The Time She Taught Me to Choose Joy

She almost jumped out of the car in the still dark morning at the airport, about bursting in her eagerness to go with me on a grand adventure. We were to fly across the country together and meet her new niece, my new granddaughter. This sweet 7-year-old girl who had spent so much of the last few years saying goodbye to people she loved was being afforded the opportunity to be among the first to say hello to new life.

Her daddy pulled our luggage from the trunk. One. Two. Three. She looked for the fourth. It wasn’t there. “My fun bag?” she asked, looking in the trunk for the backpack we’d so carefully packed with all the things to occupy her happily, the pillow for her head, the gluten-free food for the journey. It wasn’t there. Please read the rest of her story here.

Beach photos credit Kristin Joy Foss, who totally gets this concept and lives her middle name every day:-). 

The Joy of Love in Springtime

he family is the setting in which a new life is not only born but also welcomed as a gift of God. Each new life “allows us to appreciate the utterly gratuitous dimension of love, which never ceases to amaze us. It is the beauty of being loved first: children are loved even before they arrive.” Here we see a reflection of the primacy of the love of God, who always takes the initiative, for children “are loved before having done anything to deserve it.” (“Amoris Laetitia,” 166.)

It was my intent all along to write about “Amoris Laetitia” this week. I waited patiently to get my hands on a hard copy, a bound book with generous margins that I could use to think and pray my way through with a fine felt pen at the ready for making notes. And I’ve done just that, underlining and annotating and reading every last footnote. I was not unaware of the stir of controversy whirling in the online world, the choosing of sides, the parsing of words, the handwringing — so much handwringing. [Note: the version I purchased from Amazon in the first days is no longer available and the link is dead, not merely out of stock. I consider myself lucky to have the one I have and I'm looking for a similarly produced copy to recommend now.]

In the past, I’ve loved to dig deeply into a Holy Father’s writings on the family. There, I’ve always found a source of comfort, consolation and encouragement for the very countercultural calling that is mine. I’m raising nine children to be faithful Catholics. Frankly, it’s a daunting task neither celebrated nor supported in today’s mainstream society. I wondered if there would be anything in this new document for mothers like me.

There is. There is absolutely an affirmation of holy, forever-in-love Catholic family life. There is a beautiful exegesis of the letter to the Corinthians on love. There are tips on keeping communication alive and aware. I even found a date night suggestion and encouragement for a weary mom who feels like holidays are just days when there’s way more work to do in the kitchen. I read the exhortation with an open heart, eager to find the good. And I did.

I dearly love the clarity and the poetry of the writings of St. John Paul II. I love the precision of Pope Benedict XVI. I admit that I missed both in this new document, but it has its own charm. This new exhortation feels a bit like sitting on the front porch on a spring day while a beloved uncle rambles about love and marriage and family life. There are a lot of nuggets of wisdom there, gathered in his years of observing and leaning close to families. For the first five chapters, I sat on the porch swing, drinking lemonade and highlighting happily.

The final chapters took more careful reading, at a desk, with reference tools at the ready. To understand his words on divorce, remarriage, Communion and community, one must put them in the context of the settled teaching of the church and understand that that teaching is still very much settled. Pulling the documents referenced in footnotes yields a bigger picture and fuller meaning. This is not a document to change church teaching. It can’t change it.

As so often happens in my writing life, my drafting of a careful outline of a series on “Amoris Laetitia” was interrupted by my children. This time, my day was turned entirely upside down by the birth of Lillian Thérèse Foss, my second grandchild. And that brings me to the quote above. This new baby was born 3,000 miles away. I’ve never held her, never locked eyes with her, never inhaled the glorious newborn smell while I nuzzled a downy head. And still, she is so loved, so completely enveloped in my heart.

The quote above begins with Pope Francis and ends with St. John Paul II. My own mothering grew under the tutelage of Pope John Paul II. I am so grateful for the firm foundation and solid understanding he formed in me. In the springtime of my grandparenting, I can sit in the breeze with Pope Francis and nod in agreement — this life of love in the midst of family is amazing.

Where two or three are gathered...

We are emerging (please, God) from a season of grief, a season that has forever changed us, forever marked us. As I share with you the gifts He generously bestowed into moments of sorrow, some moments stand out, illuminated by grace.

I have a personal relationship with Christ. That is, He and I talk off and on all day long, inside my head. It’s our relationship — real, alive and very much awake and aware of my world, the sphere in which I orbit, the daily round of my private life. I bring Him my needs and my concerns and my praises. And I try mightily to hear what He is telling me. In His word, Jesus shows me again and again how to pray in silent solitude. Then, He shows me how much He wants community for me.

Christ had a solitary habit of prayer. He knew that in quiet moments before the Father, all alone, He’d demonstrate for us how to avoid falling into the traps of spiritual pride, how to avoid the attention of others as we beseeched the Lord. When we pray alone, we limit distractions and we aren’t tempted by comparisons or pretenses or ostentatious hypocrisy. Solitary prayer can be focused and powerful. It’s also readily available. Everyone — even a mom home with half a dozen little ones — can curl up in a corner somewhere for at least a hastily offered, “Lord, make haste to help me.” Private prayer is the continuous, every day conversation of friendship.

But God made us for community, too. He wants us to have a personal relationship with Him, but He doesn’t want it to be entirely private. The prayer Jesus modeled for us in perfection begins with the phrase “Our Father,” not “my father.” He intended us to pray that prayer often and He intended us to pray in community.

During Holy Week and Easter Week, in addition to the many liturgies traditionally prayed by the church community, I found myself in church to pray — together with many — two other times. The first was a rosary offered to beg for healing for one of our own. The second was a rosary offered for the repose of his soul. Both times, I was struck by the power of the prayers of those gathered there. Each decade was led by a different man in the pews. Each time a strong voice rang out in the otherwise silent church — the anguish of the one who was beseeching clearly wrapping itself around his vocal cords — I was struck by the inexpressible comfort that comes with knowing that someone has come alongside to bear the burden of praying.

It is critical to “go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret” (Matthew 6:6). It is also critical not to stay in there with the door shut. Prayer nurtures in us a spirit of trust in God. Public prayer helps us to develop trust in one another. Prayer together with other Christians requires planning and initiative unnecessary for private prayer. For those of us who are shy and introverted and very private, the biggest struggle is just getting there — whether “there” is a church filled with people or the company of a friend we’ve asked to pray alongside us in a time of need. We have to exert the effort; it’s so worth it.

Jesus “took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray” (Luke 9:28). He taught them happily when they asked, “Lord, teach us to pray” (Luke 11:1). He gave them the communal Our Father. Later, after Jesus dies, they know how to find Him in prayer, together: “They lifted their voices together to God” (Acts 4:24) “and when they had prayed, the place in which they were gathered together was shaken; and they were all filled with the Holy Spirit and spoke the word of God with boldness (Acts 4:31).

We need each other. We need to gather in His name and beg grace on behalf of one another. We need to be comfortable not only saying “Will you pray for me?” but also “Will you pray with me?” Together, we can push open the floodgates of grace.

Gathering Grace: A Daybook

Outside my window:  Spring has burst into bloom. It was beautiful in my front yard on Easter Sunday. I wish I had pictures. I got a few yesterday, with my kids in their Easter finery, but not one of them is a picture that all people in the photo approved. So, you can't see them;-). Today, it's raining. I hope the wind won't blow all the blooms away before I can capture them for you.

(Updated: the sky cleared and Katie got out with the big camera.)

Listening to:  Sara Groves: Floodplain. Highly, highly recommended.

Clothing myself in: Jeans and a sweatshirt. I got up early and I had a good, long quiet time, but I neglected to get a shower before some guys came to work on our house. It now appears that it will be a day-without-a-shower because we have no hot water for the duration.

Talking with my children about these books: Christian is taking a course on mystery writing and literature. I have zero interest in mysteries. I haven’t liked them since I outgrew Nancy Drew and Cherry Ames. However, this is a very poorly executed online course that takes at least two people to figure out, so, reading mysteries it is.  Agatha Christie, Alfred Hitchcock, Sherlock Holmes, now all in my repertoire. Go me. #neverstoplearning

In my own reading: See above;-).

Thinking and thinking: About the way I spent Holy Week and the way God met me there. On the Saturday before Palm Sunday (the Feast of St. Joseph), our family's good friend, Mike Greiner had a heart attack in the parish parking lot. Though everything possible was done at the scene, he was on life support and things did not look promising for survival by night's end. On Monday of Holy Week, my mother-in-law died after a suffering terribly with cancer. Throughout the week, I was at home, caring for a child who’d had a tonsillectomy. I was at home, welcoming children who came to play with my children while their parents held vigil in the ICU and our friend slipped from this life into eternity with Jesus. I was at home, cooking for lots of people, both in my home and not. I was at home on a week where Monday brought news of my mother-in-law’s death and Saturday brought news of my friend’s death and all the days in between were taken with caring. And for the first time in a very long time, I didn’t feel burdened in the caring. I felt alive. That’s grace, my friends.

Carefully Cultivating Rhythm: This week is Easter Week. As nature would have it, it’s also Bluebell Week. And now, it’s the week of two funerals. It’s the week of hard goodbyes that creep upon me at odd hours. A child who has understood since September that Grandma was seriously ill and who was praying she wouldn’t suffer longer, is suddenly overcome with the idea that she’ll never see her again. My world stops in that moment.  Together we grieve. Then, I wait. For she is not the only child in this large family. Grief looks different on different faces. Grief is carried differently by each of them.  The big ones are off in their own places, reconciling loss and the obvious absence of community who knew… I see cousins who are at the same universities reach out for one another. And a young man on the other side of country, who had braced himself for his grandmother’s death finds himself unexpectedly flattened when his friend and mentor dies, too. Too much. Too far away. 

And yet grief takes on the rhythm of the liturgy. Grandma slipped from her suffering to the cadence of the rosary being said at her bedside. Mike Greiner fell on the feast of St. Joseph and went to be with Jesus just as the churches lit their candles for the Easter vigil.  The rhythm of faith and life and death and hope.

Creating By Hand:  I have some costume sewing to do. I really, really have some costume sewing to do. And layette sewing, too.  Still. I still do.

Learning lessons in: We shall take the nature notebooks into the woods and draw and draw and draw.

Encouraging learning in: Gosh. Things I so didn’t emphasize in the first 15 years of homeschooling! I’m all about how to take a test these days, and how to write for the rubric, and how to read the assignment and read it again, and how to budget time. And how to find the answers. Yes, it’s very important to know how to find the answers.

Keeping house: We are spring cleaning and I’m nearly intoxicated by Mrs. Meyer’s Peony scented stuff. But I still love Honeysuckle, too. I bought a few bottles of each and now I tell my eager helpers they can choose their favorites. It honestly makes it less of a chore.

Crafting in the kitchen: I made Easter dinner for a bunch yesterday. I like to cook for a crowd. But we delivered. Around our table was just the usual everyday crowd. This fact was super hard. Because the boys are coming home for funerals, they couldn’t come for Easter. And the cousins didn’t come, either. So it was just us. Katie and I cooked up a storm and I delivered to our friends. Sarah delighted in setting our table with china and I let her do the centerpiece. We tried to tell ourselves it was all so fun. Then, we let down our guards and had a good cry—two introverts bemoaning the small crowd and quiet house. Who’d have guessed?

To be fit and happy: We’ve had some gorgeous weather and I’m walking again. Look for #morningrun to return to this space next week. I’m kind of giddy at the idea.

Giving thanks: For the grace of God.

Loving the moments: when ardent, serious, very intense prayers are answered and hope unfurls.

Living the Liturgy: These fifty Easter days: I want to live them fully. Once upon a time, I used to talk to my friend Colleen every morning on the phone. We held each other accountable. We challenged each other spiritually. We lifted each other up. We wiped more than a few tears. Then, she moved to Costa Rica and the daily habit was broken. We still talk and we’re getting better at managing communication into the jungle;-). But now, I have a lovely little volume right next to my Bible chair. Colleen is once again poised to be a part of my morning prayer. Won’t you join us? It’s not too late!! You can get a copy of On the Way: The Road to Pentecost right now and we can all pray along together and encourage one another. There’s a Facebook page for chatting and accountability. It’s going to be good. Come along!

Ebook here: -)

Planning for the week ahead: For all my renewed hope, these are set to be challenging days. Grief is tricky and unexpected. We will lean heavily upon the graces of this holiest week, grateful, grateful to live the liturgy in a community of believers.

Between Grief and Joy

I’m in a precarious position as I write this column. It is the Friday before Palm Sunday. We are but a few days from Holy Week. This column will be published on Holy Thursday, just as the most somber days of the year begin. Three days later, it will be Easter, the most jubilant day of the year.

As I write, my husband’s mother hangs on to the faintest whisper of life. Before I hit “send,” she could be gone.

When will you read this? In the silence of Good Friday afternoon, or Easter Monday, as you catch your breath after a day of joyous celebration? The line is so fine this week of the liturgical year: life and death, grief and joy, fear and hope.

Faith finds us there, along that fine line. Faith — like a muscle that is stretched and stressed and, please God, strengthened in the moments of grief — carries us from the grief to the joy, from the fear to the hope. There on the death side of the fine line, though, waiting and hoping to hope in joy, we are brokenhearted. It is the person of Jesus who sits with us in Gethsemane, who weeps with us at the tomb, who gives us reason to rejoice on the glorious morning of new life.

We hear the promise in the dark of night: The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18). Deep grief changes lives. Deep grief tests souls by stretching taut against every good thing we’ve ever believed and straining against the faith we’ve always taken for granted. Under the weight of sadness, hearts bow and souls cry out in despair. The question is whether we cry out to the Lord who has taken all of our grief upon His own shoulders. Will we let Him come close to our broken hearts? Curled up tightly, defensive against the pain, we are tempted like never before to shut Him out, disbelieving that any good God would allow the dark of a Friday on Calvary. Will we exercise our faith and let it grow in the pain? Will we test it and find that God truly is good, all the time, even on the grief side of the fine line? Will we believe in the triumph of Easter morning?

Cellophane Easter grass strewn across the living room floor and half-eaten chocolate bunnies are the stuff of Sunday afternoon. But Easter, true Easter, lives most gloriously in the soul of the person who has wrestled grief and the doubt it sows in one’s faith and lived to know that Jesus is real. We have to make the first move, however tentative it is. We have to reach for Jesus and ask Him to walk along the fine line. Part of growing in faith is making a decision to believe and to be vulnerable in belief. Strengthening faith means living on the grief side of the fine line and deciding that we trust God’s plan and, further, that we want Him to be our safe place. We want Him to take us to the other side, the joy side. Slowly, we unfurl from our defensive posture and let our souls inhale grace.