In the Heart of my Home

Gathering My Thoughts

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I find myself:

::noticing God's glory

Our rose garden is overrun with weeds. Patrick is home for a few days, so I'd hoped he'd conquer it. He went out, took a look, and came back inside and said he doesn't have time. Ah, well. Perhaps I can do it next week. Kristin has big plans for our gardens. The weather is fine these days. I'm hoping we can get out it in it together and do some serious planting.

::listening to 

Coffee shop noises. This soccer season, I haven't spent much time writing in coffee shops. I haven't spent much time writing at all. This afternoon, with two hours to catch up a bit, feels like such a gift!

::clothing myself in 

Jeans, T-shirt with lace, lightweight cardigan, light dangling earrings. The spring and fall are my favorite months for clothing.

::talking with my children about these books

Heaven is Here- -Mary Beth and I are sharing this one. I found it to be a wonderful book to hand off to a teenaged daughter. 

The Omnivore's Dilemma: The Secret Behind What You Eat, Young Reader's Edition. ---Nick and I are reading this one

We are going to take on this reading challenge this month. Actually, I'm making it a writing challenge, having my kids share their little bookshelves with you here. I'm going to take on the challenge at Instagram (where I'm already behind) and the children are going to write here. Soon. I promise;-)

::thinking and thinking

about a little bit of a miracle in my overactive brain. On April 29th, I marked 23 years since I was diagnosed with cancer. That day, I noticed that when a friend (Hi, Jen!) posted to Facebook about a local wine and farm event that featured an awesome fundraising cause and her spectacularly awesome (priest) brother as an auctioneer and my favorite vineyard, I did something I have not done in 23 years. I said I couldn't make it this year, but I was a definite for next year. In 23 years, I've never let my brain go there, never assumed next year. Of course, none of us knows if we'll be around next year. But normal people do say, "I'll see you next year" or "Let's plan on next year." I never have. 

But I just did.

I think that might be progress. Maybe. What's amazing to me about this whole thing is that I've had a super hard time getting out from under the shadow of cancer the last few months. I've had to do some hard work reconciling survivorship in my own soul. It's not like one day you have cancer and then you're cured and then life rolls on as normal. Physically, nothing is the same again. I'm aware that I'm in uncharted territory. Treatment for my particular disease was changing so rapidly when I was being treated that there are just a handful of us who make up this cohort of survivors. Most people I know in that cohort have some pretty significant longterm effects. I have definitely been spooked.

Part of renewal for me has been confronting this fear and then working to weave a positive strategy of care and realistic awareness into my days. So, hey, chemo destroyed my gut and it's still messed up 23 years later. OK. Time to learn to be assertive about what I can and cannot eat in order to protect myself. And yes, I have a one in three chance of getting breast cancer because I was radiated. But gosh, if pregnancy and extended breastfeeding are protective measures, show me someone has has more of those than I do;-).

And, somewhere, deep down inside, I just had the confidence to say, "Next year..."

 

::pondering prayerfully

“When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” 
― Henri J.M. Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey

::carefully cultivating rhythm

I'm here to tell every mom trying to "balance" (hah!, what a joke) work and home, that it's possible to ask God for direction about one's professional life every day for nearly a year. And then, in a fifteen minute time span, have Him make himself abundantly clear. I feel more at peace in my skin and with my plans than I have in a very long time.

::creating by hand

The girls need some summer clothes as soon as possible. My sewing mission is critical.

::learning lessons in

community. I think that a lot of my notions of community, both online and in real life, have shifted dramatically over the last couple years. I'm very grateful for the insight. And I'm very grateful for a genuinely diverse community.

::encouraging learning 

We are finishing up Karoline's First Communion notebook this week. May is going to be all about math for everyone. I have some very lofty goals for the month, but if we can achieve them, I think I'll call the year a huge success.

::begging prayers

these prayers are still very, very much on my heart:

For a child of mine who needs big infusions of grace. Please pray with me?

For my friend Barbara's new grandson, Isaac. (So far, both our homeschooling-friends-grown-up who have had babies have named them Isaac.)  He was born three weeks ago, by emergency c-section, six weeks early. He and his mom are doing fine, but his time in the NICU just keeps extending. Your prayers for recovery and growth and NICU grace are very much appreciated.

And for Rick Warren, his son, and his family.

and a new one:

Mary Beth sustained a significant injury to her Achilles last weekend. It's never fun to be injured, but it's especially difficult when you train all year for a very short competition season and you find you're going to miss a huge chunk of it. Please pray that she will have the strength and grace to bear the crosses that come with this time of stillness.

::keeping house

One must be home in the house in order to adequately keep the house. That is all.

::crafting in the kitchen 

Paddy is home for a few days to study between the end of classes and the beginning of exams. Hence, I am free to drive to soccer and sit in a coffee shop with you. He is at home making a trademark chicken fried steak dinner. 

::loving the moments

When a faraway friend calls just as some interesting things are happening in my inbox and she is able to help me make sense of it in real time.


::giving thanks 

for hope.

living the liturgy

Karoline will receive her First Communion this weekend. I've never seen a child more excited about Jesus! Please note: it's Thursday as I write and she still has no dress, veil, or shoes. I hate that this seems like an eighth child kind of thing. I care very much about this special day; I'm just having trouble making decisions and I absolutely detest shopping and my favorite Catholic store has gone out of business...That flower girl dress is looking like a very good option.

::planning for the week ahead

My precious second son will turn 21 on Monday. This fact astounds me. I still can't get over the miracle of him. I will never get over the miracle of him. ...

Today. Just Today.

I took the Facebook and Twitter apps off my phone last week. The noise had become unbearable. Now, I check in on my laptop, timer ticking, in the morning and in the evening. I'm amazed at the difference in my distraction level. Clearly, I was checking in and engaging way more often than I recognized. It's good to look up more, instead of down at that screen.

Yesterday afternoon, I planned to settle into my booth and write while Sarah and Karoline were at ballet. Alas, there was no charge on my compuer and I'd neglected to pack a charger. So, I took a walk instead. 

With me, I carried the the very real and very large medical sadness  of Lynn, of  Elizabeth DeHority and of another dear and very close woman. It's ironic; after the election I heard a pundit from the "losing side" reflect that at least he didn't get up in the morning and discover a lump. His world would go on and unless there was that crisis, nothing else was a crisis.

But what if there were that crisis? Three people I love are living that crisis. Well, lots more people than that are living that crisis, but these three are in my constant thoughts. And in my mind, I live that crisis, too. With my what-ifs and my very overactive imagination.

I set off on my walk down a familiar path, listening to and praying along with the familiar voices at Divine Office. As the hymn played, my mind wandered. Initially, I lamented the fact that fall was slipping away. Soon, these trees would be stripped bare. I kicked myself for neglecting to get the beeswax and gather the leaves to dip before the hurricane, for failing to capture autumn in its glory. I brought myself back into the prayer.

The Holy Spirit nudged me to capture the day, the very moment for the gloriousness it was, right now. I looked up. I noticed. How absolutely perfect was just this day, just this fading afternoon! What if I could do that with every moment of my life? What if I could stay --constant prayer supporting me-- in the very moment I was living? No lamentations about what could have been, no gripping fears about what lies ahead, just profound and startling awareness and gratitude for what is right now?

 “Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes." Matthew 6:34

 

"I’ll show up and take care of you as I promised and bring you back home. I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—plans to take care of you, not abandon you, plans to give you the future you hope for." Jeremiah 29:11

 

 

 

Grateful

It started six weeks ago, the morning of Rachael's father's funeral. The words began to haunt anew: lymph node, trial of antibiotics, blood work, sed rate, xray. I knew the progression. I'd lived it before. First this, then this, then cancer, then chemo, then...

This time, though, the words were spoken by my pediatrician. This time, I was not the patient. This time, I was the mom.

She's been through so much this fall that it breaks my heart. Not this, too. Surely not this.

Please Lord, this cup? Let it pass?

And then, after what seemed like eternal waiting and watching, new words.

Within normal limits.

And I am grateful.

Just inhaling the wonder of a normal every day.

Not a Lot of Knitting, but a Whole Lot of Thinking

If it's Wednesday, we're talking about reading and knitting along with Ginny. Since last week, life has moved along at a very quick clip. The relentless activity, together with the fact that I'm stalled until I learn to pick up stitches has left my Baby Surprise Jacket mostly unchanged since I shared it with you Saturday.

Yesterday, in a mental health move, I did cast on for Girl's Cap Sleeved Shirt, like the one Carmen made Sarah. I love that shirt--it's a great layering piece and she wears it and wears it and wears it. So, I set about to make her another one, in a pinkish (of course)  Rowan Amy Butler Belle Organic Aran yarn. I have cast on twice now. I'm beginning to think that every time I start a new pattern, I will have to start more than three times to get it right. Pretty sure I'm going to pull this all out and start again.

So, enough about knitting. I have been reading this week, in odd moments here and there. Several weeks ago , when TLC book tours contacted me to ask about The Jesus Prayer, they mentioned that The Council of Dads would also be on tour. In a moment of recklessness, I abandoned my twenty-year tradition of never reading books that even make reference to cancer. (Yes, I even abandoned The Penderwicks a few pages in because the mother--named Elizabeth--died of cancer. My children have read it on their own.) Lately, I am recognizing that I can't run from this disease and I can't deny that it is part of who I am. Better then, to learn about living with cancer and after cancer from wise people who have traveled that journey. And who write phenomenally well.

This book is a page turner. It's the exceptionally well-written story of Bruce Feiler, young man, husband, and father of three-year-old twin girls, who is diagnosed with a rare bone cancer. When face with the possibility that he might not live to raise his daughters, Feiler chose six men who--through their friendship-- had helped shape him and asked them to be there for his daughters in the future. Throughout the book, Feiler intersperses the story of each man's strength and gifts with his own observations on life and with a record of his treatment. It's a truly extraordinary read.

I'm amazed at Feiler's depth and at the articulate men he has befriended. These are men who truly talk--the relationships are deep and strong and meaningful. True, Feiler had cancer. And true, the idea for a council of dads was conceived as a protection and provision should he die prematurely, but at its heart, this book is about living, not dying. It's about living intentionally. Frequently, Feiler refers to his year of chemotherapy and surgery and rehab and misery as "The Lost Year." That year was anything but lost. Indeed, it was lived full of meaning and full of love. He grabbed the gift and the grace that comes with the diagnosis and he lived that gift with grace for all it was worth.

The book stands as an instruction manual for life, a legacy for his daughters. As much as those men in the council will be there for Feiler's girls, Feiler himself will be there, too, in his own written voice, sharing with them the extraordinary insight afforded him by his year with cancer. A life-threatening illness sharpens one's perspective and lends an air of urgency and discrimination to what gets done and what gets said. With the gift of that insight, Feiler is uniquely able to guide other people in establishing their own councils, not necessarily because their lives are threatened, but because life itself is precious and all too often we take it for granted when instead we should live it with a purposeful sense of meaning and mission.

Bruce Feiler isn't dead. He's a survivor. As such, he has left a legacy to all of us who have lived "The Lost Year." He invites us by his example to reflect on the meaning of that year and to honor the struggle it was by always, always living the second chance life with purpose, and always, always investing wholeheartedly in relationships that give life meaning. Personally, he challenges me not to run from the history that is cancer, but to see that in its horror, there is clarity; there is the invitation to live fully.

{comments open}

Five Minute Friday: Deep Breath

I read the prompt words on Lisa-Jo's page and tears spring to my eyes. Just yesterday, I sat creekside with Lisa-Jo. We watched our children play and I tentatively asked her about her mother. Tentatively, because I didn't want her to catch her breath in pain on that glorious spring day. Tentatively, because to ask, I would have to admit that I have heretofore skipped her posts about her mother. Tentatively, because if we are being honest, I just don't talk about cancer and dying. Not for the last 21 years.

I don't go there.

But yesterday, I asked. Because I wanted to understand more than I feared her answers.

I asked because because cancer is real and concrete and I cannot click away this time.

Love keeps me on these pages. In this life.

Deep breath. It brings tears to my eyes because I want so badly for Elizabeth to take a deep breath. I want to breathe breath into her. Instead, her breath catches. She uses precious breath to talk to my children via Skype, to encourage them, to ask about their days. And it's not just about knitting and little girls. It's big teenaged boys on the brink of adulthood, who escape to a quiet corner and talk to this kind woman, the woman who breathes life and hope into others even as she struggles for deep breath. My children--the ones who have never watched a movie where the mother dies, because I have long worked to keep them from knowing that such things even exist. (Yes, I am aware that this is a bit crazy.) I have brought Elizabeth into their lives because I have learned that love is well worth the risk of pain. And we love her. Truly, truly love her.

She wills herself to breathe so that she can mother her five dear children with all her heart and all her might. She breathes gentleness and joy into their every minute, knowing that every minute matters. She worries about how to allocate breath so that she can accomplish the most important things.

It's not cancer that has robbed breath. It's chemotherapy.

First, do no harm.

No harm.

She must breathe. Must.

And we? Who love her? We hold our breath, waiting to know what comes next.

What will I do with my every breath today?

 

 

Much Easier to Give up Chocolate

I have thought and thought about a final sacrifice post; written a couple, actually, and left them in draft. Last night, as I was listening, these verses jumped out at me. I've quoted just below from the New American Catholic Bible on the USCCB site.

Avoid foolish and ignorant debates, for you know that they breed quarrels.

A slave of the Lord should not quarrel, but should be gentle with everyone, able to teach, tolerant,

correcting opponents with kindness. It may be that God will grant them repentance that leads to knowledge of the truth,

and that they may return to their senses out of the devil's snare, where they are entrapped by him, for his will.

~2 Timothy 2: 23-26

In the Revised Standard Version, which is the audio version, it reads:

    

Have nothing to do with stupid, senseless controversies; you know that they breed quarrels.

 And the Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kindly to every one, an apt teacher, forbearing,  correcting his opponents with gentleness.

God may perhaps grant that they will repent and come to know the truth, 

and they may escape from the snare of the devil, after being captured by him to do his will.

Stupid, senseless controversies are good things to give up. Sacrificing harshness and unkindness? Also good.

~~

"You didn't give up chocolate for Lent, did you?" my friend Becca asked Christian, as she presented him with some Belgian chocolate from her recent trip to Europe.

"Nah. I was going to give up chocolate, but this whole blood mess started the day before Ash Wednesday and with all the medicine, it seemed like a better idea to give up caffeine."

"Ahh, the Lents when we give up chocolate are always so much easier than the ones when we don't choose what to sacrifice."

Indeed. It's one of those "universal truths," time-proven by the faithful, that Christian is learning this Lent. Sometimes, God chooses our sacrifices and, not surprisingly, those are not the easy Lents, but they can be the most fruitful.

I had one of those fruitful --but not of my own choosing-- Lents one year.

For years, I was at the tipping point. Something's got to give, God, I'd whisper aloud. I have too much to do. Something is robbing me of the time and energy to live with grace and joy. And always, the same idea would present itself. And I'd reject it. No, not that. God doesn't want me to stop doing that. It's helping people. I'm surrounded by religious women. They're teaching me so much. Even my husband doesn't think I should give that up.

And then, one Lent, it was completely wrenched away. Painful Lent. Brutal in its glaring honesty. It was nearly a year before I could understand how kind God had been to me, how patient He was as He tried to show me. 

God knew. He knew the tangled relationships, the snares that fed my weaknesses, the way that this investment of time and energy was really robbing me, even as I thought I was growing in holiness. He knew the ways that I had sinned and sinned and sinned again. And the sacrifice had been forced. For my good.

I had been forced to let go and turn instead to Jesus Himself for support.

Mine is not a unique experience. We are social creatures and most of us fall into companionships and associations that at some time are not healthy for us. It's not even that the people with whom we are associating are bad. They are just not good for us. In hindsight, God has always warned me of such relationships before the wrenching. Sometimes, I've heard and listened. More often, there's been a wrenching.

As my children get older, I see them wrestle some of the same things (of course they do; it's universal). Particularly tricky are people who go through all the right motions: attend the right church, show up at the right activities, profess to believe all the right things. But they don't lead to God Himself. They don't bring their companions closer to Jesus. They don't walk hand in hand with the Savior while offering the other hand to you. They don't make you better for knowing them.

Not bad people, necessarily. Just the wrong companions for you.

Giving up those relationships, sacrificing the human comforts they bring, is undoubtedly difficult.

It would be much easier to give up chocolate.

There is someone in my life today who has brought me closer to Jesus just by allowing me to be in her presence. And she is pure gift. A gift I didn't seek, a gift I never expected.  She is the embodiment of "let the children come". And she teaches with utter gentleness.

Just yesterday, I told her that I want to be her when I grow up. That is, when I am a mature woman of faith, who lives with the love of Christ, I think it will look and sound a lot like her. At least I pray it will. I told her I want to speak to children the way she does, with genuine respect and honest encouragement and profound appreciation for the gifts they are.

Come to think of it, I want to speak to everyone like that.

Time with her is time well spent. Lessons she teaches me are God's lessons. Gift. Grace.

My friend is struggling. Every breath is effort.

She doesn't get to choose what to sacrifice.

Please pray for God's most tender merices for her.

Please join us in prayer. If you'd like to post this reminder on your blog, the code is

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that {our} hearts may be encouraged as {we} are knit together in love, to have all the riches of assured understanding and the knowledge of God's mystery, of Christ,
in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge

~Colossians 2:2-3

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?

How do you do what you do?

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.

All these years later

I don't talk about cancer very much. I write about it occasionally, but I rarely talk about. I am not sure I even really know why. I just don't. Maybe because it's likely that I will cry somewhere in the conversation and that messes up my contacts and makes it hard to see. More likely it's because some things we just ponder in our hearts forever.

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of my diagnosis. It was most extraordinary day. We were living in the afterglow of Confirmation night. We were looking forward to some exciting days ahead. But mostly, we were just savoring ordinary life. I love ordinary life. Exciting things are nice. Drama is not nice. But ordinary life is where joy lives for me.

Cancer is a gift in the sense that I know very well what it's like to wake up one morning and get a phone call that threatens my very existence. I know what it's like to want only to do the little things--to fix breakfast for my baby, to go for a walk before naptime, to pull weeds, or push a swing. And so, I have a tremendous sense of gratitude for those things because I look at them through the lens of a cancer survivor. I don't waste time. I don't ever waste time. I appreciate the gift of ordinary days and I see how God is faithful in all things.

I'm challenging myself more than ever to live life like it's a gift. What about you? Will you live today that way?

I'd love it if you took a few moments today to share a cup of tea and listen in to the conversation I had with Lisa Hendey and Danielle Bean yesterday. We're talking about the gift of cancer.

April the 29th

And the tulips are blooming, again. It's been eighteen years since I was diagnosed with cancer. I was thinking yesterday about what ran through my mind the morning after the biopsy surgery. I was very much concerned with my eighteen-month-old nursling. In the near term, there was the formidable task of weaning before chemo. In the far term, loomed the fear that I wouldn't see him grow up.  He's grown now. 
And he's weaned, too;-)
But when I wasn't thinking about Michael, I thought about the oddest random things. What's even odder is that I still remember them.

• I thought about whether I'd live to make pesto of the basil I'd just planted.
• I thought about whether scrunchies--the latest hair craze--would still be in style by the time I had enough hair to again make a ponytail.
• I thought about how much I wanted out of the hospital gown and into a pair of jean shorts and a hoodie.
• I thought about how much I looked forward to going home and washing my kitchen floor (weird, I know, but I loved the smell of Murphy's oil soap on the afternoon breeze while Michael napped and I chatted with my friend Martha on the phone and mopped).
• I thought about how eager I was to get to church and make a good confession and spend some time alone with God.
• I thought about how little I knew about what the Church teaches.

Cancer brings you face to face with mortality in a way that is startlingly real. For me, it brought an unquenchable thirst to know God, and then, a longing to love and to serve Him. And it was the Church from whom I drank deeply. I am still caught by surprise when I encounter lifetime Catholics who have never thought to read the Catechism, who don't know what the Magesterium is, who haven't read a single thing written by John Paul II, or still haven't taken the time to get to Benedict XVI. Don't they care? Don't they know the treasure they have been given? Don't they want to know why we live and why we die?God himself gave us this Church to shelter us and to teach us and to heal us. Time is short--even if you're perfectly healthy. God calls you to Him with urgency.

Life-threatening illness is great way to understand very well how short our lives here are compared to eternity. When one is ill, she yearns to be healed. If one has faith, and is facing a serious illness, she yearns for physical healing, but even more, she yearns to be spiritually whole and healthy. It's a tremendous gift of grace to know that we are wounded and to know where to go for healing. I found healing in the Catholic Church. She nurtured me and she continues to bring me to the Great Physician. There is no doubt that with cancer comes suffering, and not just for the person who is sick. My whole family suffered. But with that suffering and with healing came an understanding that God allows us to suffer in order to bring us closer to Him. And if we will come closer, we will be consoled and we will be cured.

{repost from the archives}

First Update~Praise Report

 I just got word that Elizabeth de Hority is still in surgery and doing well. What we know now is that a node that had concerned that doctors in the pre-op appointment was biopsied and looks to be negative. This is very, very good news. It means they'll go on with the rest of the surgery and make plans for recovery ...and the rest of her life. Keep praying!

New update: Elizabeth is settled in her room and resting comfortably. From what I understand, all went well. Praise God!

This is Really Important

Elizabeth DeHority will have surgery Tuesday, May 12th. It's very extensive, very serious surgery. I clicked around the blogosphere on Sunday and was astounded by the number of blogs bearing the prayer button. If she has ever needed you, it's now. Please offer prayers for her, for her family, and for her medical team. Please assure her you will carry her in prayer throughout the next few weeks. Leave a comment below to contribute to a virtual spiritual bouquet. I'll bump this post up to the front page every day from now until Tuesday. And then I'll keep you posted on the miracles. There will be miracles.

ADDITIONS: Kelly wrote to tell me about Beth, a homeschool mom of four boys who will undergo a double mastectomy and ooectomy on May 8.

And keep Rachael Higginbothom in your prayers, too.

Gratitude and Tears of Joy

 

A few weeks ago, when I posted this slideshow, my good friend Elizabeth wrote me a quick note commenting that she didn't know why it made her cry. I knew right away. Elizabeth and I have a kinship that goes far beyond our shared name. We have both experienced  pregnancy bedrest and we have both lived through traumatic premature births. More significantly perhaps, we are both cancer survivors. [Yes, Elizabeth, dear, you are a survivor. Say it out loud, please:-).]  So, even though she didn't ask me why the post made her cry, I told her why it makes me cry. I wrote:

Here's why it makes ME cry: when I hear that song, it is a wish and a prayer. I hope that when my daughter is 18, she'll think of me what Taylor Swift thought of her mom when she wrote that song. I want the best days to be the ones they've spent with me. And...those are the days I begged for in April of 1990 when the tulips were blooming outside the hospital and I was begging God to let me raise my baby boy. And those are the days I begged for again last fall. I just want the chance to make those days happen for my kids. When I see photo evidence that they do happen, I cry tears of gratitude for second chances. And third chances. I'm just glad to be alive.

Sometimes, when I am awakened in the middle of the night, I remember the midnight ride to the hospital before Sarah was born. I remember the look on my daughter's face when she saw how urgent the bleeding was. I remember leaving my house and wondering how long it would be and who I would be when I returned. I briefly wondered if I'd return at all.  And then, my focus was solely on my baby. I understood then that mothers don't think twice about themselves when their children's lives are at risk. It was all about my baby. And the baby born before her and before her and before her (and so on- you get the idea). All I wanted was to live to take care of those precious children. I wanted to live to love them. And when it was all over and Sarah was safely in the world, though not yet in my arms, I sat up in the hospital bed, looked at my husband and my firstborn and all I could say was, "I'm so relieved I didn't die."

But that didn't begin to express what was in my heart. I'm still learning all that is in my heart.

In the days before Sarah was born, while I was on bedrest, I was immersed in quotations from saints. This was not some strange birth preparation; I was researching a book. But, since I was well aware that the doctors were throwing out the same mortality statistics in this scenario as they had when I had cancer, I did think about death. And life. I commented to a friend that all those saints I was reading seemed eager, ready and willing to die. "And I," I lamented, "am no saint. Because I'm begging God to let me raise my kids. Even more, I'm begging him to let me be there for them as adults." She assured me that she thought that if I did come close to dying--if I needed the grace--it would be there.  Indeed, there was grace sufficient for perfect peace that night and I didn't even use it up dying;-)

So, now I'm alive. And I know again the sweetness that comes with a new lease on life. Every day dawns with opportunity for blessing. Every day brings with it exquisite joy. These children look to me to be the most beautiful creatures on earth. Except for their father. He is love itself. He wrote to me last night, a brief but poignant note composed in midair somewhere over Kansas. He was worried that his current traveling was taking too big a toll on me. He was afraid that I am unhappy, that I need to get away, that I want more than what is here in the heart of my home.  It was a sweet, dear note that made me smile in wonder.

How could he not know? All I've ever wanted is to be here. Perhaps I am a very simple person. Or perhaps I've just been granted the grace to see with clarity the extraordinary joy in the ordinary. On the good days, the bad days, the busy days, the lonely days, I am truly able to count it all joy. And I am keenly aware that time is a precious gift and every minute of it can and should be used to bless. It's difficult to express, I think. And I don't do it very well.  Fortunately, I am befriended by women of strength, and faith, and a way with words. Of her own appreciation of life following a birth that nearly killed her, my friend Kathryn Mulderink writes:

Truly, no day is mundane, there is no time to be disengaged. Knowing firsthand the fragility and brevity of life does sharpen your pencil and make all the colors look brighter. And knowing firsthand that God's grace is always there when you need it, that He will support you through what seems (from the outside looking in) to be impossible, is very freeing.

I have never feared death since the day I almost died, because I know His grace is sufficient. I have never feared crisis since that moment when I saw that God truly does walk with us, and that He really does support us and those we love through very difficult moments and days. And I have never wasted another moment worrying about what I cannot control, because I know that even when things look messy and even wrong to us, He can make it all right as long as we are reaching for Him and taking care of one another as well as we can.

So, each day, we need only be grateful to Him for each moment and circumstance, and focus our energies on living for love. He will orchestrate the rest. We need to trust His love for us.

I know Kathryn well enough to know that she lives that philosophy--really, truly lives it. I'm not quite there. I sometimes worry still. But I'm nearly cured of that, too. I live life deliberately. I measure every moment and ask myself if I'm using it well. And I know that He does walk with me, every single step of the way. When Mike wondered in his note how I do what I do, I reminded him that I do it by the grace of God. And that is why I do it with gratitude, and frequently, with tears of joy.

Light a candle,

snuggle your babies, and pray with your children for this beautiful woman and her family.

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left unaided.            

Inspired by this confidence, I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother; to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me.

Amen.

I'm right here!

"Mama!'
Her voice splits the night and jolts me from bed.
"I'm right here, Kara mia. I'm right here."
Karoline is sick and needy these days. She is clinging to me constantly, pressing a hot, limp body against mine and holding on as if for dear life. Now, I sing her back to sleep and I don't dare move. Instead, I think about that well-worn phrase." Read the rest here.

Let Your Perpetual Light Shine Upon Him

Please pray for the repose of the soul of Tony Snow and for the consolation of his wife and children. The link I've provided is an essay Tony Snow wrote last summer. It's echoed in my head ever since. Do take a moment to let him bless you today.

It's April 29th again

And the tulips are blooming, again. It's been eighteen years since I was diagnosed with cancer. I was thinking yesterday about what ran through my mind the morning after the biopsy surgery. I was very much concerned with my eighteen-month-old nursling. In the near term, there was the formidable task of weaning before chemo. In the far term, loomed the fear that I wouldn't see him grow up.  He's grown now. 
And he's weaned, too;-)
But when I wasn't thinking about Michael, I thought about the oddest random things. What's even odder is that I still remember them.

• I thought about whether I'd live to make pesto of the basil I'd just planted.
• I thought about whether scrunchies--the latest hair craze--would still be in style by the time I had enough hair to again make a ponytail.
• I thought about how much I wanted out of the hospital gown and into a pair of jean shorts and a hoodie.
• I thought about how much I looked forward to going home and washing my kitchen floor (weird, I know, but I loved the smell of Murphy's oil soap on the afternoon breeze while Michael napped and I chatted with my friend Martha on the phone and mopped).
• I thought about how eager I was to get to church and make a good confession and spend some time alone with God.
• I thought about how little I knew about what the Church teaches.

Cancer brings you face to face with mortality in a way that is startlingly real. For me, it brought an unquenchable thirst to know God, and then, a longing to love and to serve Him. And it was the Church from whom I drank deeply. I am still caught by surprise when I encounter lifetime Catholics who have never thought to read the Catechism, who don't know what the Magesterium is, who haven't read a single thing written by John Paul II, or still haven't taken the time to get to Benedict XVI. Don't they care? Don't they know the treasure they have been given? Don't they want to know why we live and why we die?God himself gave us this Church to shelter us and to teach us and to heal us. Time is short--even if you're perfectly healthy. God calls you to Him with urgency.

Life-threatening illness is great way to understand very well how short our lives here are compared to eternity. When one is ill, she yearns to be healed. If one has faith, and is facing a serious illness, she yearns for physical healing, but even more, she yearns to be spiritually whole and healthy. It's a tremendous gift of grace to know that we are wounded and to know where to go for healing. I found healing in the Catholic Church. She nurtured me and she continues to bring me to the Great Physician. There is no doubt that with cancer comes suffering, and not just for the person who is sick. My whole family suffered. But with that suffering and with healing came an understanding that God allows us to suffer in order to bring us closer to Him. And if we will come closer, we will be consoled and we will be cured.

Perspective

I was coming here tonight to tell you about my bad day. The short version is simply:

• I went out shopping at 6 AM in the 19 degree snow and ice because the packages I ordered for St. Nicholas Day didn't arrive. I couldn't shop yesterday because of that flat tire.
• I've been hurt by several people I thought were friends and it about crushed me early, early this morning.
• The van is still in the driveway with a flat tire and the AAA guy (who arrived around 5 today) assures me that if I call tomorrow morning before 7:00 he'll come fix it. Tomorrow.
• Patrick made the state ODP team (good news except that they practice in Richmond every weekend and the people we usually carpool with didn't make the team--have I mentioned how much I dislike driving? I dislike it even more when it's two hours away and likely to be cold).

• The trash men took my perfectly good stroller and tossed it into the back of the truck and then crushed it. When I ran outside waving and screaming, they stopped. And stared. When I asked them to pull it out so that I could at least retrieve the sweaters and the tool kit in the basket, they refused. And so my dear friends, I called Christian and Patrick  and the three of us reached way in and pulled that stroller, covered in muck, out of the trash truck. It wasn't pretty. And then I had a very pleasant talk with Customer Service.
• By this time, it was nearly noon. I locked myself in  my room and called a friend and totally fell apart. I wanted to crawl under the covers and stay there. She suggested gingerbread houses, St. Nicholas crafts, and Dawn's gingerbread cake. And  she came over and made it all happen.

Before I began to blog it all, I stopped by to visit Heather and read this poem.

And I was transported back seventeen years to a young mother who was bald. Her throat was so burned by radiation that she couldn't even swallow water. Her young husband was tired and worn and worried and her toddler knew all too well the waiting area at the hospital. But it would soon be Christmas and with Christmas would come the end of this treatment. With Christmas would come hope that they could begin life again with a rare and precious perspective. They would know that even the bad days are golden gifts of precious time. They would know that delayed parcels, flat tires, twisted, filthy strollers, and even shattered friendships cannot rob us of the awareness that time is a treasure and life is very, very good.  They would know that in the blink of an X-ray, a phone call from a doctor can shatter peace  and threaten life as we know it. They would promise never, ever to lose sight of the gift of joy. And time. And life itself.That young mother was me and my life is forever imprinted with gift of cancer.
It is no coincidence that it was Heather who shared the words of another young cancer patient. Nor is it a coincidence that it was the mother of a cancer survivor who filled the afternoon with fun and the house with the smell of chocolate gingerbread. Sometimes, we live through experiences that teach us invaluable lessons. While we never, ever want to learn those lessons that way again, we can appreciate the treasure of the lesson and we can honor its message.Even--especially--on the bad days.

Gratitude check:
Tonight, dear Lord, as I sink into the comfort of the evening, I thank you especially for (14) a brand new box of Saintly Soaps, herbal tea, and a very hot bath. (15)I thank you for children who delight in the feast of their patron, despite the chaos and the disappointment of the grownup world. (16)I thank you for the lessons of cancer and the gift of perspective and (17) for friends who understand perfectly both the gift and the perspective. (18) And I thank you for tomorrow and the hope and promise of a new day, filled with You.

Way more than two or more...

We're gathering to pray for Heather, of the Homeschool Blog award staff, who will undergo brain surgery tomorrow. Please stop by and promise to pray and then hold her in your hearts and prayers!
Yesterday, Heather wrote:
But at this point I have no control over what Thursday holds for me. I can cry and flip out and waste these next 48 hours on what ifs and fear, or I can enjoy them knowing that whatever the outcome on Thursday- I lived my life to fullest. I laughed, I loved so very deeply, and more than anything I tried to share Christ's love at every opportunity these last 3 weeks. Come Thursday, all I can do is lay my antibacterial washed head down on that table and find peace in the knowledge whatever happens at the end of the day-

He’s already there.

Sounds like a good plan for all of us. Live life to the fullest; laugh; love deeply; and share Christ. Pray for Heather as you go about your joyful,busy day tomorrow.

April the Twenty-ninth

The sun rose brightly this morning, shining sparkling hope over a fresh spring day. We survived yesterday. In all, seven children were quite sick within a 48 hour period. Many cups of ginger ale were poured and ignored and many, many loads of laundry were washed and dried.I can't begin to count the number of times I ran up and down the stairs, heart pumping, lungs working overtime.  The awake hours of the day numbered 20. Still, it was a relatively good day. And today? Today is relatively great. Sure beats April 29, 1990.

On that day, a remember kneeling to kiss my one-year-old goodbye before getting into the car. I remember arriving at the hospital in the early morning just as all the pink tulips were opening to greet the day. I remember squeezing my husband's hand before surgery, trying to ignore the fear in his formerly fearless face. I remember the pathologist, one of my father's dearest friends. "Hodgkin's Disease. It's going to be a very tough year, but then, you'll live."

Indeed. A tough year. It was a chrysalis year. Together, my husband and I lived a life dictated by doctors and hospitals and IV pushes of nasty chemotherapy. As the tulips began to wilt and drop their petals, huge handfuls of brown curls fell from my head. Life looked so very different at every turn. We lost our innocence and found our faith. We learned we'd never have another baby and prayed for children we had never wanted so much. I grew to hate the sight of tulips and to gag at the smell of latex--whether it was surgical gloves or birthday balloons.  We huddled, dark and tired, inside the shell of our experience, partly to avoid the germs of the outside world, partly because everything that really mattered was inside our four walls and we were living as much life together as we could.

I was twenty-four. That's not very old. And the next year, I think I was about 50, though I'm not quite sure. I definitely wasn't 25.  People who are 25 are usually blissfully unaware of their mortality.

Together, my husband and I had grown in this strange new world of surviving cancer .  We would find ourselves telling people over and over that we never wanted to learn those lessons that way again, but that we were so grateful for the grace of God in allowing us to learn them when we did.

I live a life that is rooted in the reality of a finite time on earth. I live a life that sparkles with the hope of heaven. To be quite honest, I live a life that is tinged with fear, my constant adversary.Though I'm not the superstitious type, for a long time, I was afraid to plant tulips, afraid to tempt fate. But I live a life of great blessing.Time and faith have taught me so much. And so, yesterday, God reminded me with emphasis just how many sweet young souls are in my care and how He is bigger than any prognosis. He reminded me that I am still young and strong and able to care for many needy people, singlehandedly, at once. He reminded me that my heart pumps and my lungs fill with air.  And He reminded me that it's okay--even hopeful and beautiful-- to plant pink  tulips in the fall and watch them bloom on April the Twenty-ninth.