More Than We Think We Are

I sat beside my sister at the funeral of our dear friend's mother. Our eyes fell on my sister's young daughter. She sat contentedly in the lap of her grandmother, beside us in the same church pew.

"She's so beautiful," my sister remarked, her eyes bright as she watched her daughter.

"She really is," I said, then voiced the next thought that filled my head, "People are always saying how beautiful our daughters are, and how they look exactly like us. Do you ever think that maybe we were more beautiful than we realized when we were younger?"

My sister reached over and squeezed my hand, voicing no response. She didn't need to reply. I knew. I knew the struggles she and I had navigated over the years. I knew what it took to eventually believe ourselves beautiful.

The funeral began with an old, familiar hymn, but the thought remained with me. As the priest blessed the family and friends filling the rows in the church, I couldn't shake the question: are we more beautiful than we realize?

I'd encountered a lot of beauty in the past week. Easily overlooked beauty. Misconstrued beauty.

It was there to see in the face and hands of my best friend. Exhausted, no makeup, eyes not long dry from the most recent of many tears, she greeted me with a long hug when I arrived at the hospital where she and her family kept vigil with her dying mother. We sat at her mother's bedside, talking in reserved voices that rose with emotion then quieted as her mother's ragged breathing fluctuated. My, she was beautiful. The love in her eyes. The gentleness in her fingers as they grazed the blankets of the bed in front of her. The aching tenderness in her glances at her mom. My friend had spent years caring for her mother. Years of tending to her needs, housing her, shuttling her to appointments, encouraging her, upholding her dignity. Loving her.

Then there was her mother, Connie, who lied dying beside us. If my friend hadn't let me into the room, I would not have known I was in the right place. She was unrecognizable, seemingly a shell of her former, spirited self. Seemingly. Except, if I kept my wits about me, I could see that she was still her whole self. She was still Connie, who battled cancer for all these years, never willing to give up. Through treatments and sickness and depression, through remissions and reoccurrences, she'd plodded onward. Yet, here she was. She wasn't a woman defeated. She was a woman ready. She was a woman ready to leave. She'd done her work and fought her battles. Her readiness was as beautiful as it was heartbreaking.

So there I sat in the church pew, wondering over how many different ways we miss the beauty. Wondering why we can't see it.

I want to see it. I want my spouse to see it. I want my children to see it. I want you to see it. This life, it's so much more beautiful than we think. Its beauty is only surpassed by the people, by us. We are more, much more beautiful than we think we are.

Do Not Laugh - Thoughts on Compliments, Selfies, and Psalm 139:14

My three and a half year old son walked into my bedroom as I finished combing my hair. Mentally, I was running through what remained of readying ourselves for the day. I was distracted and about to send him back out with instructions to brush his teeth so we could leave on time.

 

He cut me off with his words, "Mommy, you look beautiful. You should take a picture."

 

Immediately, a voice spoke in my head, "Do not laugh."

 

I had to close my mouth because that was the exact response I was about to make. I looked my son in the eye and smiled. I said, "thank you, peanut," and put my comb away.

 

He remained at my side, waiting. "Take a picture."

 

The voice was there again. "Do not laugh."

 

Don't laugh at his admiration for you. Don't dismiss the clarity with which he sees you; clarity that is fogged up in you by years of insecurities. I didn't laugh. Instead, I took the picture. He asked to see it. Satisfied, he gave me one more heart-stealing smile, then bounded away to see what his sister was up to elsewhere.

 

Honestly, I almost deleted the photo. What did I need it for? I saw the roundness of the belly where I'd love for it to be flatter; the softness of the arms where I wish they were toned. I saw the gray hairs I don't pull out anymore. I saw the migraine behind my eyes, and the thick glasses because I didn't feel like putting in my contacts when I could barely stand to have my eyes open in the daylight. I saw the awkward half-smile because selfies seem meant for younger, perkier people.

 

Why didn't I delete the photo? I didn't delete it because of a hunch that every mom ever caught off guard by their child's admiration could relate to the thoughts filling my head. I even had a feeling that the dads out there can relate to it all, perhaps when their children look at them with unwavering confidence in their strength and capabilities. I didn't delete the photo because, while the things I saw in it are real and true, the things my son sees are real and true as well.

 

I not only saved the photo, but decided to share it here because of Psalm 139:14, "I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; wonderful are your works, and my soul knows it well."

 

Years aged.

Extra pounds carried.

Hair grayed and thinned.

Body tired.

Pains and illnesses endured.

Patience lost.

Voice raised.

Mistakes made.

Weaknesses experienced.

 

None of these eliminate the truth my child sees and accepts about me, or your child about you: that I am, and you are, "fearfully and wonderfully made."

 

The next time you encounter that truth, whatever the source, don't laugh it off. Don't dismiss it or argue against it, mentally or aloud. Hear it. Be grateful for it. Let it sink in until you can say, "my soul knows it well."

The Paper in My Purse

There's this paper that I keep folded up and tucked away in my purse. It is a bit of treasure that I bring with me practically everywhere. I think I've gone through five purses in the last seven years, and that paper has found its place in each one. Today, I unfolded it for the first time in perhaps a year and read each beautiful word printed upon it.

The black ink is still clear on the paper, but the yellowing of its edges has begun. The creases are tearing. It felt a bit delicate in my fingers today. 

The lines that fill this page were written by my husband, long before he was my husband. I still remember my awe when he sent me the first two stanzas, a mere two weeks after our first date. If I've ever come close to swooning, that was the moment. Here I was, lingering in the dawn of our coupledom, wading in and testing the waters. Then, he offers this collection of words born in his heart and pulls me under.

Love requires taking chances. It requires wading into deeper waters and losing sight of your former shore. My husband more than anyone else has taught me this. Love also, for me, requires words. Words of beauty and truth. Every time I look at this worn page in the pocket of my purse, I'm thankful my husband understood that from the start.

The Heart of Life is Good

This is one of my favorite photos. Sure, I have others that better capture my children's faces and smiles. This one, though, captures life.

Some things have me thinking hard on the matter of life. It started with the suicide bomber cruelly choosing the concert in Manchester as his target and killing twenty-two adults, teens, and children. It continued with the news of the twenty-eight adults and children violently martyred in Egypt when they refused to deny their belief in Christ. Numerous others were injured in these attacks. Countless more were directly affected and traumatized.

And so, I think about life. Life as it is now, in this world in which my husband and I are raising our little children. In the midst of this thinking, I came across that photo. It's a recent one, taken at my kids' first time at a major league baseball game. All I have to do is look at it and I relive that night. We bought the tickets on a whim when we saw a low cost deal for some upcoming games. I was excited, as I always am when I attend a baseball game, but I was also worried. Would the kids enjoy themselves or be overwhelmed by the size and the noise of the place? Would they get bored and whine? Would they complain about having to stay in their seats for too long? Would they be too tired the next day? Typical motherhood worries.

My worry was silenced by their wonder: the wonder on their small faces when we entered the stadium; when the crowd stood clapping for the first time; when the fireworks were lit to celebrate each home run; when my son kept his eyes on the pitcher and batter as I explained  a little of the game and he was rewarded with witnessing a hit to the outfield; when the racing sausages and the 7th inning stretch brought everyone to their feet in unity. The pair of them enjoyed every minute. They were thrilled at being part of something so much bigger than themselves.

So many things could have gone wrong. They didn't, but they could have. I think of the dozens of concerts my friends and I have attended from the time we were teenagers to the present without a doubt that we'd arrive back home safely. I think of the pilgrimages we've made to churches and retreats without the looming threat of being attacked for our beliefs. I think of the number of people in that baseball stadium with no thought of whether or not someone might make us a target. So many things could go wrong.

If the fears and worries win, we must withdraw from what is bigger than ourselves. That's what it comes down to, I suppose. Being part of what is bigger than ourselves is at the heart of life, and life cannot be sustained without the heart.

There's things you need to hear

So turn off your tears and listen

Pain throws your heart to the ground

Love turns the whole thing around

No it won't all go the way it should

But I know the heart of life is good

John Mayer

On the Pier

Photo by Carrie Sue Barnes, Location: Rabbit Bay, Lake Superior

 

The old man only visited the pier at sunrise, when the lake's surface was smooth as a bed sheet and the sky was edged in tangerine. Later, the lake would be speckled with white caps. The din of the waves would crescendo with each tide. He used to love the noise, but now his tired ears treasured silence. So, he only came at sunrise.

 

Bare footed, he stood squinting at the ascending sun. Another day. The fibers of the wood were cool under the leathery soles of his feet. He wrapped his fingers around the rail, pressed his stomach against it, and inhaled the stillness. He willed it to stay stored in his chest. Peace.

 

"Do you come every morning?"

 

The bird like voice startled. He did not, at first, turn to see its bearer.

 

"Mamma says you do."

 

"Bit early for ya', isn't it?" Being his first words of the day, they rolled out full of gravel. He cleared his throat. "Why aren't ya' sleepin'?"

 

"Because I'm awake." The girl's answer was clipped with the childish annoyance at silly questions from adults who ought to know.

 

The old pier stood between his house and the girl's. He gazed down at the crown of honey blonde hair, feathery and uncombed. The wisps carried him through decades to his tiny daughter hugging his leg here on the pier, midday waves licking their toes. Affection stole through his wiry limbs and he reached out to smooth her hair. He stopped himself; placed his hand back on the rail.

 

"It's my birthday," she whispered. 

 

"Mine, too."

 

Brown eyes widened. "Ooooh," she breathed out the sound. Her pink lips remained in a tiny O, then, "How old are you?"

 

He stifled a chuckle at the reverent hush of her voice. "Old."

 

"But how old?"

 

He rubbed at the whiskers in the crevices of his weathered face. "Eighty-four."

 

"That's old." She bobbed her head at him. "I'm five today."

 

The sky was losing its accessory colors. Blue prevailed above the still sleepy lake. Pelicans conducted an aerial parade inches above the water; six in a straight line headed north, then a turn and back south.

 

"Are you having a party?" he asked.

 

"I am!" Her feet danced a two second jig. "Are you?"

 

"Oh, no party for me."

 

The kids would call, of course, sometime before night fell. He did not begrudge them anything more. Yesterday, he'd picked up roast beef and fresh cheddar from the deli for his favorite sandwich. It was enough.

 

"You can share mine."

 

"That's kind of you, but I don't need a party."

 

"Every birthday deserves a party," she said. She pushed her hair back from her cheeks. "That's what my daddy says."

 

He didn't argue, hoping she'd believe it for all her years.

 

In the afternoon, he watched cars pull up to the neighboring house. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends; all come to celebrate the girl. Through open windows, the party carried its sounds to his home. Laughter, shouts, rumbles of conversation from the men on the back porch, and finally the traditional singing while they huddled around a lit cake. Hours later, the people returned to their vehicles after hugs in the driveway.

 

He sat on the red bench on his front porch, reading last Sunday's newspaper, when the last of the revelers departed. The sun he'd watched rise was leaving too, dipping below the tree line behind them. Ribbons of pink and yellow light wrapped around from there to the horizon over the water; another day.

 

The neighbor's back door creaked open and out trotted the girl. Her purple party dress swung about her knees. He lifted his hand in a wave at her parents, who watched from their kitchen window. The father waved back; the mother smiled while she continued to wipe dry a plate in her hands.

 

"I made them save this one," the girl called when she reached the steps of his porch. She waited there.

 

Hips stuck and knees creaked when he stood. He paused to let his joints settle into place, then walked. She'd brought him a piece of cake. It was two layers of chocolate with pink frosting. The scents of cocoa and sugar filled his nostrils. His mouth watered.

 

"Well, you're a sweet girl, I must say." There was a catch in his voice to go with the moisture in his eyes.

 

"Do you like chocolate?"

 

"It's my favorite."

 

"Mine, too."

 

He accepted the plate.

 

"Momma says I have to get back. I have to help clean up."

 

"You best go and do that." The old man nodded. "Thank you for the birthday cake. I'm sure it's delicious."

 

"You'll eat it?"

 

"Of course, I will."

 

"Can I watch the sun come up with you again?"

 

"If you're awake, you're welcome to join me."

 

She nodded, her features drawn together in thought. He waited while she formed her question. "And if I'm not awake tomorrow, can we watch the sun come up another day?"

 

"Yes," he smiled, "another day."

 

Her concern was gone. She skipped back to her house, already talking to her parents before she opened the door.

 

The old man walked to the pier. He leaned against the soft wood of the railing, listened to the song of low tide kissing the sand, ate his chocolate cake, and hoped for another day.

Apostles of Joy

Yesterday, I witnessed the appearance of pure joy on the rosy cheeked face of my daughter. Again and again, her expression lit up like she was standing in the path of a sunbeam. Her smile flashed as wide as she could make it. Her laughter burst forth contagiously until I was giggling in unison.

St. Teresa of Calcutta stated that "joy is a net of love by which we catch souls."

"Man cannot live without joy," according to St. Thomas Aquinas.

Pope Francis advised that all Christians ought to be "apostles of joy."

What brought on my daughter's supreme display of joy? Bubbles. That's all. To her two year old mind, they were wondrous works of art, wrought by magic and created expressly for her. I sat in a chair on our little deck outside the living room blowing bubbles. Even when she was ready to move on to other activities, I kept going. I didn't want it to end. I needed to witness her joy.

In the hours since, I've contemplated both her joy and my reaction to it. That sort of joy arises when something unexpected and incredible appears before us. It's easy to see why it exists in children as young as my daughter: everything is still new and unexpected at that age. Young children are easily impressed and easily pleased.

 

I am already sad for the days when I begin to recognize in my children a departure from this manner of encountering the world. It will happen though. Fewer and fewer things will feel unexpected or incredible. Must it be that way though? Could I, at 35 years old, experience that uninhibited, simple joy more often? Could joyful become one of my trademark attributes?

 

It's worth finding out the answer to those questions. Joy adds vigor and spirit to daily living. It inspires gratitude, hope, and contentment - as well as arises from the same. It spreads from person to person, improving the quality of life further and further down the chain of people with whom we are each linked. Rediscovering a way of joy is worth the effort.

 

How do we become characterized by joyfulness in a manner that harkens back to that abundant childhood joy?

1. Realize every earthly beauty was made for you but you have not earned any of it. Do you realize the world didn't have to be made beautiful? God could design creation however he pleased. Purely functional might have been the only standard. Beautiful, enjoyable, fun, wondrous, exciting, incredible - God gave creation these aspects for our edification and, most importantly, for us to know Him through creation. He did it for you. He made the colors, textures, scents, and sounds for you. He gave you comprehension of these realities so that you might share in His nature. This He did entirely out of love for you. Encountering your world with this perspective can cast it all in a light that leads to joy.
2. Engage now and do so without self-consciousness. We are trained to multi-task; to be efficient and productive. We plan. We prep. We do, do, do. We miss so much. Engage in the present moment as thoroughly as you can manage. My husband has been working on teaching me this for years now. Be present and don't apologize for doing so. A reaction of joy can feel embarrassing, and what a sad statement that is about our accepted mentality! Lose the shame over experiencing joyful wonder at the bits of beauty and goodness that are taken for granted by many people.
3. Believe your joy is a gift to others. They need it. Your family, friends, coworkers; the person sitting in the church pew with you; the cashier at the grocery store; the elderly man hobbling past you on the sidewalk; the tired parent handling the kids at the park. All of them need your joy. Your children need you to derive joy from their silliness. Your spouse needs to laugh with you and perhaps be reminded of the beauty shadowed by the daily grind. Your friends need a voice that replaces cynicism with joy. It is no surprise we become numb to the goodness available to us in life. Our senses are battered by harshness at every turn and joy is a healing balm.

An apostle of joy is a person who allows joy to be a defining theme of their life and who will carry that joy into the presence of anyone within their influence. If you don't know where to begin, start with gratitude. Gratitude begets joy. And when you need an extra boost, watch a the face of a child chasing bubbles. I promise you won't be disappointed.

Not Damaged - A Note to Moms

Today, I came across an online article about a mother who photographed her torso after the birth of her second child. She took a photo at 24 hours post-birth, then a new one at 1 week, 4 weeks, 10 weeks, 14 weeks, and so on. As opposed to yet another "look at me, I look amazing in only a short period of time" sort of social media post, this mom wanted to show the public a realistic, normal transformation post birth. When I clicked on the article to read it, I felt proud of this woman. I was glad that by her brave choice to share those photos, more people might understand the reality of a woman's body.

While I was proud of the woman and her intention though, I was disappointed in the author of the article. Not only disappointed, I was angered. The brief paragraphs written to accompany each successive photo were filled with the same language that I see in every article about a mother's post-partum body.

Damaged. Fix. Ruin. Recover.

The word choices in this and other articles make clear the accepted perspective that a woman's body has been damaged by pregnancy. Her body is flawed now and needs to be fixed. The appearance of her physical form was good before pregnancy and bad now. I have even seen it stated as strongly as saying her body has been ruined. Every bit of body advice post-partum is geared toward recovering your pre-pregnancy form.

It took until my second pregnancy before I fully realized the error of this way of thinking. It bothered me before that, needling at my brain that there was something off. Somewhere along the way my second time around though, it clicked. Plain and simple, if you'll allow me to say so, it's bullshit.

Pregnancy did not damage your body; pregnancy changed your body. You don't need to be fixed. Your physical form is not ruined. Lastly, now that you've had a child (or two or four), nothing else in your life will ever be the same as it was pre-pregnancy, so why, oh why, are you told your body should be the exception?

Your body was specially designed to accomplish pregnancy, to carry and deliver a child. Many women are unable to do this since there are many factors that contribute to it occurring, so please, when you are blessed to be one who can and does accomplish this great feat, do not fall into the trap of believing you've ruined your body in the process! Our culture claims that we must teach girls to accept their bodies as they are, to be proud of their figures and not succumb to the pressure of airbrushed supermodel expectations. How can we ever instill in our girls a genuine, lasting respect for their bodies while perpetuating the current attitude toward the changes caused by pregnancy? Pregnancy and birth, while far from the only incredible abilities of a woman's body, are the pinnacle of the unique, amazing design of a woman.

Stop comparing yourself to other mothers whom you think have 'recovered' better than you have after pregnancy. Scoff at those who would label your stretch marks as flaws. Tune out those who wonder why you haven't fixed your abs yet. And please, please, correct those who refer to the physical effects of pregnancy as damage. Aim for health and strength, but do so with your eyes open to the reality that having a child has changed your body just as it changes everything else in life.

To Annabelle, Now and Every Tomorrow

Dear Annabelle,

Look at you. Football jersey, princess slippers, can't-sleep-without-them animals, and a smile brighter than a sunbeam. Lunging at me in jubilation. Certain I will embrace you. Certain I will laugh with you. 

You didn't see it but last night as I laid you in your crib, relaxed and content after our mutual favorite lullaby, there were tears in my eyes. You didn't notice the catch in my voice as I said goodnight. Something in the sight of you at that moment clarified reality. You are finishing up being my baby. You are ready to be my little girl instead. My little girl who will grow into my big girl and my young lady. The realization filled my chest with a wave of panic. The wave passed, swept out into the ocean of mixed emotions in a mother's heart as she watches her child change right before her eyes. There's no stopping you and so there are some things I must say before my voice isn't the one you're most eager to hear every morning, noon, and night.

Your face in this photo, along with a million instances of the privilege I have to see your smile, gives me a flash into the future. I am convinced you will be a woman who is "clothed in strength and dignity, and laughs at the days to come" (Proverbs 31:25). Please don't lose that light that fills your features. Keep your hair out of your gorgeous eyes, so you can see clearly but also so you may better be seen. You ought to be seen. When you feel the kick of an urge to smile at someone across the room, the way you do for me, don't resist it. You have no idea the kindness it is to offer that smile to another. And the way you never doubt that I and your Daddy will hear your calls? Have that confidence in your heavenly Father and the days to come won't be able to silence your laughter.

The time will come when you doubt this so I'll try to remind you of it often: you are "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139:14). Your soul, your mind, your body. Every aspect of the whole Annabelle is a wondrous gift from God. Do not belittle any part of that gift, nor listen to those who would try to tell you otherwise. Know that you deserve what is true and beautiful and good, then seek it out fervently.

Among my greatest hopes for you is that you become a woman who, like the very breath and wisdom of God, "is more precious than rubies, and nothing [anyone might] desire can compare to her" (Proverbs 3:15). Your character is a wellspring of untold worth. The potential for generosity and kindness, humor and boldness, passion and earnestness, understanding and creativity - unearth that treasure, my girl. Every person you touch will be better for it and you will pass your years living instead of waiting to live.

Be the princess you are, Annabelle, and be that only in the truest sense of the title. Be a daughter of the King. There is "an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you" (1 Peter 1:4), Annabelle. Rather than sacrifice it for anyone, be a reason they look for theirs too. Seek the good of every soul that crosses your path. Know your worth and convince others of theirs. 

I love you.

Mamma

Listen to Your (Inner) Three Year Old

My three year old gets it. All that is necessary to fill him with excited anticipation is to tell him we are going to do something together. The activity matters little. Togetherness is the key.

During the brief forty-five minutes we had this morning between him waking up and me departing for work, he must have asked ten times for me to spend time with him. The asking comes in a variety of forms - will you sit with me; can we watch a movie together; are you going to eat with me - but the heart of the question is constant: Can we be together?

Connection; companionship; unity; family. It is my belief that we do not lose our early years' desire for togetherness. We grow adept at minimizing its significance, quieting its voice. We learn to ignore it. We all have our own reasons for doing so.

With each instance in which I must reject my son's request for time with me because I am required to be elsewhere, my heart hurts. Yet there are plenty of times where I also turn him down carelessly, preferring that he leave me alone to do the things I'm more interested in that day or the things I think have to get done. I am imperfect in it, without a doubt, but having children has reawakened my own desire for and value of togetherness.

This isn't written with undue guilt. We cannot be there with them non-stop. Jobs, obligations, responsibilities, and even solitary endeavors are both necessary and valuable. Yes, my children have to learn the hard lesson that they are not at the center of the world they occupy nor can they count on always receiving what they want from others. My thoughts run less along the line of eliminating those lessons and more along the line of wondering what society, and specifically my own family, could look like if alongside those harder lessons everyone also learned that we do not need to guard our hearts against the natural desire for togetherness.

Final request of the day: "Will you rest with me?"

What if I said yes more often, both to my son and to my own timid longing for greater togetherness? What if I factored it more strongly into our Christmas season plans and my New Year's resolutions? What if I replaced "not right now" with "yes, we can be together" as much as possible? It would be a difference maker for the good, I am sure of it.

The Paradox of Suffering and Hope at Christmas

Photo provided by Trisha Hummel

Today is my cousin Trudi's 44th birthday. It is her 23rd birthday in eternal life. I was still stumbling my way toward my teen years when Trudi was murdered. Trudi and her older sisters were thick as thieves with my older sisters while I was just one of the little cousins in our extensive family circle. I remember her as cool; fun and beautiful; bold and humorous.

This weekend I spent hours addressing Christmas cards. As I scribbled the names, streets, and cities of my cousins, I couldn't help wondering about Trudi. Would she live in the same area, like her sisters, or would she have established her life elsewhere? Would we have attended a wedding? Would our children have played together by now? Would we have that comfortable, enjoyable dynamic that develops between family members after the years have placed us on level ground?

Hypotheticals. They do an excellent job of muddling the mind and stinging the heart. There's nothing like loss to leave you wading through a pool of hypotheticals. And there's nothing like Christmas time to amplify the wound of loss.

This isn't a direct quote, as I can't remember where I heard it, but I once read that St. John Paul II said suffering is created by feeling cut off from good. We live and love and link ourselves to sources of good. When one of those links is severed, we are left trying to patch the tear.

What has severed a link to good in your life?
Death
Divorce
Job loss
Infertility
Disease
Rejection
Betrayal

Every cut in our connections to what is good is felt keenly in this season of celebration. For some, the suffering renders Christmas undesirable. Potential joy is swallowed up in misery. Sounds of peace are drowned out by the roar of hypotheticals that can never be.

Oh, the paradox of Christmas. For Christmas, my friends, is the arrival of the Divine Response to every wound and cut and tear you carry with you. It is Almighty God dwelling amongst us. He made Himself vulnerable to encounter our vulnerability. God entrusted Himself to the arms of a mother, to the home of an earthly father, and to a community of imperfect, suffering individuals.

Adoration of the Shepherds by Gerard van Honthorst

Christmas is the issuance of God's answer to our suffering, to our feeling of being cut off from good. It is a resounding song of hope: "You are not cut off. You are not abandoned. You are not lost. For I am with you. Here in the deepest cuts, I abide with you. I may have allowed pain and loss, but I fill the voids. I AM the source of all good and I AM here."

Christmas, when "the Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14) is the root of our conviction "that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor present things, nor future things, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord" (Romans 8:38-39).

She Would Have Loved That

Two years ago my last grandparent, my maternal grandmother, passed away. Her death came in the week before Thanksgiving and so inevitably she enters my thoughts a lot in this holiday season. Similarly, it is summertime when my paternal grandmother comes to mind most often as my final memory of her was a family picnic at my parents' house on a warm summer day. Sunshine warmed grass between my toes, family sitting in chairs in the yard, Grandma Theresa makes herself present with us. Now, in the bustle of family focused holidays and age old traditions, Grandma Evelyn is here with me.

Grandma Evelyn with my firstborn, a few months before she passed.

During Sunday Mass last weekend, I leaned over to my husband and whispered, "Grandma would have loved this men's choir." The rich, reverent harmonies could have been from any number of old albums of hymns she used to play on her cassette deck next to her favorite chair. I savored every song during that Mass, enjoying it on her behalf.

Then at the end of Mass, I approached the giving tree set up near the sanctuary. Typically I choose a request for a child's gift from these trees. It gives me a special kind of joy to know a young child will be happier on Christmas day thanks to a small sacrifice on my family's part. It was with this same intention that I went to find this year's star on the giving tree. But what did I find on the first star I read? A little Christmas wish list for an elderly woman that could have been my grandmother's list pretty much every single year. My eyes filled with tears and I swallowed a lump of emotion in my throat as I plucked the star from the tree. I get to shop for my Grandma.

When I read that Christmas list and kept thinking, "she would have loved that," with each item, I realized something I hope I won't forget. Remembering our loved ones gone from this world is a special thing but loving on others with the very love your heart has marked for the ones you lost is immeasurably greater.

Pictures & Words Day 15: Don't Forget to Play

Photo/Writing Prompt: Play
(2 pictures because they are one moment together)

"Don't forget to play." Of all the things for my grandfather to say on his death bed, this was not what I expected.

I drove down from Detroit to see him one last time. The nurses said he would likely go in the next twenty-four hours. When I entered his room at the nursing home, pulled a chair up beside his bed, and waited for him to wake, I wondered what I could possibly say. Mom said he knew the end was around the corner. His clear mind was housed in a body exhausted to its limit. Grandpa was always full of advice and information. He could tell you something about everything while never claiming to know it all. My own mind was still blank when Grandpa's eyes opened. They were watery and dim. Short, sparse gray hairs stood askew upon his head. Grandpa was a big man, tall, broad, and thick. Even in his diminished state, he filled the standard issue bed to its edges. He lifted a hand, gesturing for me to lean closer. I did and he planted a kiss with his dry lips on my cheek. That's when I knew I wasn't going to come up with anything worth saying. I didn't have to though. Grandpa started right in.

"Patrick, I'm glad you're here."

I nodded. A lump was forming in my throat and I didn't trust myself to speak.

"I was thinking about you and that little boy of yours. And the little boy you used to be."

He reached for the plastic cup on his bedside table. I held it while he sipped water, the gurgle of air bubbles in the straw the only sound in the room.

"You were such a serious little one. Wanting to be older, wanting to be bigger, wanting to do important things."

I chuckled quietly. "I was, wasn't I?"

Grandpa had no smile though. He went on. "I know you're frustrated at that job. Feels like less than what you should be doing."

I ran a hand over my thinning hair. We'd had plenty of conversations on the topic.

"You are doing important things." He narrowed his eyes when I began to shake my head. "That boy, he's your important thing."

He needed another drink. I could see the strain that it was for his neck to hold his head up from the pillow for those few seconds.

"When your Laurie died, I knew your son would be okay. I wasn't so sure you would be okay, but I knew he would be. He's your important thing and you're doing it right. Can I give you just one bit of advice though?"

"Of course."

He hand engulfed mine. "Don't forget to play."

I'm sure the puzzlement was written on my face. "What do you mean, Grandpa?"

"Just that!" His deep voice rose urgently. "Don't forget to play! You have so much on your shoulders, so much worry. I see it in you from every angle, Patrick. Your son needs to see you play. He needs to see you laugh and smile and enjoy yourself. When he's older, he'll understand without a doubt how hard you worked to provide for him. He'll realize all the sacrifices you made. But don't let him wonder if you enjoyed your years with him. Don't let him question that."

I smiled then, aware that of all the advice he could give me in this moment, this was exactly what I needed to hear.

Grandpa's face relaxed and his eyes lost their focus on me. "You remember how we used to play, Patrick?"

"I do. I remember you teaching us baseball in the backyard. I remember sitting on your shoulders for half a mile to reach the river and filling my jar up with tadpoles. You used to carry me around upside down and I'd tell you what I saw that was different than when I was right side up."

Tears were trickling onto his leathery cheeks but he was smiling so I continued.

"I remember you pretending to be a bear and chasing us around the field behind your house. There was one night we had a board game marathon and you tried to play Twister with us. We all laughed so hard that Grandma almost peed in her pants. I remember the whole family going camping out at Carter Lake. It was the only time all year we could count on Dad taking a couple days off from work. You and Dad taught us boys how to handle a canoe but our first time out alone we tipped it. I remember surfacing next to Greg and the two of you were up on the shore laughing at us."

Grandpa nodded. I squeezed his hand and added, "It made me want to tip it a second time so I could hear you laugh that hard again."

His eyes refocused on me, brighter than before. "So, you'll remember to play?"

"I will."

Grandpa died several hours later. My brother Greg and I were there beside him. My mother, too, but she had dozed in her chair. His passing was so quiet, so calm, that it was over before we realized she was sleeping through it.

After the funeral, the whole family went to Grandpa's favorite restaurant. We had reserved most of the tables in there and still had trouble finding seats for all of us. Everyone swapped stories and memories, laughing and crying together. As we walked out to our cars later, my little boy squeezed in between my brother and me. Without a word we both grabbed his hands and swung him as high as we could manage. Giggles poured out of him and he shouted, "Again, Daddy, again!" I could hear my grandfather's laugh in my ears as we lifted him again.

I Am All These Things

I am distracted and focused. I am scattered and gathered. I am prayerful and skeptical. I am angry and comforted. Last night my sister received confirmation from her doctor that the tumor she had removed last week is the same kind of lymphoma she had three years ago in an entirely different location in her body. Last night I felt only sadness - baffled, helpless sadness - over this news. Listlessness slipped me into sleep. This morning I awoke angry. On her behalf, on her husband's behalf, on her children's behalf, on our parents' behalf, on our family's behalf, I'm angry. Aware that it is far from hopeless, that it could all be okay, I can only consider how it shouldn't be at all.

You know those times when you are aware of exactly what you ought to do, what is in your best interest to do, but you cannot do it? All logic, all experience directs you but you willfully veer left instead of right. In the back of your mind you retain awareness that eventually you will listen to that guiding voice... eventually you'll reenter the road that leads to hopeful trust and peace of mind... but not yet. No, not yet. For now, you choose weakness, aggravation and distraction.

I should pray. I should visit my sister. Instead I am itching to go for a jog, to start those revisions I've been procrastinating on for weeks, to shop, to bake, to finish the book I'm reading. I am a woman of faith and hope and love, but I am also a woman of selfishness and fear. I am all these things. If not for the grace-granting knowledge of God's love for me, I would only be the lesser of these things.

In a Fortnight

I was about to type "In Two Weeks" as the post title but then realized this was a prime opportunity to use the sorely neglected term, "fortnight." Anyway... What's happening in a fortnight, you ask? Well, my sister and one of our best friends are flying to Beijing, China. I haven't quite wrapped my head around this yet. Jessica (that's my sister) has gone on some extensive, out of the country journeys but never one that will quite literally land her a day apart from her life here. (The whole 13 hour time difference truly baffles me. I mean, I get it but I don't really get it.)

Jessica and Amy are traveling to China to serve for two weeks at China Little Flower, a facility that cares for orphans in need of specialized care, abandoned infants, and even babies expected to die but who deserve to be loved and provided for until that happens. The pictures alone for this organization's website are enough to melt the heart. They are doing amazing, thankless, God-honoring work. It is the sort of work that grabs hold of my sister's merciful heart.

I guess this blog post is just to state how crazy proud I am of my sister. If I could learn to love as she loves... She has no idea how beautiful she is.

And as long as I'm here and you're here, it wouldn't hurt to ask something of you, right? Prayers. Please pray for their safety in traveling, for their jet lag to be as tolerable as possible so they can serve as they desire to serve, and for the children they will encounter during their time at China Little Flower.

If you'd like to learn a little more about this organization, here's the website link.

And if you'd care to support the rather pricey service trip that Jessica and Amy are taking, please email me at csebsch@hotmail.com with "China Little Flower" in the subject line and I'll provide Jessica's mailing address. They're doing this entirely on their own, not through an organization or sponsorship, and have worked terribly hard to save money and raise money in small ways. They don't know I'm putting this request on this blog and I didn't plan on including it when I started this post, but there it is.

Leaving It There

To give you an idea of the expansiveness of my family: Yesterday, my oldest nephew turned 25. Today, a nephew somewhere in the middle turned 9. On Sunday, my youngest nephew will be 3 weeks old. There are 4 more nephews and 4 nieces filling the spaces in between those boys. I've been an aunt since I was 3 1/2 years old.

I am not the same aunt now as I was then. That's the thought that came to me as I was writing out yet another birthday card and signed it, "Love, Auntie Carrie." The manner of my love, the things I'd like to teach them, the ways I hope to be an example, and the wishes and worries I have for them... oh, how that all has changed. This train of thought curved around to other realms of my life - being a sister to my 6 older siblings, a daughter to my parents, a friend to my friends. I considered how much growth is required in order for those relationships to not just endure but to bear fruit. With growth and change and maturity, relationships are richer. Without... it strikes me as unnatural to fight against change and growth for the sake of "keeping things the same." It's a losing battle. It doesn't mean I don't fall into that well-intentioned mistake at times, but if I take a step back and look at things with some clarity I have to conclude that nothing stays the same and nothing should. There are realities that are constant and lasting but such characteristics do not imply sameness.

The place where I find a paradox is faith. In Scripture we are instructed on the importance of leaving behind the ways of a child in order to mature as adults in Christ (see 1 Corinthians 13) but also the necessity of having faith like a child (see Matthew 18 and Mark 10). I've always struggled with that concept of having childlike faith. I'm one for going deeper, for learning and understanding more, for having tangible evidence that I've matured in faith. Seeing childishness as a vice in most areas of life, it's tough to view it as a blessing when it comes to faith. I can explain the concept of childlike faith with my mind but have difficulty practicing it with my heart.

Occasionally I get a heart-reaching glimpse at the truth though. In RCIA class this week I taught on the topic of prayer. A broad topic that encompassed a lot of things. When I teach, I attempt to read the expressions of the candidates as they listen. Blank stares are tough to work with but anything else can be a real help to know if I should continue explaining a point or if it's time to move on. At this class there was a moment where the need to explain further was blatantly obvious in the face of one candidate. I'd said that there was a significant difference between only bringing our needs to the Lord in prayer versus actually leaving our needs with the Lord in prayer. As I expounded on that statement it dawned on me that here was an instance of having 'faith like a child.'

When a child, full of trust, brings a need to a parent, the child leaves the need there in Dad's or Mom's hands. He has no reason to continue to be bothered by it for he knows that his parent will take care of him. This is easily seen in the child's faith as well. I have heard the prayers of my nieces and nephews, simple and self-assured. They are not weighed down by the things they have just whispered to God. I, on the other hand, bring plenty of needful requests to God. I have the knowledge that He loves me, that He will care for me, that He loves everyone I might be praying for, and yet I usually go out of the room (so to speak) carrying those same petitions in my arms. It is not so much an entrusting of needs to the Lord as an effort to show them to Him, like I'm making sure He's aware of them. Being the capable, mature adult that I am (that's a debate for another time), I go on attempting to answer the petitions myself. I go on striving for resolutions, worrying over dilemmas, dwelling in sorrows. I do not leave them with the Lord! How very, very unchildlike of me.

I am not promoting a lack of growth in the Christian soul. My faith should not look the same as it did when I was seven or seventeen or even twenty-seven, though that be merely a year ago. My prayer life should not look the same. The shape of the light that Christ radiates through my life should not be the same.

Again, it is not sameness that is to be attempted. This time it is retention.

Retention of the trust I had as a child, of the confidence in the Lord's love which used to not just sustain me but overflow into rich joy in my soul.

Retention of the willingness to surrender - a willingness that allows me to tumble into the Lord's warm, capable hands and, when He helps me stand back up, to not pick up the needs and sorrows that fell into His hands along with me.

Please?

I don't normally make requests on this blog. I have no idea if there's any point since there's no way to know who reads this or how many views it receives. But I'm going to take a leap of faith and put a request out there, trusting that God works in hidden ways and maybe this blog can be part of that.


I have a friend who is dying. I can't help but begin to cry as I type this. Amy, who is in her early thirties, has been living with a brain tumor for the last few years. Every day that she's had since the tumor took hold has been a true miracle as the tumor is inoperable. With treatments and a great deal of prayer, the tumor had stopped growing for some time. However this is no longer the case and it has begun spreading significantly. All that is left to hope for is a miracle. Be it God's will, He is more than capable of providing that miracle. His will is so often hidden though.

These circumstances have me consumed with thoughts of loss and hope and the insufficiency of our own strength to sustain our own lives. As the person in Amy's family that I am closest to is her younger brother, I look upon the situation with the eyes of a sibling and my heart breaks for my dear friend, Mike. Even the imagining of losing one of my sisters is too much for me to dwell on for more than a few seconds.

Would you pray for Amy? Pray for a miracle, if it be God's will to continue her earthly life, to happen soon; for acceptance of God's choice in Amy's heart and the hearts of all of her family , whatever that divine choice ends up being; for consolation for Amy as she suffers, for her husband as he suffers at her side, for her dear and wonderful parents and siblings. They all need to be buoyed by prayers.

B-A-N-A-N-A-S

There are times when my family drives me crrrraaaaazy. With seven siblings, four of whom have spouses, our parents, and ten nieces and nephews being factored in, too, every discussion and plan inevitably becomes more complicated than it has any right being. Every so often, I can be in the middle of listening to the fourteenth change in plans or typing a reply in a ten person email conversation and my imagination flashes with Kelly Kapoor and "This day is bananas. B-A-N-A-N-A-S." It's as if the simplest idea is required to pass through a gauntlet of ongoing debate and multiple transformations before it can be put into action within the Ebsch family. Also, I'd gladly dare any of my siblings to come up with a single time that our repeated sharing of "in my opinion's" and "if it were up to me's" has ever led to actually solving and resolving an issue in the family. I love them all but seriously, is it really that hard to understand why I savor my solo evening/excursions/weekends/activites at every opportunity?

In This Way The Love of God Was Revealed

This morning, I read this great reflection by Father Thomas Rosica on the nature of the Trinity as a divine community. A snippet toward the beginning sums up the author's intent in drawing our attention to that nature: "If our faith is based in this Trinitarian mystery that is fundamentally a mystery of community, then all of our earthly efforts and activities must work toward building up the human community that is a reflection of God's rich, Trinitarian life."

As a lifelong Catholic, I've heard much talk of human dignity, of every man and woman's unique possession of the image of God within themselves. This great dignity constitutes a call to reflect God, to be formed more perfectly into His image by the thoughts we have, the words we speak, the actions we take. This individual imaging of divinity is of inestimable importance if a person is to every grasp the meaning and purpose of life. It cannot be emphasized enough. What I cannot claim to have heard a lot about is the manner in which the human community is called and is able to image the community of Persons of the Trinity. Every family, every church community, every small group Bible study, every ministry group, every intimate community of friends; the list is unending as we are a people who functions in the setting of community. Like each person possesses the dignity of being made in God's image and the potential of reflecting Him in the world, so every community of human persons possesses dignity and potential of reflecting the Trinity. I still remember this dawning on me as a brand new understanding of the purpose of family when it was explained to me in my Marriage & Family course at Franciscan U. This call to be an image of the Trinity has become my primary weapon against the fears that would hold me back from giving myself as a spouse and a parent someday.

The author of the article makes a significant point when he explains that the language of the Trinity, that is, the manner in which we understand this great mystery, is relational. "For God, as for us, created in God's image, relationship and community are primary. God can no more be defined by what God does than we can. God is a Being, not a Doing, just as we are human beings, not human doings. This is a point of theology, but also, with all good theology, a practical point." In fact, this point is not only practical but also fundamental. It is fundamental to the Christian understanding of the dignity and worth of each human life, measured not in what that life is able to do or contribute or accomplish but rather in the glorious fact of that life being another instance of God's image and likeness existing in this world. God's image and likeness! That is what we are. What we do and say is our means for communicating that image and likeness in the world, but it is not who we are as human beings.

What I am trying to come around to is that the individual is made in the image of a community, for God is a community of divine persons, and therefore the individual cannot live up to his or her dignity without living in relationship. As such each talent, strength and ability possessed by an individual is not possessed for their sole benefit. No, it is for the community; for the family. Whether that family is your own by blood or by marriage, or that family is your closest friends or your church community, the answer to your individual call to be God's image in this world is played out in relationship with others. Holding yourself back from such relationships is a two edged blade, cutting into your individual strength of faith and into the community's. You deprive yourself of experiencing the reflection of the Trinity, and you deprive others of your contributions to that reflection.

I return to the earlier quotation: "all of our earthly efforts and activities must work toward building up the human community that is a reflection of God's rich, Trinitarian life." Sounds like something straight from St. Paul or St. John, doesn't it? Maybe that's why I'm loving it so much. I read those words and the natural instinct ('natural' insofar as our nature is fallen) to look out for myself pushes itself to the surface. Am I simply to spend myself entirely for others? Have I not also learned the value of an intimate one on one relationship with God? Have I not felt the strain of being too involved, too busy with my faith community? Ah, yes, valid objections. Valid, but signs of immaturity. Mature faith understands how the one on one intmacy with the Lord does contribute to the building up of the family of God. Mature faith trusts that if I pour myself out for others in the name of Christ, there will be others pouring themselves out for me in the name of Christ. Mature faith causes me to love without worry over the vulnerability of loving, to serve without the aim of gaining praise, to pray never only for myself.

One of my absolute favorite movie lines is from "Diary of a Mad Black Woman". In a convincing speech, Orlando explains to Helen how he knew he was in love with her: "Helen, if I'm away from you for more than an hour, I can't stop thinking about you. I carry you in my spirit. I pray for you more than I pray for myself." It is not just the romantic in me who loves that speech (and its repetition when Helen finally realizes she loves, and is free to love, Orlando), it is also the Catholic in me. Orlando's love, when it has been purified by the tests placed upon it and the patient compassion he has had to practice toward Helen, is not about him but about her. It is the case with every person who learns to love how God loves. God exists in a constant, uninterrupted relationship of perfect love: the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. The Father eternally begets the Son in an outpouring of love; the Son eternally offers Himself back to the Father in love; the Holy Spirit is eternally begotten of the Father and the Son by the communication of their love for each other. All of this is contained in that mystery of faith, the Trinity; and all of this is reflected in human love. It is reflected in both our need for relationships and communities rooted in love and our capability of loving. I refer to agape love, to be specific, but I'm not going to try to explain all that here. Check out The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis.

At the end of this lengthy, rambling collection of this morning's thoughts, I have a Jars of Clay song in my head. It's the first track off their "Good Monsters" album, "Work." I got to sit in on a Q&A session with the band one time and they explained the meaning behind that song. One thing they touched on was the need for community. Dan, the lead singer, talked about the human person being dragged down by the world, especially when that person is trying to live a life of faith, hope and love. A person can end up feeling like they need help just to keep breathing. That is what community is for; relationships with those whom God has given to you is His way of carrying you through. Likewise, you are someone He gives to others to carry them through.

I often pray the Glory Be, hoping that whatever I am doing at the moment will glorify Him. I cannot live out that prayer, giving "glory to the Father, to the Son and the Holy Spirit" if community and relationship are not primary in my life. I cannot honor the community of divine love that is the Trinity if I do not give myself to and receive from the community of that divine love on this earth, the Church.

"In this way the love of God was revealed to us: God sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through him. In this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also must love one another. No one has ever seen God. Yet, if we love one another, God remains in us, and his love is brought to perfection in us. This is how we know that we remain in him and he in us, that he has given us of his Spirit." (1 John 4:9-13)

Oodles of Blessings

You know that sunshine I was craving yesterday? It's here! Bright and golden, albeit not too warm yet. I love the sight of it.

My sister, Julie and her family are moving to Wisconsin from Connecticut next month. I never expected for all five of the Ebsch sisters to live in the same area. We haven't even been in the same state since I was three years old, much less within a 90 minute radius of each other. It'll be a great thing to have her, her husband and their two girls nearby. I am hoping it will end up being a great blessing for their little family too. I know the move is a significant change for them, in more ways than one.

This morning I was blessed with laughter because of this:

There are some long running, highly entertaining llama jokes between my roomies and I (which I am unable to effectively explain here or anywhere) but this pic might just top them all. Take a moment and enjoy... don't miss the llamas packed into the back seat... or the question of whether or not the hole in the windshield was put there by a hoof...

Another morning activity was finding material for our handouts at this month's Adult Faith Night. The evening is focused on spiritual warfare. (Yes, that's my morning: llamas and spiritual warfare.) I found and read through a great address by Fr. John Hardon on one of St. Ignatius' Spiritual Exercises. It was not only ideal for the handouts I need to put together for Thursday but was a faith-bolstering and challenging read for myself as well. I think I need to add the Spiritual Exercises to my ever growing list of spirtuality books to read.

I suppose you could sum up my mood today as glad. I am gladdened by my wonderful family and the promise of true spring outside these office windows. I am gladdened by the time I have this week to develop the first chapters of my new novel. I am gladdened by the knowledge of and faith in God's overwhelming victory over evil and my part in His triumph should I remain faithful and vigilant. All is not perfect. All is not solved or decided. The enemy would have me dwell in what does not gladden me - sources of distress and unrest, conflicts and disappointments. I will not dwell there. While not pretending that everything is right and good, I will also not ignore the abundance of right and good blessings poured over me.

"In the world you will have trouble, but take courage;

I have overcome the world."

(Jesus, John 16:33)

and also...

Elijah & Zach

Tressa

and Lillian