Your children will see that– in spite of imperfections in their parents– joyful obedience to God is still the standard. That obedience is all the more fruitful when difficult temperaments and real life challenges are involved. Your children will learn that you can’t change someone else. But you can love them.
I'm sharing an old post at Suscipio this morning, the notes from long ago conversations with wise women. Thoughts on love and marriage. Please join me there?
Way back when I started blogging, I was very shy about writing about marriage. It's a tricky topic and, though I venture there a wee bit more these days, I'm still hesitant. But I got bold one day way back when. I think I was bothered by somehting I read. (Isn't anger a great motivator to write? On second thought, don't answer that.) I wrote about how openness to life made us better--better spouses, better friends, better Christians. That piece has been republished today at Suscipio. Won't you join me there?
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.}
The knitting pace is picking up.It's so nice to have hit a knitting rhythm again! I have taken six children to the dentist in the last 24 hours and Sarah visited the pediatrician--lots of waiting room knitting. Tomorrow, we have 5 orthodontist appointments and then Friday will bring some labwork. I think this sweater might get as finished as possible without a trip to see Ginny this week.
It's been nice to knit in waiting rooms and talk with recptionists about knitting. One of the ladies behind the desk at the dentist told me all about how her mother taught her to knit when she was little. She said she hadn't knit in years. Then, she went on to remember how it's a wonderful stress-buster. Pretty sure there's a visit to a yarn store in her near future:-).
I'm reading Young and in Love: Challenging the Unnecessary Delay of Marriage. I did receive a complimentary copy of this book in exchange for a review and I'm breaking radio silence this week because that review is overdue (and because I missed talking with y'all about knitting.). The topic of early marriage is one that fascinates me. By today's standards, I married young. Since one of my children is already older than I was when I married (he's actually older than I was when he was born), it's a topic whose time has come around again. I haven't finished the book, but there is one critical point that absolutely rings true with me: young people today have a tendency to extend the immaturity of their teen years well into their twenties and delaying marriage is part and parcel of that selfish behavior. Often, delaying marriage is not about delaying gratification and waiting until one is mature and capable of establishing a household; it is instead, about choosing to behave as if they were the center of a universe that exists solely for their pleasure.
Ted Cunningham, the author, validates young love. He doesn't dismiss the idea that there are young people who know that they have found the spouse God intends and he encourages them to get married and begin the life of love God wants for them. He gives a young couple tools for evaluating the relationship and for forging a solid bond. It's a worthwhile read and it is certainly food for thought and for discussion. If God is trying to knit a couple together, society shouldn't tangle it all up. Every relationship is unique. When I consider my own relatively young marriage, I'm always astonished. How did we know? How did we do that? Where did we get that sure confidence and exuberant joy? It was the grace of God. Only the grace of God. And 25 years after making that decision, it's still the grace of God that fuels the union. No matter how many books are written or how many scholars and pastors weigh in, no matter how many demographic studies are done, the most important thing I want my children to consider God's will for this most important decision.
His "Office" Tonight
Production truck on site at the LA Galaxy versus Real Madrid soccer match
My "Office" Tonight
~home~
I have long loved early childhood. From the time I was very little, I have invested much thought and prayer into the mother of young children I feel called to be. Much to the chagrin of pretty much everyone except my husband, I even majored in early childhood in college. (Just an aside: I had enough nursing and anatomy/physiology credits to also be certified to teach health and PE. God had a plan. I grew up to educate children who, when asked to name their school, inform the general public that they attend the Foss Academy for the Athletically Inclined. But I digress.)
I have held tightly to the promise that it's never too late to have a happy childhood. And since mine was not childish or carefree, I've set out very deliberately to create for my children what I think I might have missed and to enjoy it alongside them. Deep in my heart, my fondest wish was to be the very good mother of young children. You might say that I've dedicated my adult life to that task.
Not too long ago, I can't remember where, I read about a woman around my age who said that she was too busy with her grown kids and teenagers to mourn the fact that her babies were growing up and there would soon be no wee ones in her house. I'm not. I'm not too busy. There are still small children in my house and they slow me, still me. I still stay with them at night as they drift off to sleep. I still sit with them at the table as they eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, ever so slowly. I bathe them and brush their hair and braid it up before bed. I sit and rock and hold and read. I still thank God for them with every breath, much like I did the day they were born. I have plenty of time in the course of my day to be still and know that these are precious moments that will not be a part of my days in the not too distant future.
In a way, I envy those women who blithely move along to the next stage of life and smile brightly and say, "There! That's finished. Wasn't it grand? Now what's next?" I'm not one of them. Perhaps I'm just not good at transitions. I sobbed at my high school graduation. I remember how reluctantly I traded my wedding gown for my "going away" clothes. I cried so hard when Michael left for college that I had to pull over because I couldn't see to drive. I held more tightly to each newborn than the one before. And this last one? I don't think I put her down at all for the first twelve weeks. My intimate relationships are deep and rooted and meaningful. When I live something, I feel it.
I know it's time.
I know because my environment cries out that it is so. My house is full to overflowing with people. Several of them are more than twice the size they were when we moved in here. Some have left and come back and brought with them more of their own stuff. We are bursting at the seams. It is time to acknowledge that we are in a new season of life and to allow my house to reflect that.
And so. I cocoon. Somehow I know that this is intense, deeply personal business and at the end I will be the same and yet, forever different. I spin a silken thread tightly around my home. My cell phone goes dead. I don't recharge it. I don't touch my laptop. I don't carry the house phone with me. I don't leave for several days. It is time to conquer all those recesses of my home that I neglected while I held babies. It is time to let go.
We need space. We no longer need a co-sleeper. Or the sheets to go with it. We don't need a swing. I begin in the basement.
We don't need three neatly labeled boxes of beautiful thick, pink, cotton clothes -- 0-3 months, 6-9 months, 9-18 months. I carefully save the christening gown, the sweet baptism booties, the first dress Karoline wore to match Katie and Mary Beth. The rest I fold into giveaway bags. Michael takes the baby "things" to the Salvation Army on Friday.The clothes remain until Saturday morning. The Children's Center truck is due to arrive at 8 AM. After I've finished with the clothes, I cannot stay here in this basement on Friday. I've done what I know will be the most difficult task. I also know I'm nearly suffocating. I need to go upstairs and get some air.
I begin in Mike's office. This isn't really my mess or my stuff or even the stuff of children who haven't been carefully supervised. It is just the overflow of two busy adults who pile and stuff a bit too much. He doesn't use this room. It's a lovely room in the middle of the house with a bright window. I put a new sewing machine on the desk. I rearrange shelves, discarding things he no longer needs. I spend an hour or so carefully dusting his youth trophies and 25 years of sports paraphernalia. I think about this post and I know that we can (and should) share this space. I move some baskets in. My yarn, my knitting and sewing books, a few carefully folded lengths of fabric, holding place for a stash to come.
I stitch a few things in that room. And I am happy there. I am no longer knitting in my womb. But I am still creating. And it makes me happy. My arms are ever more often empty, but my hands are increasingly free for other pursuits. Still, a small voice whispers, knitting and sewing are nothing like the co-creation you've done for the last 22 years. I hush the voice. I have no idea where this is going. He is the Creator. He has written a beautiful pattern for my life. All He asks is that I knit according to His plan. Trust the pattern.
On Saturday morning, that truck comes. I can't even watch as they load my dear boxes. My stomach clenches and my eyes fill with tears. Things. They are only things. The girls who wore those things are safe in my arms. Another mother will be blessed to hold a sweet pink cotton bundle close and nuzzle her cheeks. I descend to the basement.
Here. Here is where I must force myself to cocoon. Here is where ten years of "put this carefully in the craft room" will come back to haunt me. They have tossed at will every single time. It never recovered from the great flooring shuffle. I do pretty well with the rest of the house, but I dislike coming down to the basement and Mike rarely comes down here. So, here is where the disorder has collected. The "craft room" is a jumble of stored clothes, curriculum, craft supplies, and 25 years of family photos. It is a mess.
I am humbled by the mess. Quite literally driven to my knees. But I have spun myself into this small space and here I will stay until I can emerge beautifully.
I have banished all outside interruptions, but I have brought with me the Audible version of this book. Good thing, too, because I will benefit greatly from the message within and, frankly, I will need to hear the narrator say "You are a good mom" as often as she does.
I see the abandoned half-finished projects, the still shrinkwrapped books, the long lingering fabric and lace. Did I miss it? Did I miss the opportunity to do the meaningful things? To be the good mom I want to be? I am nearly crushed by the weight of the money I've spent on these things and the remanants of my poor stewardship.What was I doing when this mess was being made? To be sure some of the time was sadly wasted. It is easy to berate myself for time slipped through my fingers. Cocoons are really rather nasty things.
Determined, I clear out the clutter. I tell myself that life is not black and white. It's not all bad or all good. I fold fabric and recognize that what I have here is the beginning of some new projects. I gather acorn caps and felt and label them and tuck them away for the fall. I make a very large stack of books to sell secondhand. I sort and sweep and remember. I see picture after picture of smiling children. I see, in those color images, time well spent. Time well filled. Their mama always looks tired. I recognize in those pictures that my children were happy--are happy. And I also recognize that it's been a little while now since I felt that tired. It is true that much of my time in the last twenty years, I have been filling well. I have been holding and rocking and nursing and coloring and listening and reading and giving and giving...I have been cherishing childhood. And it is a true that in a household this size, it is darn near impossible for every corner of the house to remain clean and every lesson to be carried out according to plan ,while caring well for babies and toddlers. Messes happen.
The season just passed? The very long season? It was good and full and messy and cluttered. It was bursting-at-the-seams joyful in a way nothing ever will be again. It was also very hard work. Very, very hard work.There were utter failures and big mistakes. And there was a whole lot of good.
This new season? I don't know yet. It's not nearly as cluttered. I have stayed in this cocoon until every corner of my home, every nook and every cranny, has been cleared of the clutter of the last season. Every poor choice, every undisciplined mess has been repurposed. Every single one. I can see my way clear to do the meaningful things. And the blessing is that there are still plenty of children in this house to do them with me.
As I sweep the room for the last time before considering this a job well done, I see a picture that has slid under a bookshelf. It is Mike and me at our wedding rehearsal. I stare long and hard at that girl. But I stare longer at him. He is still every bit as happy as he was that night. Happier, really. Really happier. These days in this cocoon, I have been brutally honest with myself. I've held myself accountable for every transgression. I have humbled myself before God and I have confessed my sins. I look at his image and then back at mine and I realize something very important. Whatever my failings, I have consistently been a good wife. I wonder at the ease with which this recognition comes to me. I am certain that much of it is born of his frequent words of affirmation. I know it is so because he has told me it is so. But why is it so?
Grace.
Ours is a gracious God. It is only by His grace that I am the wife I am. And it is by His grace that I have this sense of peace about the most important relationship in my life. These children willl grow in the safe home he and I have created together. And then they will fly. Mike and I? We will be us. Always us.
I carefully put away the very last picture, turn out the light, and climb the stairs.
I've cleared out the clutter, made peace with the past. I've learned a very valuable lesson that I'm long going to be pondering in my heart. It's time to fly free.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Small Steps focuses on humility this month. 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. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.You're welcome to post the Small Steps Together banner button also.
As I've watched college students graduate recently, I've noticed a distressing trend. Campus ministries are becoming better, teaching orthodoxy without hesitation. Genuinely Catholic colleges are brimming over with zealous young people.
And yet.
There is a harshness, a sort of snobbery happening. I watch in not a little horror and listen to what they are saying, as they measure other people by their overt acts of piety, while they size people up and discard them like the stuff of yesterday's recycling bin because they don't fit the new collegiate image of perfect holiness.
And I can just imagine that several years hence, they will go together with their young children to a playdate. They will meet another young mom at the park. They will inquire as to how many children she has. And when they discover that she has two, four years apart, they will say something sanctimonious about how they are open to God's plan for having children and has she ever heard of NFP? She will sit and wonder briefly whether she should tell them about the two years of cancer between the first birth and the second, about how desperately she prayed for this second child, about what a miracle he is. That young mom, with the two children widely spaced, will have just learned how some people of faith can judge one another. Litmus tests. Checklists. As she raises a family in the real world, she will see that attitude given voice over and over and over again, while Jesus weeps for his Church, broken and divided.
What's the opposite of gentleness? Harshness. Hard lines. Brittle rules.
So there you are, you all grown up and graduated and out in the real world! You've come so far. You've left behind the safety of campus life, the happy campus ministry, the structure of academia. You've gone and gotten yourself a real job in the real world. With a real cubicle and a good excuse to shop at that very fine career wear store. Good for you!
You have a zeal for the faith that can be spotted a mile away. You wear it proudly splashed across your chest on more than a dozen t-shirts collected over the years of vibrant Catholic education. And you've come to embrace all those devotions of our faith as you've learned of them in your coming-of-age. You are on fire for your faith and you are eager to go out there into the real world and tell everyone just how Catholic you are.
May I whisper a word or two to you?
Gentleness. Humility.
Out there, in the real world, be mindful of gentleness. Don't beat people over the head with your religion. Really. You don't win souls for Christ that way. Actually, come to think of it, you don't win souls for Christ at all. The Holy Spirit does. You just listen--quietly--for the prompting of the Holy Spirit. You just pray--fervently--that you can be His instrument. And please don't think for one moment that you are better than the guy who goes to lunch at lunchtime instead of going to Mass. You're not. You are broken and messy and in need of a savior just like he is. You have been given the extraordinary gift of grace and the blessing of faith. Given it. God gave it to you.
You didn't earn it. You don't deserve it.
Humility. You know God in the Eucharist. You are blessed. He blesses you. Now, go bless someone else.
You are going to meet so many new people in the next few years. No matter how high-powered your job, no matter how life and death your decisions, you are still and always a woman of God. You are called to be as gentle as the Blessed Mother. Here's a hint towards beginning relationships and continuing relationships with gentleness: Be the girl who walks into a room--any room, every room-- and says, "There you are! How are you?" Don't be the girl who bursts onto the scene and shouts, "Here I am! Be like me!" It's not about you. It's never about you. You are a servant of God. Serve.
I know how dearly you hope to find a Godly man who will sweep you off your feet and be the husband to the wife and the mother you feel called to be. I know you want him to be as committed to the faith as you think you are. Don't judge every person you meet with a checklist in hand. Whether it's the girl you keep bumping into in the cafeteria, or the guy who seems to ride the same bus route on your commute, don't issue litmus tests. And for goodness sake, don't do this:
Every guy I know gets slack-jawed when they watch this video ( which made the rounds last year and caused more than one married Catholic mom I know to laugh and cry and shake her head in disbelief). At first we thought it was a joke. Then, we started reading comboxes. Not a joke, at least not for some people. Who could possibly live up to this? A second-hand relic? Honey, if you think you are marrying a saint, you are in for a rude awakening. Marriage is our path to sanctification. We don't marry into sainthood; we journey towards it together.
Here's the thing: you're going to miss a lot of good people if you make up checklists like that. And you might just miss God's plan for you, both in terms of men and real, good girlfriends. Some of the best husbands and fathers I know couldn't have checked off more than one or two things on that video when they were fresh out of college. They grew into good, holy men, often because of girls who loved them, believed in them, and shared the grace of Jesus with them. And I know people who can check off everything on the video list and, sadly, they aren't very good husbands and fathers. While lots of people can follow the rules and lots of people can do numerous acts of piety and devotion, they aren't necessarily people after God's own heart. Following the rules does not automatically equal holiness.
And isn't it interesting how in that whole long list, not one act of mercy is mentioned? You want a good husband and father? Find a merciful one. Here's a far better checklist:
In the real world, those acts of mercy can take many, many forms. Perhaps you'll find him ladling soup in a homeless shelter. That would be an easy one to spot. Or maybe he's the young medical student who circles back after a long day of work to read stories to the pediatric patients. Maybe he's the guy who listens patiently as his grandfather goes on and on about a distant memory not quite still within his reach. Or maybe he's the one who's working fulltime and getting his degree because he dreams of a large family and wants the means with which to support them. Is he the guy next door? The one who "only" goes to Sunday Mass, but who also cheerfully picks up two young soccer players and drives them to practice three times a week because their mom is bedridden? And all the while, in the car, he is their friend. Their real friend. A strong shoulder to lean on in a time of crisis at home. Just a real good guy. Look for a real good guy. Someone who will journey with you.
Don't dismiss someone just because they aren't as outwardly pious as you are. Don't dismiss people at all. There's a big world of people out there. And some of those people are people from whom God intends you to learn. Even if, at first glance, it looks as if they aren't nearly as holy or smart or good as you are. Even if they aren't as holy or smart or pious as you are. They, too, were created in His image and each person--each and every one--is valuable. And worth your time. Don't discount someone because they aren't as up on theology as you are or because they don't "have religion."
Remember "knowledge puffs up, but love builds up." (1 Corinthinians 8:1)
And, to make it all trickier, zealous people have to guard carefully against Pharasaical sins and scrupulosity.
Whether we are growing closer to God or growing closer to people, it's not about checklists. It's about relationships.
Relationships beg coming alongside, walking together.
School is finished. Now begins the real work of cultivating a teachable spirit.
It's about listening.
It's about serving.
It's about nurturing.
It's about loving.
It's about a gentle spirit.
All the time.
It won't be easy. The gentleness thing. Pray for the grace to be gentle. We're all human, remember? As you go about your day in your busy real life world, you will brush up against broken, hurting, sinful real life human beings. They are just like you. And when you know that you are broken, too, saved by grace and gifted with faith, you will be genuinely gentle. You will look to people and assume that there is something to be learned from them, something good in them. You won't assume that because you are more pious, more obviously active in your faith, that you are closer to God. Instead, you will see Jesus in the poor, in the ordinary, even in the partier in the apartment next door.
"This was the method that Jesus used with the apostles. He put up with their ignorance and roughness and even their infidelity. He treated sinners with a kindness and affection that caused some to be shocked, others to be scandalized and still others to hope for God’s mercy. And so He bade us to be gentle and humble of heart." -- St John Bosco
And in the end, He won their souls.
Go gently into that real world. Grow gently into a woman of genuine faith.
And God go with you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Small Steps focuses on gentleness this month. 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. Please leave a link to your blog post below and then send your readers back here to see what others have said.You're welcome to post the Small Steps Together banner button also.
I found myself with time to write, but a case of writer's block this evening. So, I went back through a file of questions I had saved. I haven't contributed to the question file for, oh, about two years. Don't know why I stopped filing questions there. It was a good idea, really. I think I'll return to that practice. And maybe this time, I'll be better about answering them promptly. Anyhooo, here's one from a few years ago:
For several years now I have been an ardent reader of your blog, message board posts, and various other articles, and I am just in awe of what you're able to accomplish in a given day. After reading your post this morning I called a good friend & said to her, "Okay, I have to know ... how does Elizabeth "do" all of this??? How does she stay motivated to declutter, take care of family, educate children, and do her writing?"
I have a difficult time keeping my laundry caught up and often feel guilty that my baby is entertained by television while I try to get "caught up" around here. So where do you begin? Do you have a very rigid schedule that you adhere to, are your older children capable of and willing to give you a great deal of assistance with the younger ones?
As a Catholic mom aspiring to be the wife, mother, friend, and educator God would have me be, I would be extremely grateful for any tips you could provide me on 'where to begin'.
Dear Elizabeth in SC,
Let's begin with the disclaimer: I do not feel qualified at all to tell you where to begin, which is probably why this post has lingered in my "question box" since March 2008. I really dislike didactic blog posts where the author sounds like she's got it all figured out and I often wonder just how old Paul meant for those Titus 2 women to be. I really don't know when I'll ever feel like I'm in a good place to advise. I do, however, like very much to share what works for me. And I live each and every day with the sure sense that there is never a bad time to shout the wonders of God. Whatever works, works because of His gracious goodness. Whatever fails, fails because I haven't listened well enough or been faithful enough to His commands. So, I'll share with you what works when it works and assure you that there are most definitely days--even seasons--of failure.
That brings me to the first part of your question: how does she stay motivated to declutter, take care of her family, educate children, and do her writing?
That's easy. I am motivated by the sheer joy of being alive and the awareness of what a fragile gift we are given with every breath. I know what it's like to wonder if I will live to raise my children. I have spent hours begging God for the chance to do His will with them. I had not one, but two extended periods of stillness in my life when all I wanted was to be well enough to be a good mom. And both times, when that gift of life was granted again, I resolved to live it to its fullest. I am eternally grateful just to be present in the lives of my family.
Today, I am often reminded of those hard days of stillness and fear. The reminders come in my inbox in the form of emails written by a dear friend. Many, many times those brief missives take the very last of her energy for the day. Sometimes, I read them at night and wake up in the morning with the resolve to do with the day not only what I had planned to do, but what she would do if only she felt well enough.
I don't know if this is at all helpful to you. I'm not sure you can take my experience and benefit from it. I think my experiences color every aspect of my life and because of them I bring different expectations to relationships and to duties. I am often surprised when I am misunderstood and I am increasingly aware that to live this way is almost like living with a sixth sense about life.
Now, let's look at the nitty gritty. I begin at the beginning. Generally, I have a grounded sense of why I'm here. I live to love my God and my family. I'm not easily distracted by what's going on "out there." The one exception in my life was the wasted time I grew to regret last spring. That aside, I'm focused. With my husband, I prioritize and then I endeavor to live those priorities. I'll warn you, it isn't always a popular thing to do. And it's probably best to explain it over and over again (I don't do nearly enough of that--I assume people know). There are plenty of people out there who will tell you that I can go days (weeks?) without answering emails, returning phone calls, or nurturing friendships. I mean no harm and no disrespect. Quite the contrary, I simply mean to live simply inside the narrow parameters of my family life. I am very grateful for the friends who know and understand how I manage my time and love me anyway.
I start my days with exercise, the Divine Office and Morning Prayer. For me, those are critical to a day well lived. I put my husband before everything else. I carry him with me through the day and I don't hesitate to order my time and energy to meet his needs (and wants) as much, as well, and as often as I can. Marriage is a gift--to me, to him, and to our kids. I protect it with my very life. That means I don't always do some things one might expect me to do. Also, I prioritize according to his direction. I don't waste a whole lot of time thinking about it. I just do it.
For me, a good day begins in a tidy house. I have difficulty functioning in a house that's cluttered and disorganized. At different stages of my life, acquiring and maintaining order has meant different things. When we had three little children and only one car, my husband took a detailed list, three boys and his father, and went grocery shopping and to visit Grandma one evening every week. I power cleaned in the time he was gone. When I had seven children, was recovering from surgery and struggling with depression, we hired help to come in once a week. When I had three competent teenagers at home and someone to share driving duties and no one was nursing...oh, wait, I've never had that;-). You get the idea. Sit down with your husband; share your needs and your wants where your environment is concerned and figure out a way to get to order and to maintain order.
I do have a detailed, almost-to-the-minute schedule. I make a new one every season. And then I never look at it again. I just make them to see how it can all fit. If it can't all fit, something has to give. But once the schedule is made, I walk away from it. I have a general sense of what's to be accomplished in every block of time during the day and I hold myself to it, but I'm not a slave to tiny increments of time. One thing that is nearly non-negotiable in my household is naptime. If we have a napping baby, she gets to have her nap. That means I am really careful not to schedule outside commitments during naptime unless I have someone old enough at home to stay and make sure the baby sleeps.Usually, this means that we have a happy baby. We keep our eating times regular and our going to sleep times regular and then there is an expectation that everything else will fall in place. I paddle like crazy under water to be sure things swim smoothly on top.
I am usually shy, but I am no longer afraid to say "no" in order to preserve order and maintain sanity. I am quite content with my community of eleven at home and in my heart. My focus is on them. I try hard not to assign too much baby and toddler care to my older children. An attachment parent to the very core of my being, I nurse my babies a long, long time (unless forced to wean around 2 years old by cancer or premature labor). Nursing means that my babies come back to me at regular intervals throughout the day for my undivided attention. It prevents me from delegating them too much, something that can easily happen in a household that has older children who love babies. I hold and hold and hold my babies until they squirm to get down. That said, my oldest daughter does do a lot of baby and child care. Much of it, she chooses to do herself. My kids practically came to blows this morning over who was to have the privilege of dressing the baby. In the end, Mary Beth won. Twenty minutes later, Sarah Annie appeared with a new outfit on, her hair in pigtails, and painted finger nails. Very sweet. For both of them.
In terms of education or household management, I make a lot of lists, think it all out. I'm very intentional. Sometimes, I get to attached to those lists and I start to bulldoze. But I do a lot less of that now than I did ten years ago. My motivation behind the lists is different now. I used to be motivated by keeping up appearances; I wanted everyone looking in to think I was capable and competent. Now, I'm motivated by peace of soul. I want to meet God at the end of the day and honestly tell Him I've been a graceful, good steward of the time He gave me. If my house isn't as tidy as I want it to be, it's probably not because I failed to do the important things; it's probably because I did do whatever was more important. And believe me, I think a clean house is important! It is not, however, a reliable measure of my worth.
I do have days when I feel all semblance of control slipping. And usually, those are messy house days or kids who won't do lessons days. Or both. Those are times I used to escape into the computer, because things stay tidy there. What I really need at those times is a little peace of heart--I need "quiet in a crowd." You can get a fair bit of "alone time" to just think or pray when you hold in your hand a running vacuum. Now, when I'm tempted to go all "drill seargeant" on my kids because I want everything perfect right now, I vacuum and pray instead. If I get all the dog hair up and I'm still wanting to bulldoze, I do. The kids are probably in need of a good, honest nudge.
I'm a hands-on mom. I love to hold my children or to sit next to them and read aloud. Talking to them about big ideas or little mysteries is a happy thing. I'm fond of books and truly enjoy sharing them with the loves of my life. We are all blessed because I genuinely love education. When I face homeschooling, it's not with a sense of dread or duty. I truly delight in it (most days). That's such a blessing and I know it! I'm very grateful for the gift of that joy. I look at almost every encounter with the people I love as an opportunity to live a blessing. Once upon a time, I begged God to let me just read a story and then lie in the dark with a squirmy three-year-old while she drifted to sleep. He granted me the joy and I seize it as often as I can.
Oh dear! Is this any help at all? I do what I do the way I do it because it's the way God made me and how He continues to shape me through the people in my family and the experiences He's allowed me. At the end of the day--quite literally--it all comes down to getting on my knees and asking Him what He would have me do. And then, I compare notes with my husband and together we do whatever He tells us. I'm just happy He's given me such nice things to do.
{this moment} - A Friday ritual. A single photo - no words - capturing a moment from the week. (This moment is from this week, September 12th, to be exact, 23 years ago. I took a photo of a page from my wedding album) A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. If you're inspired to do the same, visit Soulemama to leave a link to your 'moment' in the comments for all to find and see.
This is a reprint from nearly two years ago, during bedrest, for Ann's special Walk with Him Wednesday, honoring marriage.
First, there was this:
That's what they tell me as they wheel me into the room and bustle about getting me "settled." Lie on the right side. No sitting. No bathroom. And really, no hands, as they are given to tubes and needles. Just be still.
But I can't do nothing. I've never been able to do nothing. So, I do something.
I pray--begging, pleading, and trying to still my thoughts and know that He is God.
I listen to the steady, rhythmic thump that assures me that my precious child is alive and safe within me for this moment in time.
I hear the words of the priest--of annointing, of absolution, of the gift of grace--real and present within me.
I smile at the generosity of a visitor who overcomes her own ghosts of hospitals past to bring me a bag of treats and the encouragement of someone who knows well the journey we are undertaking.
I imagine the cries of my toddler who, in my absence, searches in vain for familiar comfort and who will never nurse again--and I weep.
I send an army of angels and saints to the three "big kids" at home who valiantly, cheerfully, and prayerfully care for their little siblings.
I laugh with friends in Louisiana and Florida who call to read me assurances of prayers and who insist they can organize volunteers from near and far. And they do.
I am astonished by reports of competent, holy women who sweep into my house and run it better than I do.
And I wait for him. Because when he walks through the door, I feel safe. When he is with me, my whole world looks different. This baby is his. And so are the other eight he is so mightily supporting. And so am I. I saw the brief look of fear when I came to him, blood-stained and scared. And I know how hard he is working to never, ever let it cross his face again. I see him, exhausted and torn in a million directions. But he doesn't bow under the weight. Instead, he stands taller. He is here.
(Nearly) perfect love, come to cast out fear. I want so desperately to come alongside and help in this crisis as I have in every other. By doing. By holding and touching and connecting. And I can't. Because I am still. And only still. We talk. We laugh. We hope. And in the night, when I cannot sleep, I pray. I pray for the strength and grace he will need.
We will need.
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And then, several weeks later, there was this:
I've been writing a family life column for over fifteen years. And I rarely write about marriage. I sometimes refer to marriage. I frequently write about openness to life. But I tend to avoid writing about marriage. I'm a big fan of marriage. I dearly love my husband. It's really tricky, however, to write about marriage. It's one thing to write about one's own struggles and failings; it's entirely another to write about one's spouse's. I'm not so keen on making our struggles public. It's impossible to write honestly about marriage without mentioning the tough times.
There are lots of times when Mike will look at me during a really, really good moment in our life together and say, "You should write about that." As far as I can remember, he's never said that during or after a particularly bad moment. And we have bad moments.
I think though, that I am a good wife. For the first ten years or so of our marriage, I was a good wife solely by the grace of God and my own sheer joy at being in my husband's presence. I was totally head over heels in love. Then, under the strain of four children and his eighty hour a week job and lots of travel, sheer joy needed a boost. My desire to be a good wife was augmented by trying to implement the advice of countless books on Christian marriage. Following most of the advice there came naturally to me. I just needed to be reminded and encouraged.
The advice in all of those books ran along the same lines: keep a well ordered home; be a cheerful helpmeet; be tuned in to his need for physical affection. I've read volumes on submission and volumes on traditional roles. Lots and lots of good advice.
In the past few weeks, though, I've reflected on those messages and found them lacking. To be sure, I believe we honor the men who provide for our homes by making them cheerful havens of peace and good cheer. I'm all in favor working alongside our men. And I'm a staunch believer in following his lead where hobbies and spare time pursuits are concerned. I think the physical gift of marriage is one of God's greatest blessings for a married couple. The advice in those books is solid. The action items are noble ones. The sum total of those actions, however, do not make one a good wife.
There have been two seasons of my life where I could not follow the advice in the "good Christian wife" books. The first time, I was a bride, married just two years. I found myself very ill. Bald from chemotherapy, puffed up with steroids, and often too sick and tired to lift myself from the couch, I was a deplorable housekeeper. I could not go out into the world to do the things he loved to do: sporting events, golf outings, even grocery shopping. To do so would risk a potentially lethal infection. And all too often, physical affection was reduced to my feeble attempt to run my fingers through his hair as he drifted to sleep.
The second season is the one I'm in right now. I haven't seen my kitchen in days. I don't cook. I don't clean. It was big news when I was allowed to sit up long enough to fold laundry. The slightest touch causes my uterus to contract. Nothing is more endearing to my husband than for the whole family to "be there" for youth sports. I'm so not "there." I fully admit that I have been so schooled in the "good Christian wife" train of thought that I'm struggling with my role right now. It's my husband who is protesting when I tell him how I'm failing at the "good wife thing."
Bless his heart!
He reminds me that we're in this for good, in sickness and in health. Can one be a good wife if she can't do anything? Is being a good wife an entirely active thing? According to Mike, it couldn't possibly be. He insists that doing all those things are not what makes someone a good wife.
What does then? What lesson is there in this moment that is actually a lesson for the rest of our married lives?
The first thing that comes to mind is prayer. I can and do pray almost incessantly for my husband these days. Often, it's the only thing I can do. He is bearing the almost unbearable strain of doing for our family. He is carrying me emotionally at a time when I'm vulnerable and embarrassingly fearful.He's the doer. I am the prayer support. St. Joseph and I are very, very tight these days and I never cease to be grateful for his prompt intercession. Indeed, prayer is no small thing.
Prayer though, isn't making a wish upon a star and coercing heaven into doing things my way. Prayer is a means to expand my soul, to crowd out sin and to fill it with grace. With the benefit of that grace, I see glimpses of God's vision of a good wife. He wants us to keep a cheerful home. He wants to us to relax and play with our husbands. He wants us to give freely of ourselves physically. But these actions are not at the core of being a good wife. At the core of being a good wife is a soul who knows the heart of her husband.
The actions are instruments. Through those actions, I might reach his heart. And I often do. But it's not about the actions; it's about the knowing. It's about the reaching for the heart of the man and truly, truly caring about what resides there. The actions are very useful tools. Sometimes, when the tools are fully at my fingertips, though, I become more concerned with the tools than with the man himself. How well am doing the housekeeping thing? How good a soccer mom am I? That's not what it's about.
Not now. Now there is nothing between me and the man. There is no way to "win" his affection. I'm not planning candlelit dinners. I'm not sitting in the stands of a soccer game on a crisp autumn day sharing a caramel macchiato. I'm not doing much of anything. I'm here in bed twenty-four hours a day, reaching for his heart. When I reach for his heart, when I care only about him, when I listen as if the whole world depends on it, when I want nothing more than to know what he holds at the core of his being, when I leave myself and I'm solely his and his alone, I am a good wife.
I am left with prayer and conversation. Conversation, I have found, must be weighted in favor of listening.
Honestly, we are limited by language. We are limited by our humanity. We can't do this marriage thing under human power and do it well. I will never make the kind of connection that God desires in my marriage without God himself. Marriage is a sacrament. Thank God! It's pure grace that allows me to reach the heart of my husband. Pure grace grants us moments of wholeness when we truly, truly complete one another. In the absence of action, it is easy to know what is essential to those moments of wholeness. In the absence of action, I am left with nothing but prayer and the openness to him that is enabled by grace.
Can I be a good wife in sickness and in health? Only by the grace of God.
From September 1997
Ten years ago, I brought a simple band of gold into the jeweler's shop and asked him to engrave it for me.
"I want it to say, 'Once upon a time and happily ever after' and the date '9-12-87.'"
The jeweler cocked one eyebrow and said, "It's just one ring; you can't write a novel on it."
"It's not a novel. It's just the beginning and the end. Can't you print really small?"
"No way. You'll have to come up with something else."
Before we even got to the altar, the reality was that this was a marriage and not a fairy tale. My perception at the time was that "happily ever after" meant that we'd never be unhappy. I took the jeweler's refusal a bit personally. It's a good thing I wasn't superstitious. Ten years and four children later, I've discovered what "happily ever after" really means.
My white knight, it turns out, doesn't ride a white horse. He drives a 1988 black Taurus sedan. It is the "family car" that we bought when we discovered, somewhat unexpectedly, that we were going to have a baby for our first anniversary. It is the car that he tried to convince me not to take to the hospital for that birth. He was afraid I'd get it messy. That car made midnight trips to the hospital a few more times, for a life-threatening infection as a result of chemotherapy, for another birth, and for the first of many childhood asthma attacks. It also has been the chariot to countless Sunday Masses, Saturday soccer games and midnight trips to the grocery store. Now it groans along, needing frequent transfusions of vital fluids in order to reach very local destinations. No white horse, just a trusty old black car.
My white knight, it turns out, doesn't live in a castle. He lives in a four-bedroom house in the suburbs. He works very long hours to pay for the house. There are so many riding toys, basketballs and bikes in the garage that he has never parked his chariot there. There is a swingset in the backyard that he designed and built for his children. Inside, there is happy confusions. Upstairs, there are beds in every room, but the knight often finds himself having a "sleepover" on the floor of the the family room with the young squires. No castle, just a home.
My white knight, it turns out, gets cranky when he's hungry (he reminds us of the giant from Jack and the Beanstalk). And sometimes he gets angry. This was not something I counted on when I went to have the ring engraved. I think I thought that as long as we were in love, there would be no anger, no arguments.
Around the time of our wedding, Carly Simon had a new song entitled "The Stuff that Dreams are Made Of." The tune was catchy and though I cannot even find the album (an antiquated term in these days of CDs), my children have often heard me sing the few phrases that have stayed in my mind over the years. [editor's note: isn't the 21st century grand? I found a YouTube link in 2 seconds flat:-)] I sing this tune when I wipe runny noses and clean dirty diapers, when pots boil over just as the white knight calls to say he'll be late to dinner. I sing it when I'm frustrated because I can't get the real to meet the ideal.
What if the prince on the horse in your fairytale
Is right here in disguise?
And what if the stars you've been reaching so high for
Are shining in his eyes?...
It's the stuff that dreams are made of
It's the slow and steady fire
It's the stuff that dreams are made
It's your heart and soul's desire
I never thought I'd have to reminded that my life is indeed the stuff that dreams are made of.
But I do. Reality is not as sugar-coated as the fairy tales. However the pain in our lives has borne such sweet fruit. The bitterest of arguments have yielded the greatest understanding, the tenderest reconciliation. Real life is not a fairy tale. There is no fairy godmother; nothing is tied up in a beautiful bow.
Instead, married life is a journey undertaken by two souls. Our destination is heaven. That is our happily ever after. There is always joy, even in the darkest moments, because there is always God. Our marriage is a covenant between Mike, me, and God: a commitment. For better or worse. The joy, the genuine happiness, is in the commitment--God's commitment to us; ours to him; and ours to each other.
What I could not know as a young bride-to-be is that in a covenant marriage, the flushed, giddy, once-upon-a-time romance grows into a deep, abiding, mature love. A love that endures. A love upon which God pours out His riches graces.
On second thought, maybe I did know, deep down inside. I had my husband's ring engraved "Once upon a time and forever" and slipped it on his finger on a beautiful morning ten years ago "as a token of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
The other day, I happened upon an overstuffed envelope filled with old columns. Most of them pre-date my time on the internet. I enjoyed some quiet time, re-acquainting myself with the young wife and mother who wrote those columns. And since I'm in need of a bit of a blogging break, I'm going to share her with you in the next few weeks. I hope you are blessed.
I am happy this week to share this post with my dear friend Ann Voskamp, as part of her June devotion to the Spiritual Practice of Matrimony
Karen Burton Mains: Open Heart, Open Home: The Hospitable Way to Make Others Feel Welcome & Wanted
Cheryl Mendelson: Laundry: The Home Comforts Book of Caring for Clothes and Linens
Cheryl Mendelson: Home Comforts: The Art and Science of Keeping House
Margaret Kim Peterson: Keeping House: The Litany of Everyday Life
