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.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Catharsis

C: Catharsis

I walk two blocks west from my hotel and spot the wooden sign for The Griffin. When I asked the front desk attendant for a recommendation of both the best Reuben sandwich and the best whiskey old fashioned, this was his immediate answer.

As I push open the door, I loosen my tie and undo the top button of my white oxford shirt. I scan the

room. It’s large. Dark, polished wood, red accents, and brass hardware under dim, golden light create a weighty ambiance. There are about a dozen patrons inside, each silent or conversing in their lowest voices. The mahogany bar runs the full width of the front of the room. I pick a stool near no one and order my first round from an indifferent bartender. He keeps his eyes on a muted flat screen television on the adjacent wall. It’s a re-broadcast of this afternoon’s Dodgers-Giants game. While I sip my drink and peruse the kitchen’s menu, a man sits on the stool to my left.

The bartender immediately hands him a Budweiser without a word from either of them. He’s about my age, I discern from a sideways glance. His hands look older. Their calluses and knobby knuckles remind me of my father’s hands. My father was a union man in an iron foundry for forty-two years. I wonder briefly what this man does for a living, but the curiosity passes. There’s only one thing that occupies my mind tonight. One person.

My food order taken, the bartender brings me a second cocktail. I turn the glass in my hand. The slick condensation transfers from the glass to my fingers.

“Ricky?”

My neighbor on the next stool is peering at me with bloodshot eyes.

“Ricky! What’s it been?” he slurs. “A few years, I’d say. How you been, man?”

“I’m not Ricky, sir.”

His raspy laugh turns into a cough. “What are you going on about, Ricky? I’d know you anywhere.”

“My name is David. I’m not Ricky.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, man. It’s good to see you.” He swats my shoulder and almost slips off his stool.

I decide to ignore him. My brain returns to the same questions plaguing me since I flew to this city on Monday. It’s Thursday now. How’s it going to be when I get home? More of this? What do I want it to be like when I get home? That last question is the one I know I need to answer.

“You heard what happened, I’ll bet.” The man is teetering on that thin line between thoroughly intoxicated and sloppy drunk.

I stare into my glass after taking another swig.

“Yeah, of course you heard what happened to my Jenny.”

He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not responding. I look toward the bartender for aid but his eyes are on the already played ballgame.

“Can I confess the truth?” The man leans in as if he’s whispering, though he is not. “Sure, sure, I can. You’re an old friend. You won’t tell.”

I shake my head, wishing I’d stayed in and order overpriced room service.

“I think I killed her.”

My fingers stop tracing the rim of my glass. I turn my head a little and meet his eyes. They’re wide and bleary. He waits and I find my voice. “Listen, sir. I’m not Ricky. Maybe you need to have a water, or a soda, and sober up a little.”

It’s as if I didn’t even speak. “Geez, it feels good to admit that. Really good. I mean, don’t call the cops or nothing. I didn’t kill her.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“But still, I think I killed her.”

He goes silent for more than a minute and I hope it’s over. It’s not.

The man downs the last of his beer. “She only took drives like that when I made her mad. Fast. Old roads. Curves and hills.” His voice fades out. There are fat tears on his cheeks. I doubt he even knows they’re there. “‘You’ll kill yourself, driving like that, woman!’ That’s what I used to tell her. ‘Good,’ she’d say. ‘I have a way to do it then when you make me want to.’”

I shudder at the darkness of this exchange he had, more than once, with Jenny, whom I assume was his wife. It sounds outrageous. Even as I think this, I am flashing back to the bitter words that filled the air of our living room Sunday night, and the cold indifference Josie and I maintained on Monday morning until I left for the airport. No calls, no texts. None, this whole week, and tomorrow I fly home.

“I made her so mad that night. Madder than I’d ever seen.” He pounds on the bar and the bartender looks our way. “Another, ya’ lazy barkeep!” he chortles.

The bartender shakes his head. “No can do, McNeil. I already called your cab. I warned you that bottle was your last for tonight.”

McNeil scowls. Then his expression clears and his focus is back on me. “Do you think she meant to do it, Ricky?”

My mouth is dry. My drink is empty.

“Do you think she meant to hit that tree? Maybe, man, maybe. Either way, it’s on me. I knew what I was doing to her. I knew. I killed her.”

“Cab’s here,” the bartender interrupts.

“I could’ve stopped her, Ricky. I could’ve made it good.”

He stands and wobbles in his steel-toed boots. I see the grief, the self-loathing, in the lines of his face and the drop of his broad shoulders. He’s a large, muscular man, but he walks like a weaker, older version of himself.

After I watch him go, I rest my elbows on the bar and my head in my hands. Josie’s face fills my vision. The bartender slides my plate in front of me, but I stand up and mumble that I’ll be back in a minute. I reach for the phone in my pocket. “I have to call my wife.”

*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Bisou (Kiss)

B: Bisou (Fr: Kiss)
Photo Prompt: The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville, by Robert Doisneau

I sit at my usual table by the sidewalk, facing the Hotel De Ville. I drink my usual coffee, and take slowly paced bites of my usual croissant. People pass in their usual way, silent beside the street filled with noisy motor cars. All is as usual.

Then, it is not.

A couple appears. They are young, considerably younger than I. Pretty, but still blending with the stream of pedestrians. In front of the table beside mine, he stops. His arm is around her waist, so she stops too. He moves his arm to her shoulders, drawing her into his side as he dips his head toward her. Her graceful neck stretches, turns to match him. His lips meet hers, urgent and sincere. It is beautiful.

"The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville" by Robert Doisneau, 1950

It all happens in a matter of five seconds, maybe fewer. The kiss lasts as long, then his arm slides back to her waist and they walk on. Phantom smiles on their lips; a blush upon her cheekbones; and with no notice of the other persons in the flow that they rejoin on the sidewalk, they are gone.

My hand trembles around the porcelain coffee cup. The only thought in my mind slips through my lips in a whisper, "How long is it since I've been kissed like that? Have I ever?"

A memory flashes like a film reel. Yes, I have.

It is night, more than ten years ago. We walk beside the Seine. There is space between us, and then there is not. He takes my hand, pulls me in, and kisses me for the first time - the only time - for he is my friend and nothing more. His kiss is earnest. I feel his fingers tighten with mine.

I hear his voice in my head and I close my eyes to listen.

"I needed to do that," he says.

But I am too stunned to speak.

"Should I apologize?"

"No," I manage.

My fingertips rest on my lips, although I do not remember lifting my hand there. Every emotion, every sensation, returns to me, in the aftermath of those strangers' kiss. How had I forgotten?

No, I did not forget, but I had not remembered either.

I lift my coffee for a drink, my hands no longer shaking. A smile teases at my lips. I reckon it is a match for the smile the woman on the sidewalk wore after being kissed like that, after being kissed like I have been before.


*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

Take Out

She'd overcooked the pasta. It was pitched in the trash. The empty kettle landed in the sink with an echoing clatter. She lifted herself with some difficulty onto the countertop, and sat. The burner on the stove still glowed red as fire. Of course she'd forgotten to turn it off. Of course.

"Andrea?"  Leo's voice floated toward her from the hallway.

Typically, she turned on the light over the front steps before he came home so he could unlock the door without fumbling in the dark. Of course she'd forgotten that too.

"I'm here."

Leo draped his suit jacket over a dining chair and came to stand before her. He rested his hands on her knees. She lightly bounced her heels off the cupboard below her. He smiled, leaned in for a kiss.

"I ruined dinner."

She watched his nose wrinkle, then he covered the last two inches between them, claiming his kiss.

"I don't care," he whispered.

"I can't focus today. The whole day," she said emphatically.

"We'll order take out."

He went for a second kiss but she leaned past his face to lay her cheek on his shoulder. She inhaled his scent. Leo wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her from the countertop. She draped her arms around his neck and pressed her knees against his hips. His muscles tightened to hold her steady while he walked to the sofa. When he laid her down there, she saw a wet circle on his shoulder. She hadn't realized she was crying.

"I left the stove on."

He returned to the kitchen, then back to the sofa a moment later. "You rest. I'll order our food."

Andrea closed her eyes. The resulting darkness was speckled with prismatic lights; beautiful lights she wished she could stop seeing. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered. Opening one eye, she focused on the framed snapshot of her and Leo hiking Mount Moriah. "I have to do this."

Leo was on the phone, muffled through the walls between here and their bedroom. He'd be changing into jeans and a t-shirt. She remembered the warmth of his chest against hers as he'd carried her from the kitchen; the steadfast beating of his heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. She envied it. Her heart raced and stuttered more every week.

"It's the medication," the doctor always answered with a wave of his hand. The irregular heartbeat; the shaking hands; the pain in her legs; the lights in her vision; the inability to focus her mind; everything had one of two answers: "It's the medication. It's the tumor."

"Are you resting?" Leo called from the bedroom.

"Mmmhmm," she responded, far too quiet for him to hear.

She felt sleep approaching. Each night she welcomed it with a vague thought that it might be perfectly okay if she did not wake up. Come morning, when her eyes opened and she saw Leo on the pillow beside her, she felt overwhelming relief that it had not been her last day. Would that morning sentiment eventually dissipate? This was the question she pondered as she drifted out.

When Andrea woke, moonlight filled the gap in the curtains. It was a spotlight on Leo, slumbering in the leather easy chair beside the sofa. His neck would be sore from the angle of his surrender to sleep. His plate and fork were on the coffee table, empty but for a few bits of rice. A clean fork and knife
were on the table in front of Andrea. Their arrangement suggested a plate had resided between them, until it'd become obvious she wouldn't be roused from her sleep. She knew she'd find it carefully wrapped and stowed in the refrigerator.

Propped against her fork stood a small rectangle of paper with red lettering: the slip from inside Leo's fortune cookie. Andrea picked it up. She stood, slowly, and moved to the shaft of moonlight to see the words he'd wanted her to read.

"A true companion journeys to the same destination, and will carry you when your feet will not."

Andrea clutched the paper in her fist. With a kiss to his forehead, she woke Leo. He stood, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to their bed. She rested her ear on his chest, seeking that reliable rhythm from inside of him. She rubbed her thumb against the soft stubble on his jaw, and prayed she'd wake up again tomorrow.

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.

Normal - a Flash Fiction Piece

"I won't sleep in our bed."

"What was that, ma'am?"

I glance at the cab driver. "Nothing."

"It's alright, ma'am. I talk to myself plenty."

Do what's normal. It's what my aunt advised for after the funeral. After. Everything will be marked as before and after now.

Sliding the clasp of my necklace back behind my tired curls, I whisper at the empty seat beside me, "We'll talk about this at home."

Do what's normal.

Pay the driver.

Nod at the doorman.

Press the elevator button.

It dings its arrival. Is it always that loud? Two others board the elevator with me. Strange since the lobby echoes like a canyon yet I didn't hear them approach.

I grow impatient once the doors close. "I won't sleep in our bed, Ian. I can't."

My fellow passengers turn, chins over shoulders, then lower their eyes to the floor.

The doors open and I exit before speaking again. "The guest bed is comfortable. Don't worry about me." I stop, key in my fist. "Can you worry where you are?"

The breakdown starts in my knees. It will spread to my back and my arms, then my whole body will collapse to the floor. I picture myself curled on the green straw welcome mat in front of the Lancasters' door. "No." Digging the key into my palm, I walk.

"Fine. I'll sleep in the damn bed. Are you happy?"

The question does me in. I shove our door - my door - open and fall down in privacy. When the shaking and the tears pass, I roll to my back; knees up, feet planted. There's a tiny run in my tights that I pull at with my fingernail until it tears over my thigh. I stand and remove my black heels, ruined black tights, and black dress. When I drop the tights in the trash, I linger two seconds before adding the shoes and the dress.

Do what's normal.

"That's why I have to talk to you." Normal is talking to Ian about the day, the news, the basketball game he's watching that I don't care about and the book I'm reading that he doesn't care about.

In our bedroom - my bedroom - I pick up our wedding photo from the desk. "This won't do."

From the bookshelves, I dump a box of photographs on the carpet. With the pictures spread in a half moon, I survey them without seeing details. I can't endure the details. "Where is it?" I shout a second before my eyes land on it. "Oh, Ian."

My favorite one. I trace my fingertip over his cheek, his mouth. I ache for a kiss. I haven't ached like this since our first years together when we still made love more nights than not.

"We'll talk more tomorrow."

My black bra and panties go in the trash too. The photo goes on his pillow beside me. I fall asleep flat on my back, hands resting one over the other on my stomach, like him.

Seven Years Ago

Seven years ago on this day, I went to dinner with my sister, our mutual best friends, and the husband of one of those friends. We ate at one of our favorite restaurants, Good Company, in Appleton, WI. The hostess seated us around a large circular table in the front section of the first floor of the large, two-story restaurant. Later that evening we would attend a concert at a local church. Our conversations probably ran through a gamut of topics. I don't know. I only remember one.

I told them about a coworker who lately was offering frequent smiles and inquiries into how my day was faring. Occasionally he invited me to join a group of peers for lunch. Sometimes the flirtation was clear but more often he left the impression of straightforward, genuine friendliness. After encountering him each workday, I usually wondered two things: was I assuming too much about his interest and, if not, then why the hell was he interested in me? I'd sit in my chair behind the reception desk, running reports, handling mail, and finding ways to pass the slower hours. He'd walk by to reach our adjacent show room, on his way to fix whatever technical issue had cropped up on one of the machines. Eye contact, smile, small talk or a joke, then the day rolled along.

I consistently turned down the invitations to lunch. I kept the small talk brief. I silently questioned why this guy bothered to talk to me. My skepticism was not because I was clueless - which might have been excusable considering my lack of adult dating experience - but because I was afraid. Oh, how I was afraid. All the seeds for that fear were planted in earlier years, having nothing to do with this man and everything to do with me.

At dinner that night, as we waited for our entrees to arrive, my closest friends listened to me talk about this man. Eventually, one of them interrupted me with a single demand: the next time he invited me to lunch, I had to say yes. I laughed and she asserted the demand more vehemently while the others added their support. They did not relent until I agreed.

I spent the rest of that Saturday evening negotiating with the fears in my head. I spent the remainder of the weekend debating whether or not I hoped my coworker would invite me to lunch just one more time. The following Tuesday I shared a meal with my husband for the first time.

The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek.

Joseph Campbell



A couple months after that first lunch date.

And 6 1/2 years later.

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.

The Rhythm of His Heart

Writing Prompt: I fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.
Writing Time: 15 minutes

She laid her head on his chest, letting her nerves be soothed by his heartbeat. She felt her own heart steady itself. They'd been fighting all week. They'd been fighting for months, in truth. With each burst of regrettable words and cold glares, her heart raced. It pounded against her rib cage in a combination of threat and reassurance: a threat that it could become more than she could handle - more than they could come back from; a reassurance that she had not reached, and could not imagine reaching, a point of no longer caring if they could recover.

Every couple went through times like this. That's what she believed. Turmoil was found in every coupling. Sometimes she was tempted to think their particular brand of turmoil could be worse than others but mostly she was confident it was not. It was what their bond, forged in passion and affection and joy, prepared them for.

Here with her ear over his heart, she hoped he still believed likewise. Despite her share in the mistakes and the pain they caused him, she hoped he still believed.

As his breathing slowed into sleep, she wracked her brain for how she could convince him that she was still glad she chose him. He needed to know she was still choosing him. That was the way she'd fallen short so often in these months. Her grandmother's words at her bridal shower all those years ago came back to her.

"Choose each other every day. Above everybody else, choose each other. Even when you're busy or you can't physically be near each other, make sure your hearts are still choosing each other. There are so many things and so many people to choose from. You'll be tempted to let it slide because you already have each other, but you'll only have each other for as long as you keep choosing each other."

In her naive, bridal bliss, the advice seemed quaint. Here, multiple kids, jobs, houses, and sufferings later, she understood.

"I choose you," she whispered into his chest and fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

What Is the Book About?

"What is the book about?"

 

I couldn't possibly count the number of times I have heard this question. Sometimes people want a summary of the plot. Other times they are looking for the genre or a succinct synopsis. Easy question to answer, right? Right.

 

As the author, maybe because I am specifically a new author, I find the question difficult. How do I condense this story down to a few simple sentences? This story I've been writing and tweaking and rewriting for almost a decade. These characters I created from scratch and know like my best friends. Their relationships, their dilemmas, their pains and victories. How do I answer that question?

 

Then I stumbled upon this photo from the online magazine, "Verily." I saw it and exclaimed, "That's it!"

"Do not be afraid when love requires sacrifice." (St. John Paul II)

 

That right there is my book pared down to one sentence. The theme at the heart of Full of Days is the worthiness of love even when sacrifices are necessary for its existence. That truth is the reason I wrote it. Extending from this theme are the additional claims: that love's worth is essentially increased by those sacrifices and that no authentic love is capable of existing without some sacrifice.

 

In Full of Days, the protagonists experience this truth in varied ways. Sacrifice of pride and of approval. Sacrifice of comfort and security. Sacrifice of self. The latter is the only means for love to thrive. Do not mistake it for a pretty, romantic notion. It is the depth beneath the romance. It is the struggle beneath the prettiness. Self-sacrifice is the sustenance of love.

 

And, oh, the rewards! Freedom gained when pride and fear are rejected. Joys and adventures experienced when security is set aside and faith is boldly chosen. Strength built by arising from sorrow. Yes, my beloved characters experience these too.

 

If there is anything, anything at all, I hope my readers gain from this novel, it is a little less fear of and a little more courage for authentic love.

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 19: Then I Remember

Photo/Writing Prompt: Sometimes I...

Sometimes I forget how it felt the first time you kissed me, or even held my hand. The nerves, the doubts, the thrilling hope; the sensations have faded like a dress left out in the sun. The vibrancy has dimmed. If I put that dress back on though, if I slip back into the seams of that memory, then I remember it all. The substance of it is no worse for wear. It still envelops me and I sink gladly into it.

Sometimes I forget, but maybe that's how it should be for the sake of the sweetness of remembering.

We Are Afraid of Ourselves

Why are we terrified to admit to who we are? I do not mean your flaws or sins. I mean WHO YOU ARE. Why do we as human beings recoil at any claim of our inherent worth? We hear someone declare that human life is sacred, or that we are made in the image of God, or that the human person possesses an inalienable dignity that only a human can possess, and we balk. Downplay it. Avoid the topic. Point out all that is darkness so that we do not have to face the light that exists in us. Why are we afraid of who we are?

Events of recent weeks, headlines and online chatter, have me contemplating a long loved quote of the great St. Augustine:

"Men go abroad to wonder at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motions of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering."

I have a few ideas of why we are afraid to look with rightful wonder upon ourselves and our neighbor:
1. Acceptance of who we truly are would require us to raise our standards by about a mile. My chosen behaviors, the actions of others, the circumstances we settle for, the lies we tell ourselves to be more comfortable in this world: they would all be knocked down by the standard to which the human person, in all his greatness, deserves to be held.

2. We could not look upon the evil humans can and do commit with either indifference or tolerance.

3. Acknowledging the truth about ourselves leads to acknowledging the truth about every single other human person. The couple in the house next door; the terrorist; the kid who comes to your door; the murderer in prison; the handicapped man bagging your groceries; the elderly woman no longer productive in society; the jerk behind you at the ball game; the unborn child; your spouse; your best friend; your worst enemy. The truth of who we are as human beings demands a radical change in our treatment of each other, no exceptions.

4. Belief in this truth opens the door to all the answers to life's great questions. This seems like a welcome treasure to gain, but I believe that actually having those answers is a frightening prospect for must of us because having them would require us to do something about them.

This quote from Marianne Williamson is one I've come back to again and again for personal inspiration. You have probably encountered it before. Read it slowly and maybe twice.

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

Even well-meaning Christians hesitate over the truth of the inherent worth of every human person. They settle into the idea (the more comfortable idea) that any worth and dignity they possess is only because they have Christ living in them. They decide to believe the theologically unsound notion that if Christ did not live in them, they would be worthless. This is not true. Even if Christ does not live in you, you are infinitely valuable. Let me repeat that. Even if Christ does not live in you, you are infinitely valuable. That is why Jesus came! If it were not true, you would not mean enough to God for Him to send Jesus to die for you!

You are not worth everything because Jesus died for you. Jesus died for you because you are worth everything! If Christians want a leg to stand on in evangelization, we cannot treat anyone as less than what they are.

This belief in the dignity of every unique person does not give rise to the lie that is modern tolerance. "I'm ok, you're ok" is not the message here. Nor does it mean that everything else is meaningless. Who you are as a human being infuses meaning into all of your time, all of your encounters, and all of your endeavors. And like I mentioned already, it raises the standard for what is 'ok' tremendously higher than where we tend to place it on a daily basis.

The true nature of your personhood and that of the person you encounter next today means that you and the other are worthy of love and nothing less. Authentic love is desiring the good of the person (yourself and others) and then doing something about it. If we hold each of our behaviors, attitudes, and words under the spotlight of that definition, how much authentic love would we find?

I beg you as I beg myself, stop being afraid of your own worth.

Love Through It

Let me tell you something about my husband. He is exceptional.

This morning I woke up feeling frustrated. Insecure. Disappointed. And my first fallen instinct was to let my husband feel the effects. In my attitude and demeanor, he was undeservedly on the receiving end of my weak mental state.

This man beside me works daily to support our family, spending his hours at a job that doesn't make nearly enough use of his great skills and talents. He is unwavering in his dedication to raising his sons in uprightness. He apologizes when he is in the wrong, and talks through mistakes to move a step forward by them rather than letting them push him backward. He will push through any discomfort or pain to accomplish what is necessary, and usually a good stretch farther than necessary. He is relentless in ensuring I smile and laugh enough each day.

And when I give him scowls instead of smiles, selfish words instead of generous ones, he loves me through it.

He loves me through it.

I pray every wife is able to say that of her husband, and vice versa. We must love each other through it. All of it.

Still New - Day 1, National Week of Marriage

I sometimes forget I'm a newlywed. Caught up in new motherhood, my awareness of the newness of my marriage fades. Then a moment comes along that catches me by surprise and immerses me in it once again.

My husband and I have been married for 1 year and 4 months. That still qualifies as newlywed, right? I certainly believe it does. We are still learning. That is what I have to remind myself so often as I attempt to balance all sides of this life we are living together. Learning to love, learning to live as one. Learning to rejoice and to forgive. Learning to fight and to make up. Well, maybe we have the making up part down fairly well. Learning to laugh at ourselves and with each other. Learning to challenge and accept. Learning to wait and to work.

With each passing month, I gain a deeper appreciation for how our strengths and weaknesses offset each other. Matt does not make me whole. No, only my Lord does that and I will wound my marriage every time I try to fit my husband in that role instead of Christ. But Matt does complement me, and I him. Together we are stronger, wiser, better.

Love is amazing. It is awesome. I mean that in the true sense of the word, not the trite way we usually toss it around. Awesome - filling me with awe when I contemplate the way it can build a person up to more than they ever thought they could be. Or how it can inflict pain, even unintentionally, when it is sacrificed for the sake of self interest. The power in the nature of authentic love is massive. Every day people sell themselves short with their conceptions of what they should gain or feel or experience in the name of so-called love. And God just keeps giving us more chances. More days. Each one an opportunity to let the truth dawn on us that real love is possible. It is available. We are capable of it and we were created to receive it.

Real love. Another phrase we can't simply assume we understand. God is love. All human love is a share in the life of God. If something has no place in God, who is all truth, all beauty, all goodness, then it is not real love. There is no standard lower than that which should be applied to love.

Real love manifests itself in endless forms. Faithfulness - from our very thoughts to our outright actions, not merely avoiding unfaithfulness but dedicating yourself to falling more in love with your spouse by noticing the good, complimenting the beautiful, encouraging the potential in the other. Self-sacrifice - in the daily grind of taking care of the home, working long hours to support your family, putting the other first in even the smallest ways so you will be well practiced when the time comes to put them first in a big way. Joy - celebrating the presence of the other in your life, praising God for them, thinking each day of a reason to be thankful for them rather than taking them for granted. Affection - touch with intentionality, kiss with purpose instead of absentmindedly, learn each other's bodies and desires as lovers, small caresses and deep intimacy. Forgiveness - always forgiveness. Without hesitation, every day we have together, forgive. No grudge, no 'holding out' will make you or your marriage better. Fight respectfully and forgive generously. Prayer - lift your spouse and your marriage up to God. Let Him tend to it, guide it, form it, The two of you are never alone in this relationship.

I love my husband. As a new wife, I am still learning how to really love my husband.

Bear With One Another

(Originally written for "The Bells of St. Mary's" parish newsletter)

I’m on break at work and it’s been one of those days: computer issues rendering me incapable of completing my task list, miscommunications and lack of responsibility by individuals, and a vague awareness that I need a vacation. It’s all adding up to a mood in which I’m simply trying not to ruin other people’s days. Now I’m sitting down to write about forbearance. The humor is not lost on me.

Forbearance. The word almost sounds foreign. Certainly not one that rolls off the tongue in everday conversation. It is a word hearkening back to the antique language of the Bible, before revisionists tried to modernize the verses of Scripture. But what is it? Merely a synonym for patience? When St. Paul instructs us to bear with one another (Colossians 3:13), is it a matter of just putting up with people as they are? Or is it a virtue that integrates several virtues at once?
Patience, compassion, mercy, understanding, humility, forgiveness – each is in play when forbearance is practiced. And why do we forbear? Ultimately? Because God does. Because “while we were still sinners Christ died for us” (Romans 5:8).

We forbear because the Father did not wait for us to understand His plans before He sent His only begotten Son. Christ did not wait for people to believe in Him before performing miracles, or for folks to humble themselves before setting a holy example of service. And He did not wait for us to stop sinning before pouring His life out on the Cross. When we consider the Lord ‘s mercy, we should “consider the patience of our Lord as salvation” (2 Peter 3:15).

The family member who can’t shake an addiction, or who has an unbroken pattern of selfishness; the friend who clings to self-pity and grudges, or is too proud to admit a mistake; the coworker who gets under your skin; the spouse with the habit you wish could be eradicated; the child who just can’t correctly do what you’ve shown him how to do a hundred times. They all need your forbearance.

One who forbears looks upon another’s struggle, suffering or shortcoming and, as he does so, humbly acknowledges his own of the same. Forbearance manifests itself in enduring, determined patience. It is the antithesis of provocation. Where you could react in loud anger, you choose mildness and calm, firm words. Instead of giving up hope, you ask the Holy Spirit to show you how to help. Rather than dismissing the troubles weighing on another’s mind, you listen and seek to understand. Forgiveness is chosen over resentment. Intercession is offered up instead of condemnation.

Look on everyone with the eyes of your Heavenly Father, from the briefest encounter with a stranger to the most intimate relationships in your life. The Father’s eyes see each of us as we truly are, with every success and failure, strength and weakness, act of love and act of fear, virtue and vice. Through those eyes, we can love, and because we love, we can forbear.

Fresh

My lover speaks; he says to me,
"Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one,
and come!
"For see, the winter is past,
the rains are over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of pruning the vines has come,
and the song of the dove is heard in our land.
The fig tree puts forth its figs,
and the vines, in bloom, give forth fragrance.
Arise, my beloved, my beautiful one,
and come!
~Song of Songs 2:12~

I have two double daffodils on my desk. It is baffling how the presence of fresh flowers changes a space. They were among the few blooms in our front flower bed that came through this spring. Once their stalks bent to the ground, I rescued them to spend the last of their bright yellow days in a mug of water on this desk. Perhaps when I have a true writing desk, a space consecrated to that activity, I will aim to always have fresh flowers of some sort at hand. Someday...

It's a season of freshness - Spring - overly wet and slow in coming though it may be. The branches of the many maples in my neighborhood are decked out in their green buds. Daylight comes at such an early hour again. Walks and bike rides and softball games are filling the evenings. My summer calendar is already heavy with plans but for now, for a few more weeks, I feel like I can breathe a bit slower, deeper, and the air I catch will swell in my lungs with the freshness it lacked through the lengthy winter.

My niece became engaged this past Sunday. For several years it was a frequent (and nearly funny) joke in our family that she might marry before me or a couple of my sisters. The idea of that happening was a lonely one indeed. The past year changed my perspective on a heck of a lot though and with my hand in Matt's, I am able to rejoice with her. Granted the fact that my niece is getting married makes me feel a bit old, but not lonely. In a single year, I have tasted what it means to have a companion, to be beloved, to give and receive wholehearted affection, to fight for and with each other, to question and subsequently dig for the answers, to rest in another's arms and trust them to hold you well. I say 'tasted' because even with all the depth of the relationship thus far, I have a back-of-the-mind sense that we have yet only skimmed the surface.

In the last few months I've read several books that remind me why I love reading. They remind me of what I am trying to do and why I try at all. Water for Elephants, The Guernsey Literary & Potato Peel Pie Society, Inkheart... The words of others wear away my apathy and hesitation. I have no small task in redeveloping Aillinn's character and backstory in order to give more depth to her part in the story of Full of Days. The invigorating pleasure of taking up that task outweighs the difficulty though. I am freshly ambitious and as such I feel more like myself in this realm of things than I have for nearly a year.

There is such beauty - not vain beauty but tangible, effective beauty - in a person pursuing what God has designed them to do. To love, to create, to believe, to hope, to give of themselves in their unique ways. When the talents and qualities He has given are taken up by their possessor, those close by are able to witness that spark of life, of truly living, which I believe we all wish to experience day by day. Each day truly lived is indeed a radiant bloom.

Spurts

Spring seems to be coming only in spurts this year. Tiny, sporadic, brief spurts. Like today - the first day of sunshine and 50+ degrees in a couple weeks. And a couple weeks ago there was only one similar day after another few weeks prior to that. It's been sad and discouraging and all too well suited to the way I'm living. Writing, cleaning, exercising, praying - all in spurts. It's shameful and it's not me!

Consider this a mid-year review. If I were my boss, I would not give me a raise, inflation or no inflation. Time to step up. There is nothing more disappointing in a person than potential left unactualized. And no person more disappointing in that regard than when it is your own self.

Rebounding from a 10 day cold and headaches that rendered me horribly listless, I am ready to not only feel like myself but to live like myself. How I used to prize consistency! Consistent effort bore consistent fruit.

Let's be honest, falling in love interrupts everything. In the best possible way, of course, but I realize now that I have waited a whole year to adapt to living in love. Welcoming after years of waiting the chance to focus so wholly on my relationship, it is time to live more as my truest self in that relationship. I am a prayerful, tennis playing, hiking, reading and writing friend and family member who is in love. I am not a lover who used to be the rest of those things. It's as cliche as it comes, I know. Who doesn't lose themselves in the joy of the new relationship only to find the relationship would be better nurtured if they hadn't lost track of themselves? So I suppose I'm just learning one of the oldest lessons around. Well, it's learned. I get it. And I am glad for the chance to have learned it. Now let's get on with it! :)

What Is It?

I don't know how to explain it but I am in such high spirits this morning! I feel as if I could conquer anything you set before me. There is such newness to this day. Is it the promise of plenty of melting of the snow as the temps finally reach the high 40's? Is it the great prospect of a whole relaxing weekend away in Door County for me and Matt? Is it the fact that today is Opening Day and this afternoon my favorite boys of summer will be taking the field again? Is it the simple reality that my life is full of love that wraps around, sinks into, and intersperses itself amongst all else of which my life consists?

"God is love. He didn't need us. But He wanted us. And that is the most amazing thing." Rick Warren

"Love wholeheartedly, be surprised, give thanks and praise - then you will discover the fullness of your life." Brother David Steindl-Rast

"The greatest honor we can give Almighty God is to live gladly because of the knowledge of His love." Blessed Julian of Norwich

Keeps Getting Better

On my brief commute this morning, I flipped between radio stations a few times. The latest Katy Perry tune just wasn't my cup of tea nor were the DJ's bantering conversations. I settled on a Rascal Flatts song I hadn't heard before. Only half the song played before I reached my parking spot but that's all it took to leave me disappointed. The theme was the urgency of getting married because there wasn't any reason not to do so. His most persuasive argument: "I can't imagine loving you any more than I do today." Romantic? Sweet? Or the makings of a failed marriage?

I know, I know, I'm being far too analytical about a country song, but the statement really bothered me! Maybe when you first realize you're in love, it's so intense that it's valid to say you can't imagine loving the other person more than you do at that point. However as the relationship continues, as time passes and the bond is deepened and solidified, you learn, with considerable amazement, that it is indeed possible to love your beloved more today than the day before. You begin to hope that the trend will continue: tomorrow will see more love than today; next month will see greater commitment than this month; next year will see a richer experience of each other's love than this year. The journey towards marriage ought to make it perfectly reasonable to have confident faith in the ongoing growth of your love for one another. The urgent lust that seems to underly this man's request that they get married immediately? Sure, that might cool off. The passion might even out. The love, though, just keeps getting better. That's what I'm waiting and hoping for; nothing less will persuade me to attend the wedding.