You light up my days...and fill my nights with song...

April 1, 2007

Dear Papa,

I had planned to write a long column this weekend, in time for tomorrow. But the baby was sick and my hands were full ,so all the writing I did was in my head.  I planned to write about that sobbing prayer two years ago, when I begged you to intercede for me. And then I'd write about all the little miracles strewn like roses in the days and weeks and months that followed.

Instead, I stayed up all night, dancing with my daughter.  She was feeling poorly and whimpering to be held. I gathered her up out of my bed and swayed with her in the darkness. For hours.  I sang my full repertoire of musicals.  I moved on to old Raffi tunes. I added a little Glory and Praise. And then, I switched to "You Light up my Life."  Her tears ceased and mine fell freely. I settled into the big chair, her head heavy against my chest and I remembered.

I remembered a time two years ago that was dark and sad. I was struggling with depression and so was Mike. Together, we were fumbling in confusion. Recovery from childbirth had been difficult. Recovery from a miscarriage more difficult. A year of infertility following that miscarriage was a year of pain like none I'd ever known. No light. Only darkness.  And on that Friday night, I held an eerie vigil in front of the muted television.

Please God, I don't know what I'll do without my Papa. And yet I know, I know that he is yours; he always was. Morning dawned and the day moved forward and then you were gone. And as naturally as the sobs escaped my throat, my soul begged your intercession. Tell Him, Papa! Please tell Him how sad I am, how much I want a baby, how much Mike needs him. Tell Him, Papa--I know you can.

And you did. Within an hour of that prayer, the answers began to become so clear.  You led us to a different parish. You put people in my path who would insist that I get to know the Little Flower you loved so well, the dear Saint you called a Doctor and by whom you trusted that the fullness of faith could be taught. She and you taught me about Love--Love incarnate, a good and gentle God who understood my pain and stooped to bind my wounds. I re-read all your letters to me. I read her words. Light dawned, love flickered.

Looking back, I should not be surprised that in the months following your death, I pushed by forces greater than me to travel. You were never afraid to travel. I had not been on an airplane in fifteen years. But I flew three times that year. The first time, I went Chicago and visited the shrine of St. Therese and left my petitions there. The last time, I went to Florida at my husband's insistence. We were there for an art gallery opening but we took a day trip to St. Augustine and the Shrine of Our Lady of La Leche.  I had a long talk with Our Lady that day. She already knew.I'm sure you told her.

One night, nine months after you died, my husband lit a candle in a church where you once celebrated Mass, in the presence of your relics. And then, our wait for a baby was over and yet it had begun. For nine more months, I was still, love growing inside of me.  I learned to love your favorite prayer and I prayed the rosary with St. Therese, sometimes twenty decades a day, including the five new decades that were your gift to me. All the time, I was almost afraid to believe, almost afraid to think that the light had returned and darkness was dispelled.

  Then she was here.  A glorious, beautiful, darling little girl. We call her Karoline Rose. She is a shower of roses, a basket of blessings. She is sweetness and she is light.  As she grows, I will tell her.  I will tell her about her Papa. She will know you and she will be grateful to share your name.

But now, she calls again. Enough remembering. I am living in the present, embracing every moment. I know you're here. I know you see her dear, dimpled chin. I know you watch me kiss her fat little cheeks and I know you smile.

Thank you!

Look what the man in brown just brought me!

I took a sneak peek at Danielle's new book last fall.  Here's what I said then (and I'm sticking with it;-)!

I read Danielle Bean's new book, Mom to Mom, Day to Day, while in the hospital after the birth of my eighth child. It was like having a chat over a backyard fence with an experienced mother who exudes an infectious joy. Danielle believes in vocation and loves the life to which God has called her. I wanted to jump up and give a copy to every new mother in the Birth Center that day!

So, have you ordered yours yet?

Keep it real

Danielle asks us to be real today.  In part, she writes, I love reading about other Catholic families, but let’s be real: Most of us aren’t going to be airing our dirty laundry here. And of course that’s how it should be. At least to some extent.

Since I really did air  my dirty laundry online, perhaps I shouldn't comment on this angle of blogging, but...

We read these blogs to be encouraged. When we write these blogs, it's helpful to remember that we are called to build each other up.  Sometimes, the great idea, the beautiful organized home, the perfect lesson plans, really do encourage and build up another woman.  They give her tangible inspiration. I have printed Alice's tea idea and plan to use it on Friday.  Kim's home organization tips bless me every day, a dozen times a day. And I admit to having Dawn's post on lesson planning open all day on Saturday while I tried to refocus my own plans.  I'm so grateful for these women of faith!

Sometimes, it's the admission that we're struggling that offers a blessing.It's a blessing to be able to pray with a friend, for a friend.It's a blessing to see how she can start with a mess and to cheer her on as she brings peace and beauty to her family's lives. We don't want to write or read day after day about how hard it is, how much we want a moment to ourselves, how tired we are, how much laundry there is. That would be discouraging.  But there is comfort, every once in awhile, to know that we are not alone in our struggles--our imperfections. And there is great comfort in knowing that it's okay not to be perfect.

Danielle is the master of being real,encouraging her readers with humor and graciousness. We know she irons once a year. We know she's been caught speeding (more than once).  We know her children have eaten less than perfect diets occasionally.  And it's all good.  Because we are always assured that God is at work in the Bean home. If it were perfect there, they wouldn't need Him. But they do need Him and Danielle doesn't leave you with the ugly imperfect; she points you to the beautiful source of grace.

We're all working together towards heaven.  And guess what? Heaven and the blogosphere are not one in the same. Blogs are nothing but a waste of precious time if they're not helping us get to heaven.  Meet me where I am, with my imperfections and my insecurities and walk with me towards the Perfector. Be my friend. My real friend.

Do you trust me?

Being open to life means more than being willing to nurse two babies  at a time or change and wash diapers for three at a time. Being open means stepping out in faith to trust God's plan, even though that plan very well might be painful beyond our imagination. Please don't miss Diane's consolation of Margaret.

On the eve of eighteen

My baby is sick. My first baby, that is. He's not just sniffly sick, he's totally wiped out sick. He's the kind of sick that has a very pregnant mother haul herself out of bed two or three times a night and go down two flights of stairs just to hover over his bedside. And then, because I'm so very pregnant and feeling way too maternal, I fight the urge to cry. Who will hover next year? Who will be there for this midnight vigil when he is living on a college campus? The convergence of new baby and "newly minted adult" is brought home to me at three in the morning with an overwhelming force.

Tomorrow is Michael's eighteenth birthday. As this baby stays tucked up tight, my husband jokes that we will never have eight children. Tomorrow, we will have seven children and a brand new adult. Someone decided that my first born baby is now old enough to vote, to go to war, and (joy of joys) to get a Costco card. What a momentous occasion it will be. We made it--the three of us: Michael, Mike and me. We navigated an entire childhood. And he's really a wonderful young man.

I remember so well the day he was born. I remember becoming a mother. And I remember every single lesson he has taught me since that day. The irony is that we are probably hours from beginning the adventure again with a new baby. And much of the reason we are so eager to do so is Michael. That first childhood entrusted to us was such a joy, let's do it again. And again. And again. Well, you get the idea.

I think that I loved being a mom and he loved being a kid because we lived a lifestyle of connected parenting (sometimes known as attachment parenting). We kept him with us. We answered his cries promptly and then, when they evolved, we listened to his every word. We respected the person in the child. We loved wholeheartedly. And we were so richly rewarded.

He talks often about how we fostered independence. But I think what we fostered was interdependence. We grew up together in many ways. I was barely older than he is now when he was born. And as Mike and I caught a vision of life, we naturally shared it with our child. We knew he was capable of great conversation even when he was very young. And so we talked. We talked and we talked and we talked. They say that you can't or shouldn't be a friend to your kids. That's probably true. Children need to see a clear authority. But the goal is to raise children whom you would love to have as your friends. So, you can and should be a friend to your young adults, right? Because this kid--I mean, young adult--is one of my best friends.

It's all good right? I can go out and tell the world how well attachment parenting--especially Catholic attachment parenting--works. I can shout from the moutaintops what a beautiful way it is to raise a family.

Well, yeah. Except I really should tell you about the tears, too. A couple of weeks ago, Michael sat in the seat I'm in right now and learned that there really isn't a place for him on the soccer team of the local university where he hoped to spend the next four years. It had nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with a quirk of numbers. They had long told him he'd be there, but there was a dawning realization that this year's kids weren't playing; there wasn't going to be room for more of them next year.

We live in an area that is flush with colleges and universities. He began to look at rosters of every school in the area--a wide area. And with every click, we learned together that there is an abundance of underclass defenders on the area's soccer teams. He looked at me, blue eyes wide and filling, and said, "I'm going to have to pick between my dream and being close enough to be an integral part of the lives of my little siblings." He pretty much hasn't slept since that night.

Nothing else was said. He is acutely aware of my pain. And I am aware of his. We are connected.