun then." In all honesty, I thought these years would be perfectly golden, because I wasn't like those other moms. I had a positive attitude. I was well-connected to my children. And, pretty much, my kids were awesome.

 

They still are. I am daily awed by them. But man, parenting teenagers is very hard work. The sticky peanut-butter-and-jelly-kisses moments don't really happen when they start to tower over me. So anxious some days that it takes my breath away, I am ever aware of how intense this time of life is for them, how much potential there is for hurt. I struggle and I am discouraged.

Some days, though, grace grants me moments just like those I imagined when I wiped jelly from his sweet cheeks. He bends intently over the making of a Valentine, reminding me so much of his father at that age that tears spring unbidden to my eyes. Could it have been thirty years ago?  I blink the tears away because the boy-man before me now is asking me which color marker to use, drawing me into his world, sharing with me the work of his hands, and literally, the pieces of his heart. Such a good heart. Thank you, God.

I'm sharing grace notes with the women of Suscipio this week.

Won't you join us there?