Daybook at February's End

 Outside My Window

Is the busy main street of downtown McLean on a weekday afternoon. Michael is in Florida this week, so I'm back in my soccer driving and Starbuck's writing groove.

I am Listening to

a sweet girl at the table next to mine, trying to impress the socks off an Ivy League alum at a college interivew. They do these interviews at this Starbucks all the time. Very enlightening.

I am Wearing

Jeans, a cotton turtleneck sweater, and Elizabeth deHority cashmere socks in blue.

I am so Grateful for

an amazing week just passed.

I'm Pondering

One more thought on Simplicity: Contemplative simplicity isn't a matter of circumstances; it's a matter of focus.~Ann Voskamp 

{Next week, we take Small Steps, pondering sacrifice.}

I am Reading

through this list of "Best Homeschool Blogs." I've found several new ones there. Good reading.

I am Thinking

so many, many thoughts! My head is awhirl. It's been a week of inspiration and I'm processing. I think that God is mighty and His plans are perfect. I pray that I can walk in His will and truly take to heart the lessons He's allowed in my life in the last year.

I am Creating

washcloths. Lots of them. I'm also helping Katie with her mittens and Mary Beth with her hat. And I'm about to launch into some serious Becky Higgins retro-scrapbooking with a big box of photos in the basement and the three nearly grown boys whose childhoods are held there.

On my iPod

I am listening to Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts, read aloud to me, by her, as I knit. Follow this link to learn how to get a free 14 day trial and one book at Audible.com. If you are new to Audible.com, you can download and listen to Ann's book for free.

Towards a Real Education

Looking into high school co-ops for next year. There are several well-established homeschool co-ops or small schools that allow part-time homeschooler involvement. Several of the girls in Mary Beth's dance school attend them. Unfortunately, most have very exclusive statements of faith--that is they exclude Catholics. It's hard to see her grapple with exclusion.

Towards Rhythm and Beauty

I'm ready for the rhythm of Lent. It's so late this year. Feels strange to mark these late February days in Ordinary Time.

We're having a Kind Conversation about

My sincere apologies to the good folks at Kind Conversation. I promise to check in soon. 

To Live the Liturgy...

pray the Hours. Go to Mass. Amen;-).

I am Hoping and Praying

for Elizabeth deHority. She is constantly on my heart and in my prayers. She needs you now. Please, please pray with me.

Around the House

My big kids did an admirable job of keeping the house from dissolving into disarray while I was away much of last week. We're in a pretty good groove. I really, really, really want to paint. Really. Oh, and the laundry? All caught up. Seriously.

From the Kitchen

It won't be long now: asparagus, strawberries, artichokes. I love to craft spring menus.

I've been really good about being gluten free in the last month and I do see and feel a huge difference. It will only get easier as the weather warms and everything can become a salad.

One of My Favorite Things

Learning to knit. Yes, indeed. Way too much fun. And highly addictive.

Sarah Annie this week

She refuses to answer to Annie any more. Or even Sarah Annie. This could be problematic very soon, because...

A Few Plans for the Week

Patrick comes home on Saturday! He's never, ever called her anything but Annie. Could be a showdown.

Lots of basketball--it's playoff week. We're going to be going and going and going and going.

Lots of work in the rose garden.

Did I mention that Patrick comes home Saturday? Can Hardly Wait!

Picture thoughts:

Who took my little boy and replaced him with a man who has tree trunks for legs?

In this game, the US played Major League Soccer's New England Revolution.

Knitting Lessons

{This is a very long post of blessings and unexpected lessons; if you can stick with me to the end, you are, indeed, a treasure!}

Elizabeth had to two wishes for this "Momcation," her Make-a-Wish trip:  She wanted to go to the Basilica and she wanted to teach Ann and me to knit.

On the morning of the first full day together, Elizabeth is ready to begin. She's not wasting a moment. Time is too precious. Mike and I arrive at the hotel to find Elizabeth with her knitting bag ready for the car. Ann, who will sit in the backseat with Elizabeth, is going to knit on the way to D.C.  We talk a bit and then Elizabeth takes up the needles. I try watch and listen, but turning around in the moving car makes me carsick. Just a couple of miles from the D.C. border, Mike's phone rings. Glancing at the number, he says, apologetically, "I have to take this."

I hear him explain that he's driving and ask to call back. I can tell that his caller has said this call must happen now. We are just a few miles from the border and cell phone usage is prohibited while driving in D.C. He pulls over in front of the Iwo Lima memorial. Then, Mike takes the call he's waiting nearly ten years to take. Meanwhile, Ann's knitting lessons have commenced in the backseat. I try to pay attention, but I can't. Not with him talking about epic things. I have just missed my first knitting lesson.  Jokingly, I beg Ann not to get too far ahead of me.

Call finished, we head over the bridge. This time, it's my phone that chimes. Text message. Sounds urgent. I take a deep breath and send a message in return. I can't attend to the matter today. No computer access and limited cell phone where I'm going. I turn my phone off. We continue on to church.

It is a perfectly beautiful, utterly peaceful day. Perfectly beautiful.

At day's end, Mike has to make a quick trip to his office. The plan is for Ann, Elizabeth, and I to go a coffee shop, have a late afternoon snack, then drop Mike at home and head back to the hotel for dinner and knitting. In the coffee shop, I remember to turn on my phone and I notice that Christian has called me. I remark that Christian never calls; he'd rather starve than pick up a phone and order pizza. Then, I see he's left a voice message. Trying to swallow the panic rising in my throat, I text him: Do you need me? He calls me back. I hear hysterical chaos in the background. I don't remember what I said aloud, but I'm pretty sure it was "Is who bleeding?"

I watch the color drain from Ann's face. And I know what she's thinking.

It is not that tragedy, thank God. But the dog has been hit by a car.

Ann and Elizabeth both affirm what I'm thinking: I need to get home. I miss the evening knitting lesson. Still, I go to sleep with the peace that comes of knowing that I used the day well. That I filled the time the way He wanted.

In the urgent of the dog and the vet and the children, I have nearly forgotten the message I received as we went over the bridge. Mike reminds me early the next morning. Yes, I sigh. I will attend to that just as soon as I get to the hotel. There is internet there. I'll make some quick calls.

I am determined not to let anything rob me of the peace I desire or the time I've committed to Ann and Elizabeth. At the last minute, as I'm heading out the door, I scoop Karoline into the car to come along for the day. Best decision ever.

I get countless texts and phone calls on the way to hotel. Apparently, this matter really is urgent and I'm already a day late. I'm also late to the hotel.

When we arrive, Ann shrieks with glee and Elizabeth's face lights up with joy at the sight of my child. Ann's finished washcloth heralds the news that she is knitting. I am woefully behind on the second mission of the trip. I explain the calls I need to make and apologize profusely. "It's all good," Ann reassures. I pray she's right. I closet myself in the bedroom while Elizabeth teaches Karoline to knit. Three long phone calls later, and I need internet access. In this hotel, that takes some coaxing. Elizabeth takes fifty or so holy cards and tells Karoline the stories behind them all. Ann begins to work on her sweater.

As I finally read the document online, my inbox dings. Column deadline moved up because of the Monday holiday. It's due tomorrow, very early.

Several times, I ask Ann and Elizabeth, why now? These are phone calls we've waited months, even years to receive. God knows what is planned for these days. Why now?

Elizabeth and Karoline and I leave for Mass. After Mass, I leave Karoline and Elizabeth with Ann and drive to pick up lunch. Karoline finishes her knitting, one tiny little baby washcloth. Elizabeth gathers her close and tells her all about her own children. I talk to Mike about the document on the way to get carryout, fighting tears now. I'm missing it all. Lunch in hand, I get another text. I sit in the parking lot and sob.

After lunch, one more email. And now, I need a printer and a fax machine. I leave that room, the one I've imagined all these weeks, the one where I stashed tea and honey and muffins. The one where I carefully arranged a bouquet of tulips. I'm not filling time. It's slipping through my fingers.

The manager in the hotel office must read the despair on my face. He is ever so helpful. Business done at last, I run back to the room. I begin knitting at 3:30. At 4:00, Mary Beth calls to tell me that ballet is unexpectedly early that day. We pack it all up and head back to my house.

There, Elizabeth sits and teaches Katie to knit.

Ann and Karoline work on their own project, exuberantly stamping and sealing envelopes with Ann's signed bookplates, using Karoline's tiny washlcoth to dampen the glue. Late afternoon light fills my home. I make dinner and tend a dozen little details. I do not knit.

I am struck by the irony that I'm making such poor, hasty decisions regarding sacred time while face to face with the woman who wrote "There are no emergencies. Only amateurs hurry."

I am an amateur.

I know that I have conceded to the tyranny of the urgent, have lost the opportunity to do the important. And I discover how unimportant the urgent really is.

Knitters tell me that knitting slows a woman, brings calm to her soul, makes her a better listener. Watching Elizabeth knit with my children I see that this is all true. She has a peace about her, even in the midst of so much suffering. It brings her such joy to teach her art to these sweet, young girls. And I am struck with overwhelming sadness. Time I will never have again.

Dinner is a bit of a wild ride. Who raised these noisy children who are bouncy all over the place? Why are they exceptionaly rowdy tonight? I strain to hear over the din. Still, I do listen. And I do share. And God blesses. These guests at my table? All grace.

It's nighttime now. Soon, I will drive Ann and Elizabeth back to the hotel. I want to stay. To sit with them and talk and drink tea and learn to knit. But I know that my babies need me to put them to sleep on this night and I know that I have promised that column to my editor before the business day begins tomorrow. I say goodnight and drive away.

At home, Sarah Annie nurses to sleep readily and Karoline is asleep before I have a chance to go tuck her in. Even my night owl husband turns off the light and breathes deeply of this night's peace. He has used his time well. He has blessed. I write my column. It takes me less than half an hour. The computer clicks closed. Sleep will not come.

I creep downstairs to a living room that was full of yarn and paper and creative spirit just a few hours earlier. I pick up my pitiful green cotton triangle. And I can't remember. I try and try and try, but I cannot remember what comes next.

Instead, I write. I try to redeem the time by remembering the day that was so peaceful, the day when I said no to the urgent and listened instead to the whisper of the sacred. I try to knit with words.

Morning comes early and Mike and I leave for the airport.  Ann and Elizabeth are waiting for us outside. It's over. Elizabeth has resolved not to cry. And she doesn't. Ann and me?  Not so much.

Goodbyes are said.

After a brief stop at the bagel store on the way home, I gather my children and we seize this beautiful day and go to Bull Run, to the place where I force away winter and hope is born anew every single spring. We are met there by Ginny, who listens patiently to my whole story, as we watch our little girls play and our boys hold war councils build a teepee.

We talk about Ginny's knitting ministry and the ungrateful women with bad attitudes. I shudder as I consider my own sins. I cannot bear to look at this green triangle of cotton that is the knitting I did not learn. But I don't want to rip it apart. She takes it in her capable hands and binds it off for me. Tangible notes from lessons learned.

Katie tells her excitedly about the mittens Elizabeth has assured her she can knit. Ginny is skeptical. Katie has brought along her yarn. "Mrs. deHority says that real knitters bring their projects everywhere they go." She shows Ginny the darling book Elizabeth has given her and the pattern and confesses that she doesn't know how to begin. Ginny takes those four needles and explains to Katie how knitting on three needles works, all the while casting on stitches for her. Katie beams with gratitude. What a gift she has been given by these two women! I am counting now, actually counting gifts.

The children play--so glad for the early taste of spring--and Ginny tells me how knitting can help push past that compulsive perfectionism. I can't quite wrap my brain around it, but I do believe her.

And I leave the woods very sure that God is offering me this gift. That Elizabeth is still offering me this gift.

I have to learn to knit.

By Friday night, Katie has knit eight rounds and she is eager to learn to purl. I'm nearly frantic to help her, making a mental note of knitters I know. And it hits me. These are people who have been asking for months to get together, to visit, to slow down, to take time.

To take time in our hands and bless it with beauty.

Maybe this is what He's telling me?

At home, in the last rays of sunlight, I take out all the things Elizabeth has left behind for me. All the things I couldn't quite savor or appreciate while in the grip of the urgent tyrant. There is a binder of patterns, with a pocket in front. Elizabeth's 12-year-old son Brian has assembled these binders for us.

In the pocket are knitting tools, most of which I'm sure are important, but I have no idea what their purpose is yet. And there are exquisite needles, given to us by the woman who invented them. I have a growing sense of the value of these treasures.

And the yarn? Beautiful, beautiful yarn! So many people have given so generously to make this happen. I promise them, in that moment, that I will learn to knit. And I will do it now, because I want Elizabeth to see that she has given me the gift she intended. I will do it now, because the unintended gift is the invaluable lesson of knowing that some things are worth slowing for. I pray--a more fervent prayer than ever before prayed--that I will recognize the important and never again lose time to the tyrant that is urgency.

The next day. I begin again. Elizabeth sends me an email to get me started. I choose yarn that reminds me of The Hat. Gosh, the praying women with needles who have blessed me! Katie reminds me how to increase. I struggle through the first half, trying hard not to obsess over the obvious flaws. I hear Elizabeth telling me to move past them, to let go, and I see Ann, peacefully working extraordinarily beautiful yarn on her own gifted needles, nodding in recognition. I'm moving on. I'm persevering. And, I guess, I'm knitting. I recognize that I have missed Elizabeth sitting next to me. I know that she would have seen mistakes I'm making and corrected them as they happened. Instead, I am learning the hard way. It's always like that, isn't it? If we step out of God's will and we repent, He doesn't leave us stranded there, but we have chosen the hard way.

It's harder, but it's not too late. He redeems time.

Late that night, Mary Beth sits beside me. She picks up needles, too. Knit. Purl. The two of us together. God bless Elizabeth deHority.

Sunday morning, before even getting out of bed. I pick up my pink and white stitches again. I count. Enough, I think to begin to decrease. It goes so well! I have a rhythm. My stitches look so much better. It figures. In art, as in life, all is more beautiful and ordered when I decrease.

I am ready to finish before my children even awaken.

One small square.

I have said over and over that I plan to make at least a dozen washcloths before I move on to touch the beautiful yarn. I will knit and purl. I will cast on and bind off. I want to have some confidence and some rhythm. But, I will not miss the moment, either. I will not delay because I cannot achieve the perfection no one demands of me but me. Elizabeth has given me yarn intended for a shrug for Sarah Annie.

For this spring.

In time for the bluebells.

I only have eleven washcloths to go. And then, by the grace of God, I will knit that sweater.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am listening to Ann's book, One Thousand Gifts, read aloud to me, by her, as I knit those remaining washcloths. Follow this link to learn how to get a free 14 day trial and one book at Audible.com. If you are new to Audible.com, you can download and listen to Ann's book for free.

For more (and no doubt shorter) Yarn Along tales, visit Ginny.

Small Steps Together: Hear Him well, Lest It be Lost

"The way to love anything is to realize that it may be lost." –GK Chesterton

It is, without a doubt, the greatest lesson of my life--that every day is a gift and I'm created to see the sacred offering in even the ordinary days. He offers us each and every moment to fill as we will. And when we hold those moments as the precious, priceless gifts they are and fill them intentionally with the things of God, we truly live our lives.

It's really very simple.

So why do I mess it up so often? Why do I miss God in the moment and trash the gift? Why do I waste time? Why do I hurt the people I love? Why do I take an errant comment and make it an epic argument? Why do I act like a spoiled brat surrounded by way too much after a sugar-laden, way-too-many-people birthday party?

Because I forget that I am the daughter of a humble, heroic, awesome God.

It's so simple.

Why do I forget?

"True simplicity is like that of children, who think, speak, and act candidly and without craftiness. They believe whatever is told them; they have no care or thought for themselves, especially when with their parents; they cling to them, without going to seek their own satisfactions and consolations, which they take in good faith and enjoy with simplicity, without any curiosity about their causes and effects."--St. Francis de Sales

I want to walk in the light of God, to carry myself through my days in such a way that it is umistakable that I am His and He directs my paths. I want to be the child who believes what He tells me and then acts on that belief as naturally as I breathe the air. I want to remember that He is the good parent I so desperately need.

I want to go about my daily round serving the people He has entrusted to me, recognizing the places He wants me to go. I want this with all my heart--just to live the life He intends me to live.

I want to cling to Him.  Can I cling to Him?

Can I be selfless, caring not at all for my own satisfactions or consolations. Can I turn away from the affirmation of other people and seek only to know that I walk confidently in His will?

Will my life ever be that simple? Will it ever be the gift He intended?

Yes.

Yes!

I think it will.

But only if I can do that one thing. Only if I can fill myself with Him. Only if I can be the child who surrenders to Him completely and entrusts Him to care for me tenderly.The thing is--the simple, important thing is--I can't walk confidently with God throughout the day if I am not intimately acquainted with God and I can't be intimately acquainted with God without having His Word be the firm and gentle hand of a loving Father to which I cling.

Only if my day--my every moment--echoes with His Word. This is how I can know Him, in the Word and in the Sacrament. So that as I move through the world, in every corner of my home and the vast expanses of the marketplace, God goes with me. I hear Him in the Hours that punctuate the phrases of my day; I hear Him in the words of the daily Mass-- a familiar cadence of Scripture; I hear Him as I cultivate new habits; as I listen while I fold, and wipe, and cook; as I deliberately hide Him in my heart.

It's simple, really. When I hear Him well, when I hear Him always, I live the gift.

Did you take small steps towards simplicity this week? How has Small Steps blessed, challenged you, encouraged you on your journey? Would you share your thoughts with us, let us find you and walk with you? I'd be so grateful and so honored to have you as a companion. 

Really Counting Now

It's not a new practice, the keeping of a gratitude journal. In fact, I wrote about in the burnout chapter of Real Learning over 12 years ago. I began just listing three things every night. A good practice, a sound practice. Then, I learned to look with a keener eye, to see that the things I love are in reality the ways God loves me. So, I had a sometimes habit of recording those here, a few at a time. But I didn't cultivate the practice of keeping lists at the ready everywhere and I never really numbered my blessings.

Until last week.

Last week, I learned to number them. Every one.

 

1~Dear friend who traveled to the airport with me, heard my worries, helped me to move Elizabeth with grace to the hotel, and shared our joy-filled first night. Later, she will rush to my children when they need a mom and I am gone.

2~Veteran traveler, firm believer in internet blessings, gypsy friend: you brought us grace and laughter and we were blessed to have you in our midst in that amazing moment.

3~Patient, wise, good-hearted husband who considered every detail and made it all work

4~All the people entrusted with prayers for this encounter. I knew you were on your knees and I assure you He answered with unimaginable abundance.

5~A kind email with a beautiful prayer--a perfect prayer. We ponder her example, the example of one woman's godly "yes" to this life of grace. And then, she express mails a CD that becomes the soundtrack of fruitful prayer. Infinite blessing.

6~Sung prayers on CD ever-so-briefly before the phone call for which we have waited years. Prayers continuing in the silent backseat. Her eyes meet mine. I know she's imploring God on our behalf. Astonishing moment.

7~The same friend who has cradled me in the shrine in the days when Sarah was fragile--she meets us at the door, wheelchair at the ready, every kindness considered and provided.

8~Quiet day. Beautiful, quiet day.

9~Ann's shrieks of glee when she learns that Karoline has stowed away for our Thursday together.

10~Elizabeth teaching Karoline to knit and then telling her saints stories as I make frantic phone calls and Ann works nearby.

11~Karoline perfectly narrating all Elizabeth has told her about the deHority children.

12~All the yarn, the needles, the patterns, the love so generously given to us by kind women who abundantly bless us with their generosity (and optimism).

13~Katie curled up with Elizabeth at last, knitting and knitting and knitting.

14~Karoline working with Ann to stamp and seal envelopes with bookplates for American readers. They use Karoline's own handknit washcloth and pray Our Father...

15~Colleen, calling as I leave the airport. I pull over and cry and cry and cry. Joy, relief, grief, exhaustion. And she is there.

16~Mike, calling just after Colleen. Treasure shared.

17~The bagel store on the way home. Warm. I notice bouquets of wheat on the tables there. Eucharisteo.

18~Putting bagels in the trunk, I see what Ann has left me. And I smile. A page a day of blessings from One Thousand Gifts, a mug, and a new journal. I read the day's entry. Today, I begin to number. Today. Right now.

19~Ginny, who meets us at the edge of the woods, picks up my knitting and assures me the creative journey has just begun.

20~Renewed faith in friendship.

Won't you please come by again on Wednesday to see more pictures and read more about our knitting and the invaluable lessons I learned?

Clearly, through a lens

I struggle, falter, question. Who are You? Why am I here? What do You want from me?

I am bruised, weary, wondering at it all. We are made for community. Again and again, through stinging tears and heaving sobs, I beg spiritual advice from holy souls. I want them to tell me, assure me that I can walk alone. That I don't have to risk the soul-burning sadness ever again. They all tell me no. Instead, they say, I must step out, take a risk. God will be there, they assure me. God will provide the appointed place. At the appointed time. God will give you exactly the people He wants for you. You will know.You will see so clearly His purpose and His provision.

And so, when she proposes a crazy idea, an idea so far-fetched it could only have come from the Holy Spirit. I am caught breathless. Really, I wonder? Really? Here and now? With you? Yes, she tells me, yes, we will do this. And we put the wheels in motion, trusting the wisdom of the strong men in our lives who tell us yes, go. Go! I question, doubt, falter, stumble. Eucharisteo, she whispers. All's grace.

And God? He is very clear.

What is the one thing, if we can only do one thing, that you both want to do together? I pose the question, holding my breath, knowing that their answers will show me the Father's plan.

In unison, they the ask to go to that place, that one place in all the world that I am always sure God holds me.

Of course, I say. Of course we'll go. All the while wondering how. I've never driven there alone. Never managed all the details of such a big day out in a not-so-great part of the big city. The girl with this crazy idea? She has said that she is afraid to leave home. Me, too, I nod. Me, too. And we push each other through the plan.

I wonder how God wants me to do this thing.

I don't even ask the question and the man who always says I do, says it again. He's arranged every detail, taken the day off, given a servant's heart to helping us hear Him, see Him, inhale Him.

Inhaling deeply, I walk through the heavy doors. I so love that smell! Incense, not burning now, but lingering still, scenting the air with a familiar spicy aroma. My shoulders relax; my senses awaken. There is no other place on the planet that has this effect on me. I am here to spend the day at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. We have come here as a family countless times over the years. Too, I have been here with only a nursing baby, to recollect and gather myself in the months after childbirth. This time, though, I am here without children.

I am here with my husband and two dear friends, each of us holding in our hearts prayers so fragile, so precious. Prayers of hope, of future. Prayers for each other and for the ones we’ve left at home. I am here on pilgrimage.

 

This time, I hold nothing in my hands but my camera. Through the lens, I see the familiar in new ways. It is my camera. I bought it for myself when Michael left home and took his camera with him. But I barely know this camera. My hands most often are full of small girls. My camera is usually cradled by Mary Beth, who has a remarkable natural ability to make my life—our life together—look like poetry on these pages.  I hold it gingerly, not unlike a new mother who fumbles awkwardly with gift of her newborn. Today, it is me who is left to write the words with pictures. I am the one who has to hear the poetry and see it. Capture it. Hold it forever in my heart.

 

The Basilica is the largest Catholic Church in the Americas. It is extraordinarily rich and beautiful. Around every corner, above every pew, along every corridor, there is beautiful, reverent art to contemplate.  The sacred art in the shrine is world’s largest collection of ecclesiastical art. Both breathtaking art and amazing architecture are at once Romanesque and Byzantine. Outside, the huge dome is readily recognizable from miles away, a definitive Byzantine feature. Inside, the domed ceiling envelopes the pilgrim, the art at once drawing me up and tenderly reaching down to embrace me. I am here, at peace, surrounded by my God. John Cardinal Glennon, who influenced the design of the Basilica, wrote "While the Gothic . . . appears . . . to lift the people to God, the Roman style or the Byzantine . . . endeavors to bring God down to earth . . . [God] lives with us."

Everywhere in this building God lives with me and invites me to know Him better.

 

Today, I am not pulled by small hands, flitting from one chapel to another oratory. Today, I linger and pray, and I capture little bits of this place as I see them through my camera. Huge mosaics on the ceiling cannot be photographed both in their entirety and with detail, at least not with the camera I have and the skills with which I use it. So, I must focus on small parts of those mosaics, In doing so, I see them all the more clearly. There are so many small details here; I could come again and again for years and still uncover something new.

 

I pause briefly at those chapels where I have begged for babies. I whisper Thank You. And I ask, what now? He will answer. He always does. I listen.

 

The building is nearly empty on this day and I can spend as long as I like with the rosary depictions in the back of the church, I can take a picture over and over, until I can really see what is before me all along. Old Testament and New Testament together tell the stories of fifteen sacred events in the life of Our Lord—God Himself  reaching down, nestling into my very being—I  smell Him in the air; I see Him in the statues, the stained glass, the glorious mosaics.

 

Elizabeth wants to stay here. I can tell that she is reluctant to allow herself to  be pushed away. Mike sees it too. He’s in cadence with her on this day. Lingering when he knows she wants to stay, moving the chair into position so that she can see more clearly through her own lens. My heart feels as if it would burst every time I see them, praying this whole building together. He is a God of hope. Of healing. We all come broken and wounded. We push open those heavy doors and breathe deeply of the God of mercy.

 

I fight the manic urge to pull Ann wildly from one favorite spot to another. I want her to know this place, to love it the way I do. And I know that a day here is not nearly long enough. I watch her as she reaches slowly, deliberately, wonderingly for her camera again and again. What does she see here in this unfamiliar place of her very familiar God?

Eucharisteo. Grace and joy. Here. My souls swells with happy hope of knowing the gift growing now in my dear friend. The gift she will give generously to us. A Holy Experience. Here. Now. I will see this place, one day soon, through her lens. And I will be forever changed because of it.

  

There are over 70 small chapels and oratories, donated from religious orders and churches all over the world. Each one is a slightly different expression of the faith. Each one speaks to the universality of Catholicism.  Each culture expresses in its own way the richness of faith and gives it as a gift to the pilgrims who visit here. And I am awed and humbled and inspired by every single one of them. We come here, the four of us, trusting one another. We come here knowing with all certainty that we, too, experience and express God in our own ways. And here we are blessed by one another.

 

The light on this afternoon is a photographer’s dream. And I wish briefly that I were actually a photographer. Eucharisteo. It’s all grace, even my own inadequacy behind this lens. Quickly, those thoughts of imperfection (my silly constant companions) are pushed aside, and, instead I am grateful.

 

Grateful to be here in this moment, with this light, surrounded by God, enveloped by glory and beauty and majesty.  Grateful that He illuminates my humble lens and through His eyes I see this place anew. 

 

Grateful to have the inexpressible joy of getting to know these two women. Grateful my husband shares that joy.  Grateful. I am grateful.

 

No flash necessary. God Himself is shedding light here.