We're in this together.

Twenty-four years ago, we said "I do." Sometimes, it's hard to remember the people we were back then, the dreams we dreamed, the plans we made. We said "in sickness and in health." Boy howdy, did my new husband get more than he bargained for there--nine months of pregnancy nausea followed quickly by chemotherapy and radiation. He married a petite, long-haired girl and by the time we celebrated our third anniversary, I'd been fat and bald (and throwing up) most of our married life . He was a very good sport.

In all seriousness, he was better than a good sport. He was everything I could have ever hoped for and more than I ever imagined. He was with me at every single doctor's appointment. Every single blood draw. Every step of the way. We walked that path alone. Together. None of our friends were married yet, never mind married with a baby and cancer. Many of our friends from high school and college walked out of our life as we walked this unpaved path. Together, we found a strength in Someone bigger than we were. Together we dreamed hope. 

And we were never the same. It was never him and me again.

It was us. Together. With God.

Then the babies came. It takes a very strong man to say "yes" to every opportunity to be co-creators with God. A very strong, very faithful, very hard-working man. One after another, every two years until there were seven of them, all lined up like a staircase, each one looking very much like the next one. Seven precious souls to love and cherish and teach and drive to soccer. It was still us--but us plus them. Busy. Busy. Busy. Mike building a career. Me, holding down the fort at home. Still together, but sometimes, much more often than we liked,  just in spirit.

Two more really hard pregnancies, the second one a refresher course in life-threatening goal setting. There he was again, right beside me every time it got so scary I thought the fear would crush me. Lovely miracles, two golden haired sweethearts. They are his heart's delight. Even now, nearly three years after the second was born, I can't quite believe how generously and abundantly our good God answers our fervent prayers.

{Speaking of prayers, I have prayed for Mike every day since we were sophomores in high school. That's a crazy lot of prayers. Thirty years of daily prayers. 10,950 days worth of prayers. }

But back to those babies. Nine babies in all--nine babies to feed and clothe and educate. He has worked so hard all these years, often far away in a TV truck parked outside one stadium or another. He has spent many a night in hotel bed, trying to sleep just a couple of hours before catching the early flight home. And I've been here, trying to do all the things that need doing, trying to craft home, even when home is a lonely place without him. Together we've done the best we can. So often, he calls and he says he I wishes I were there. I believe him. I wish I were there, too. He's really good at what he does in those trucks and those studios and I wish I could come alongside him more often and watch him in action.

Early this year, we made a gut-wrenching decision. He sacrificed a huge opportunity and a long-hoped-for title and we prayed the tradeoff would be to settle down a bit at last. The whole idea was to bring him home. That hasn't quite worked out yet (though I'm assured it will very soon). He has been gone a lot since that decision, finishing up his freelance work and then working indescribably long hours  to launch a new show. The show is shot in Miami, but produced in DC. He has done his level best to be both places at once. Neither place is home.  

Today is our 24th wedding anniversary. Today, that show launches. He has a big day ahead of him. He will be working from dawn until showtime. Then, late in the afternoon, he will watch the show become what he envisioned-- in a cold studio in another city. And just like every other time, he will want to share the moment.

This time will be different.

A lot of people who love us (most of them those aforementioned babies) have come together to cover all my bases at home. God willing, when that show goes to air, and Mike is watching months of work come to fruition, he will be surprised to see me standing right beside him. 

Because, today, I can't imagine being anywhere else.

{Thanks for listening to this story. I have never surprised my husband with anything; I have a very hard time not telling him my every thought. So, the writing of this piece was therapy. I had to spill it somewhere and telling Karoline didn't seem a prudent option. So, I will set it to auto-post at a time I am quite certain he won't see it. That means that you are in on the secret, because really I'm a terrible secret keeper and I had to tell someone and you are much less likely to spill the beans than my little girls.}

Crafting Home

When all the children in a home are little, it’s easy to see the purpose of home. It’s a place with parents to guide every wee step; it’s where cribs and beds and bedtimes stories are; it’s where every meal is taken, often with someone who loves holding the spoon and gently guiding it to mouth. There is an obvious need for a dedicated place for all of that — a haven for a small child, sheltering strong against a big world.

But what about when the children are bigger, when they aren’t even children anymore? What is the place and the purpose of home? I think that home might be just as important then. As children grow and go out into the world, as they make their marks — and their mistakes — it is so important that some place remain steady, stable and solid.

As children grow into the people God intends them to be, they test themselves against the world. They might flirt with elements heretofore unknown. Does this work? How about that? Can I be this person? Or am I really that one? To be sure, there will be some painful learning experiences in this experiment. But when all is said and done, they can come home and home is where they truly are who they are.

I think that women who are called to be homemakers are called to create a place of haven and consolation for our families that is the closest place to heaven that they will visit while still here on earth. Even once we’ve finished the real labor of co-creating people with God, holding them cradled within us, and even when they no longer need us for their every physical and emotional moment, we are called to be creators, crafting home.

We are called to provide for those who come and go a place of gratitude. A place where the habit is a song of thanks and children are ever aware of God’s goodness, even in grief, even in failure, even in sin. Homemakers (whether devoted fulltime to the task or not), make havens, places of consolation, of new beginnings, of forgiveness.

When a child, however large or small, or a husband, crosses the threshold of home, is he met by words of praise? Not made up, hokey, “You are special, I am special” nonsense, but genuine words of appreciation and honor? Or is he met by a constant barrage of criticism? In the words of the classic poem, “If a child lives with criticism, he learns to condemn.” What if a teenager lives with criticism? A grown man? Is the house punctuated by praise or poisoned by the perpetual drip of nagging discontent?

As children grow and home changes shape, the call to be intentional about the haven within those four walls is all the more urgent. Home is a safe place to land. It’s a reference point as they venture into the world. It’s the hope and the haven God provides for us here on earth, to give us just the faintest glimpse of heaven. And it’s up to us, by the grace of God, to make it so for our families.

St. Monica

image here

Exemplary Mother of the Great Augustine,

You perseveringly pursued your wayward son

Not with wild threats 

But with prayerful cries to heaven. 

Intercede for all mothers in our day 

So that they may learn 

To draw their children to God. 

Teach them how to remain

Close to their children, 

Even the prodigal sons and daughters 

Who have sadly gone astray. 

Dear St Monica, troubled wife and mother, 

Many sorrows pierced your heart

During your lifetime. 

Yet you never despaired or lost faith. 

With confidence, persistence and profound faith, 

You prayed daily for the conversion

Of your beloved husband, Patricius 

And your beloved son, Augustine. 

Grant me that same fortitude, 

Patience and trust in the Lord. 

Intercede for me, dear St. Monica, 

That God may favorably hear my plea 

For 

(mention your petition here) 

And grant me the grace 

To accept his will in all things, 

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord, 

In the unity of the Holy Spirit, 

One God forever and ever. Amen.

more here

From the Confessions of Saint Augustine, bishop
Let us gain eternal wisdom

The day was now approaching when my mother Monica would depart from this life; you knew that day, Lord, though we did not. She and I happened to be standing by ourselves at a window that overlooked the garden in the courtyard of the house. At the time we were in Ostia on the Tiber. We had gone there after a long and wearisome journey to get away from the noisy crowd, and to rest and prepare for our sea voyage. I believe that you, Lord, caused all this to happen in your own mysterious ways. And so the two of us, all alone, were enjoying a very pleasant conversation, forgetting the past and pushing on to what is ahead. We were asking one another in the presence of the Truth–for you are the Truth–what it would be like to share the eternal life enjoyed by the saints, which eye has not seen, nor ear heard, which has not even entered into the heart of man. We desired with all our hearts to drink from the streams of your heavenly fountain, the fountain of life.

That was the substance of our talk, though not the exact words. But you know, O Lord, that in the course of our conversation that day, the world and its pleasures lost all their attraction for us. My mother said: “Son, as far as I am concerned, nothing in this life now gives me any pleasure. I do not know why I am still here, since I have no further hopes in this world. I did have one reason for wanting to live a little longer: to see you become a Catholic Christian before I died. God has lavished his gifts on me in that respect, for I know that you have even renounced earthly happiness to be his servant. So what am I doing here?”

I do not really remember how I answered her. Shortly, within five days or thereabouts, she fell sick with a fever. Then one day during the course of her illness she became unconscious and for a while she was unaware of her surroundings. My brother and I rushed to her side but she regained consciousness quickly. She looked at us as we stood there and asked in a puzzled voice: “Where was I?”

We were overwhelmed with grief, but she held her gaze steadily upon us and spoke further: “Here you shall bury your mother.” I remained silent as I held back my tears. However, my brother haltingly expressed his hope that she might not die in a strange country but in her own land, since her end would be happier there. When she heard this, her face was filled with anxiety, and she reproached him with a glance because he had entertained such earthly thoughts. Then she looked at me and spoke: “Look what he is saying.” Thereupon she said to both of us: “Bury my body wherever you will; let not care of it cause you any concern. One thing only I ask you, that you remember me at the altar of the Lord wherever you may be.” Once our mother had expressed this desire as best she could, she fell silent as the pain of her illness increased.

~St. Augustine, from today's Office of Readings

August Transition

This one is for my sister as she leaves her beautiful daughter at Tulane Univeresity, far, far from home.

Krysti, I remember well how hard it was for me to leave you to go to college. And I still sting with the pain of learning how angry you were with me for abandoning you. And, oh, how I remember the raw grief of a child leaving the home and the heart into which I invested so much. I pray you south and I pray you home again, the seat beside you painfully empty. And I pray the autumn, though certainly tinged with browns, will be richly hued with the joys of a new season.

August. It hangs in the air, doesn’t it? A long month — hot, heavy, humid. Summer is well-established, but the threat of fall lurks in the shortening evening shadows. For right now, it’s still summertime. We hang on to these last golden days of closely knit family time. Still, with every day, the change of autumn grows ever closer.

Perhaps this is the fall when your baby first gets on a bus to go to kindergarten. Maybe you are shopping for the perfect outfit to wear for the first day of middle school. (Is there such a thing as a perfect anything in middle school?) Is it the adventure of high school that is this year’s first? Or, are you swallowing hard against the lump that keeps rising as you gather all the necessities for a college dorm?

Much more than January, it is September that is most likely to bring change to the composition and the rhythm of a family. August is replete with drawing every last little bit out of the family as it is this summer, before running headlong into the family as it will be this fall. August is for counting blessings, taking stock and looking forward. August is all about laboring toward transition.

There is a moment or two (though for some it seems more like an eternity) just before a baby is born that is intense and painful. For many women, it’s the hardest thing they’ve ever done. Very often, in the moment, a laboring mother will tell you that she can’t possibly do this task before her. A good midwife will remind the mother at that point that she is very close, indeed, to holding her baby. And so she is. The stage is called “transition” and it is marked most often by intensity and pain. It is followed by the sweetest joy a woman can know. And the pain? Remarkably, it disappears.

What the new mother doesn’t know is that “transition” will repeat itself throughout her baby’s childhood. There will be intensity and pain and then she will most definitely push her dear child into another world. What she doesn’t know is that, unlike that first transition, the ones that follow don’t end with a baby safely snuggled at her breast. With every subsequent transition in their life together, that baby will move further from her. That’s what is meant to be.

His world will expand to include new people, new places, new relationships. She wants those things for him. She wants him to reach and to grow, to learn and to love. Still, it hurts. And in the quiet of an August night, she acknowledges in a whispered prayer that she wishes it didn’t have to be. She wishes they could just breathe together in the warm quiet after the hard work of birth. She wishes she could hold his hand as he walks on tentative, toddling feet, both of them secure in her ability to keep him from falling. She wishes to soak up the pure delight of his being just a little longer. She has loved all the springs and all the summers with a joyful gratitude.

It’s August though, and nearly September. With a sigh and a prayer destined to be oft-repeated, she turns resolutely toward the autumn sun.

--reviving this one from the archives at the Catholic Herald today (they've reformatted the site there:-) as we work at home. I hope this message finds you well as I endeavor to take a little computer break and focus intentaly on home. It's Boot Camp week before our autumn rhythm moves into full swing. I'm posting this as a genuine reminder to myself.  We're working hard to prepare the environment for our studies and to establish excellent habits so that each member of this family can serve the others well in the coming term. 

Choose Joy

As I was reading online the other day, a quote by Sally Clarkson, author of numerous excellent books for mothers, caught my eye. She wrote, “Loving one another, as adults find out in marriage quickly enough, is a choice, not a feeling.” There was really nothing earth-shattering there. I think we can all agree that over the life of a marriage, spouses are presented, time and time again, with opportunities to choose to act with love, even when they don’t especially feel a surge of romantic emotion. Sally goes on to write, “Honor given to another is an attitude of humility and respect that is trained into a young child and practiced over many years. So, those who cultivate love and respect find it blooming more than those who leave it unattended.” Her point is that children need to be taught intentionally to behave charitably and to respond to their fellow man with the virtue of love. When they are deliberately taught to love, they do love.

As I thought about her wisdom, I thought about the other virtues. Don’t they all require a choice? Can we not choose to act in virtue, despite our feelings, time and time again? And can we not intentionally teach our children to choose virtue. Lately, my family has been looking at the virtue of joy. Specifically, we’ve looked at the outward sign of Christian joy: cheerfulness.

This morning, I breezed by the Facebook page of an old friend to wish her a happy birthday. And I smiled to see her recent pictures. We’ve lost touch over the years, but she still looks very much like I remember her. Her smile beams exuberantly from shot after shot. I noticed someone wished, “Happy Birthday to one of the happiest people I know!” Someone else said, “I don’t need to tell you to enjoy the day; you enjoy every day.”

That’s the person I remember so well, the person who saw more sorrow before she was 25 than most of us have seen by 50, yet who was known then and is still known now for her predictable, perpetual cheerfulness. I remember loving being a guest in her home during our high school days. Her parents were kind and gracious and some of the happiest people I’d ever met. Joy lived in that marriage and when those dear people named their only daughter, her middle name, literally, was Joy. Did she inherit their joy or was it taught?

A little of both, perhaps.

We all have days when cheerfulness seems elusive, just like we all have days when we don’t feel particularly loving towards the people God has given us to love. Spiritual maturity demands us to be cheerful anyway, to smile warmly, genuinely, and with joy. In order to love when we don’t feel loving, we call upon the grace of the sacrament of marriage and, truly, the other graces of the Church. That grace is available to us as we strive to live all the virtues.

St. Josemaria Escriva writes, “A piece of advice I have insisted on repeatedly: be cheerful, always cheerful. Sadness is for those who do not consider themselves to be children of God.” I think my friend’s joy bubbled up from the inheritance given by her parents and then was fostered by their example. She was born into joy. If we are children of God, we are all born into joy, aren’t we? Sometimes, we need to reminded of that; we need to be reminded to be always cheerful. Truly, we need to live it for our children so often that it is instilled into their very beings. We need to smile.

We need to choose joy.

--reviving this one from the archives at the Catholic Herald today (they've reformatted the site there:-) as we work at home. It's Boot Camp week before our autumn rhythm moves into full swing. I'm posting this as a genuine reminder to myself.  We're working hard to prepare the environment for our studies and to establish excellent habits so that each member of this family can serve the others well in the coming term.