Pleasantly Surprised

Today, I tried something new. I was a little nervous. I prepared for a few days ahead of time, making sure I had enough activities and provisions with me. I prayed. And then I jumped in and did it.

And everything worked out just fine.

Two weeks ago, a Deacon at my parish asked me to be one of four facilitators for the "Great Adventure: Quick Journey Through the Bible" study that our parish is sponsoring in February and March. I agreed to facilitate one of the daytime sessions, on one condition: the Deacon needed to secure babysitting, not just for me, but for anyone in the parish who would like to attend but had small children at home. One of the more frustrating parts of parish life for me is the frequency with which children are not accommodated: the number of meetings, activities, and discussion sessions where childcare is not offered. I maintain that if we are a Catholic, pro-life, pro-family parish, we need to recognize and accommodate the reality of children in everyday life.

The Deacon agreed, and is in the process of procuring childcare for the Monday afternoon sessions I will be running. Two days ago, he emailed the four facilitators, requesting a preparatory meeting with us this morning in the parish center. The timing was do-able for our schedule, but not conducive to finding childcare help. In talking with DH, I offered several options. Not at all serious, I finally said, "I could just bring them along." DH thought that sounded like a great idea, and the more I thought about it, so did I.

I talked to the kids about it in advance, and planned out some quiet activities for each of them during the one hour meeting slot. This morning, after mass, I asked the Deacon if we could meet in the main room, which would give me space to accommodate the children. I watched his face carefully, and he didn't blanch. "Whatever you need is fine with me." Good.

We got there 15 minutes early, so that all of the children were set up with activities and snack before the meeting started. And it went great. BigBro helped LilBro go to the bathroom. Princess and BigBro made pictures for the Deacon. One of the other facilitators entertained the kids with a Donald Duck voice after the meeting had ended. And we had a solid, productive meeting with three children under 7 in the same room.

When we set the date and time for the next meeting, I mentioned that I would have the children with me. Everyone smiled. Someone said, "of course."

And I was pleasantly surprised at how simple it was, really, with the right attitude and expectations on my part.

Mindless Mom Moment

Yesterday, during phase 1 of the winter snowstorm (which included about 1 1/2 inches of snow and then several hours of sleet), the kids went out to play. They offered to "clean off" the van for me, and asked if they could take the snow brush outside. (The same snow brush that usually lives in the van, but which I so wisely brought into the house to ease the cleaning process after the storm had passed). Thinking that it was a sweet offer, I said, "Sure. Just make sure you bring it back in. I'll need it to clean off the van tomorrow, when the storm is all done."

Sure enough, they forgot to bring it in. And I forgot to remind them.

Last night, phase 2 of the storm passed through our area, dumping 5 inches of snow on top of the snow/sleet mix from yesterday.

This morning, when I went out to trim the snow off the driveway (for I do not actually shovel down to asphalt, just get enough snow out of the way to free the minivan), I realized they had never brought the snow brush in yesterday.

We do not have a very big yard... but it is huge when you are trying to find a snow brush covered by 5 inches of snow.

BigBro, Princess and I searched for over an hour. Finally, I saw a neighbor cleaning off his car, and borrowed his snow brush to clean off the van.

Now we are praying the thaw will come before the next blast of winter precipitation!

Catholic Carnival: The Hills are Alive!

Sarah over at Snoring Scholar is hosting this week's Catholic Blog Carnival. She grouped the posts in a "Sound of Music" theme. (One of my all time favorite movies!) Head on over here to see what's going on the Catholic blog-o-sphere!

Great job, Sarah!

Does it get any better than this?

Hot Choc-wet with Wots and Wots of Smarshmallows!!!

Um.... yeah... how about a second course of Homemade Snow Ice Cream*!!!

YUM!!!! What a great way to celebrate the first cumulative snow of the season!

* Snow Ice Cream: Mix 1 C. milk, 1/2 C. sugar and 1/2 tsp. vanilla in a bowl until all sugar is dissolved. Stir in 5-6 C. fresh, clean snow until mixture is consistency of soft serve. Enjoy!

Worldview Challenged

On Saturday, BigBro had a Spelling Bee tiebreaker. Our homeschool group can only send one student to the County Bee, but there were three grade-level winners from our county (BigBro for 1st grade, a 4th Grade Boy and a 7th Grade Boy). To be honest, the whole thing struck me as silly. BigBro is 6. Yes, he's a bright kid and a good student; yes, he is reading and working several grade levels ahead. But he is not on par with a 7th grader... not even close. Plus, it goes against every one of my instincts to hand a child a list of random words to memorize, completely out of context, for the sole purpose of a competition.

So, we did very little prep for this tiebreaker. We went through a couple dozen of the several hundred words in the list, but only when BigBro brought it up. These were hard words... and we have a spelling program we use, one that is ordered and teaches rules in a sensible way. Again, the whole concept of forcing him to memorize words like "soliloquy" and "erudite" seemed just plain silly.

We arrived at the home of the other two winners (who happened to be brothers) for the spell-off. It was a written challenge. BigBro and I had discussed it, and had determined that he was attending for the sole purpose of getting a baseline. Let's see how many words he can get right this year. Next year, if he wins his grade again, he can try to beat this year's score. So, he and I went into this thing with clear expectations of his ability and the expected outcome.

In the next two hours, BigBro was challenged with 83 words above his grade and reading level. I was challenged with a glimpse into a very different style of homeschooling. In between calling out words and definitions, this other homeschooling mom told me about the various competitions her boys do: Geography Bee, Spelling Bee, Math-Olympics. She told me how they are all classical violinists and guitarists. All of them (even the 2 year old) are fluent in Aramaic. Her 4 year old can read English and Aramaic at a 4th grade level. Her 14 year old showed me several books in Aramaic. (I have to admit, it was really cool to meet someone who spoke Aramaic... especially in light of the novel I am reading at the moment: Christ Our Lord: Out of Egypt about the childhood of Jesus).

She has 6 children: 14, 12, 10, 4, 2, and 7 months. I asked her if she had any tips for homeschooling older kids while preschoolers and toddlers were running around (something I struggle with nearly daily). She stared at me. "I school all 6 of my children together. Well, the baby nurses and naps right now, but the others all do school." Oh. Ok. I get it. I think. But she went on to describe in detail the type and amount of work that her 2 and 4 year olds do. Wow. This woman is one serious homeschooler.

We are not. I've written here and here about how laid back and casual our style of homeschooling is. And it does work for us. But still, I found myself wondering. I wondered as I listened to her, and watched her boys for two hours. I wondered as I drove the 30 minutes home, while BigBro played his DS. Am I screwing it up? Am I not offering BigBro enough stimulation? Am I not challenging him enough? What about Princess and LilBro? Should they be doing more?

During lunch, BigBro and I filled DH in on the morning's activities. BigBro showed off his list of words, proud of the 17 he had spelled correctly. I pointed out how, in nearly half the words he had misspelled, he was off by only one letter. We were all proud of what he accomplished. The kids finished and left the table, but DH and I stayed talking. I asked all the questions that had filled my head since entering that home hours earlier.

In the end, we both affirmed that our style works for us. Our kids are learning. They are happy. Sure, we could do more, but what would we have to give up? Would we have to give up the imaginative play? The silly games? The playdoh time? The random crafts and drawing time? The zeal for learning?

It was good for BigBro to go to the spell-off this weekend. He was challenged to stretch himself beyond what he usually does. Two hours of writing spelling words is not a typical activity for us.

It was good for me, too. It's good to step back and look at other ways of homeschooling -- especially when they seem to be so successful -- and to compare and contrast with our own. This is new territory for me. I've never homeschooled a first grader before. Next year, I will have a second grader and a kindergartner, and I'll be challenged in a whole new set of ways. It's good to step back and revisit the big picture every now and again.

Feeding the Hungry

In the ordinary, day-to-day life of a mother, I get many opportunities to practice some of the Corporal Works of Mercy (feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, shelter the homeless, visit the sick, visit the imprisoned, bury the dead). Certainly I spend a good part of every day feeding hungry children, giving them drinks, clothing them, sheltering them. And I know that there is value and holiness in this vocation as mother and teacher. God placed me here for a reason.

But lately, it hasn't been feeling like quite enough. BigBro has always been really sensitive about people not having enough food to eat. Last year, he took some money he had saved and bought food to donate to our local food pantry. This year, just before Thanksgiving, he told me that what he wanted most for Christmas was for every person to have enough food to eat. When he said that, I paused. Really? That's what you want most? You're six. Really?

Well, after my pause (and a check of my own heart to see where I am falling short), I approached a man in my parish involved with the St Vincent dePaul Society. I asked him if he knew of some way for BigBro and me to help out with the food pantry. Our town is blessed to have a pantry that is run by a conglomerate of 10 local churches.

He was thrilled that I asked. He was in the process of organizing a new shift of volunteers for one Thursday night per month. He was able to procure special permission for BigBro to volunteer as well, and we started right before Christmas.

It's a really small commitment... two and a half hours, once a month. But it is stretching me. I am definitely out of my comfort zone. I've always said I cared about the poor; we always donate money and canned goods to food pantries (both this one and the larger metro one). But there was a comfortable distance between me and poverty. Poverty was a general concept, not an in-the-flesh reality. Poverty didn't have a name, a story; truthfully, it wasn't quite real.

This past Thursday, BigBro spent most of the time in the back room, helping mark and sort cans. I was a "Shopper Assistant." People come in for their scheduled shop time, get checked in, and then are assigned an assistant to take them around the pantry and help them pick out the right amount of food for their need level. Usually, we make small talk about recipes, favorite foods, suggested meal prep ideas. Pleasant talk. Impersonal. Everyone doing our best to pretend that this is just any ordinary shopping trip.

But this week, I assisted a woman who wanted to talk about her family, about her medical issues, about her personal struggles day in and day out. We made it about 3/4 of the way around the pantry, and she was in too much pain to continue. I helped her to a seat, and finished shopping for her, holding up options here and there. Then we just sat together for a few minutes, me listening as she talked. I helped her and her husband get their groceries in the trunk, and we talked about family we both had in New Jersey.

When I was done loading their groceries, she gave me a hug and thanked me. But I was the one who needed to do the thanking. By letting me into her life, letting me see who she was and sharing some of her struggles with me, she had sliced through the polite facade I had been holding in front of me. She had made this very personal act... personal.

And in that way, she performed her own Corporal Work of Mercy... feeding a hunger I didn't know I had inside me.

Looking in from Outside

This week, our friend has been doing some work in the basement for DH during the day. As he goes about sawing and dry-walling, mudding and taping, he is up and down, in and out, stepping over and around us, as we hang out in the family room, books, crayons and legs sprawled in all directions.

I've been wondering what he makes of all this... our very laid-back, stretched-out brand of homeschooling. His son is the same age as BigBro. They are in scouts and sports together, and they're buddies. Does he look at our life and think, "What on earth are they doing? Do they actually call this 'school'?"

I'm not worried so much about what he thinks as I am interested, amused even. I've learned a lot during the past two years homeschooling BigBro, enough so that I am comfortable and confident that our style works for us. But it's been a very long time since I've considered what it would look like to someone else.

We usually get started around 9am, but this week, I've been sleeping in (while DH is out of town), then getting on the treadmill, so we aren't getting started until closer to 10am. We like to work stretched out on the floor in the family room. By noon, we are a mess of books, papers, crayons, scissors, and toys scattered about on the floor. The kids are getting cranky, so we break for lunch. LilBro's playdoh starts to harden on the table in the other room. After lunch, we try to finish up whatever was left behind. Lots of imaginative play happens between BigBro and Princess. Sometimes, I set the books aside and let the imaginations go wild. There is as much learning in play as in books.

Early afternoons, I make an attempt at domestication. I fold laundry, sweep floors, straighten countertops. It's futile. By dinner time, the place is a mess again. But at least I've made an attempt.

Some days, we get back to the books and finish anything left over from morning. Some days, I simply erase the un-done from today's plan and put it in tomorrow's. Some days, I ignore it altogether. If the children are all playing cooperatively, if they are helping each other and helping me (put away laundry, sweep the floors, start cooking dinner), that is enough. There is learning in the helping.

By late afternoon, we all end up on the couch with books, or some PBS shows (current favorites: "Word Girl" and "Sid the Science Kid"). There is learning, here, too.

When I sit down in the late afternoon to record all that we've done, learned, explored, and tried that day, I am always surprised to see how much there is. Some days it feels like we got nothing accomplished. And yet, when I stop and look at it from a longer view, I see that learning is happening all the same.

Even if it doesn't quite look like, from the outside.

Quiet Moments

We are in the post-dinner quiet space. This is "Daddy's Time," when I usually disappear upstairs or behind the laptop, and the kids work out any pent-up energy, rolling around on the floor with DH. But DH is out of town this week. I still need the post-dinner quiet time, and the kids still need a break from me.

BigBro and Princess are playing some sort of computer game in the school room. I hear lots of cooperative language and laughter coming from there. It's a lovely sound.

LilBro is curled up on the couch next to me, playing with BigBro's Nintendo DS. LilBro is actually pretty good at the DS. He's certainly a lot better than I am. But mostly, he loves to crash the cars into walls, drive off cliffs and into lakes. He giggles a lot, and keeps a running commentary going as he plays "Mario Kart" (I think. Could be "Cars.")

I am enjoying the warmth of his head on my upper arm, the sweet scent of his freshly washed hair wafting up to me every now and again. I am not listening to his commentary, but I am finding such peace in hearing his chatter.

These days, I am trying my best to soak up all the sweetness, innocence, and wonder that is LilBro. Just as I got to enjoy his babyhood more than the others', I am definitely enjoying his entry into the Land of Preschoolers. He has the most joyful and excited facial expressions. And he does a great job getting his point across, even ... or maybe especially ... when he mixes up his words.

"I'm too hard of cleaning," he will whine every time I tell him it's time to do clean up. I love how he asks to sit on my "wap." ("lap", for those of you without three year olds at home). Or how quickly his mood changes from sweet to sour, from content to cantankerous, from tempered to temper tantrum.

Maybe because it's my third (and final) time through these minefields, I am enjoying him more. I am more amused by him. I get involved in his tantrums less. I worry less about the language mix-ups and the bouts of moodiness. I giggle more, cuddle more, and thank God more for each little moment, each slobbery kiss, each clumsy attempt at independence, each tear and smile and bounce. And especially for the quiet moments, just being together.

The Inaugural Sea

photo from msnbc.com

I've been on the mall in DC on the 4th of July (best fireworks ever!). That's nothing compared to this... the crowds awe me and inspire me.

A few months ago, just before the election, DH had a conversation with a man from central Africa. The man asked him how many people DH expected to be killed as a result of the change in administrations. Talk about reality check. We are so blessed to live in a country where a change in power is greeted with peaceful crowds and not unspeakable violence.

May God bless Barack Obama and Joe Biden, keep them safe, and guide them as they lead our country. May they lead us into a new era in America, where the dignity and respect for all persons (in all stages of life, and in all economic classes) is restored.

Attitude Adjustment

I don't think it's any secret that I struggle with exercising. I mentioned here and here that Father asked me to change the way I look at exercise, and to view it as an act of love for God and my family. I haven't really given that an honest try.

I hate exercising. There have been times in my life when I've gotten into a decent exercise routine, and I felt good in the midst of it, but exercise has never been something I've done readily or willingly.

Last Tuesday, I had a meeting with Pastor, and took the opportunity to tack on confession to the end of it. I had to admit to him that I still had not done the penance Father had assigned me before Christmas... to commit to a regular exercise plan. (Three very reluctant, 20-minute jaunts on the treadmill in 3 1/2 weeks does not a "regular" plan make). We talked about the where's and why-not's, and he asked me to take this to prayer, and to consider exercising in the smallest possible increments. "Jen, could you try to do just 10 minutes a day?" Of course I could. I could do more than that. I just don't want to.

But, having had two confessions in a month that ended up being about my not exercising, I very begrudgingly, and with a nasty attitude, climbed on the treadmill Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Each time I sludged through my twenty minutes, hopping off the treadmill the second the timer hit 20:00. On Friday, I got off the treadmill, filled with annoyance. There has to be some way to exercise and not have it be such a miserable chore. How can I get myself to feel better about it?

As I got ready for my day, it hit me. I don't have to feel like exercising. I just have to do it. Love is an action, remember? It's not an emotion. It doesn't matter how I feel. Just as Father told me when I was in the midst of a spiritual dry spell and just not "feeling it" in prayer, it doesn't matter how I feel. It's the act that matters. Whether prayer, exercise, or any number of other things I do (laundry, cooking, groceries, etc), the act is what matters.

Yesterday morning, in mass, the second reading, Paul's letter to the Corinthians, hit me square between the eyes.

Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you,
whom you have from God, and that you are not your own?
For you have been purchased at a price. (1 Cor. 6:19-20)

Whoa. Talk about feeling convicted. Father's homily focused on this reading, and he extended Paul's warnings against immoral use of the body beyond the original sexual intent to poor stewardship of our bodies through overeating, failure to exercise, abuse of drugs and alcohol, and even allowing anger to fester into rage. I squirmed in the pew, feeling very much that he was holding up a mirror. Yep, that was me he was talking about yesterday morning.

I came home and re-read Paul's letter. I prayed a bit, journaled a bit, and then got on the treadmill. I've had the worst attitude about this. I treat my body like crap, because it's my body, and so I can. Except that it's not my body. It's God's body. He merely lent it to me to use. He asked me to be the steward of this body, to care for it during the time I am here on earth.

I think about when I borrowed a friend's special crystal platter. How did I act then? Was I careless, thoughtless, and lazy? Why do I not treat this body God lent me with as much gentleness and care as the platter my friend lent me?

I got on the treadmill yesterday and prayed. Again this morning, after mass and breakfast, I got back on the treadmill. I prayed some more. I am not going to focus on scales, measurements, or goals. This is not about losing weight, fitting into a certain size, looking a certain way. This is about caring for my body. This is about loving God, and showing Him my love by treating this body as gently, carefully, and lovingly as I would a friend's treasured platter.

The Scent of Memory

DH and I are enjoying our "kid swap" alone-time this weekend. Our kids are off at a friend's house, hopefully having a good time, and behaving themselves.

Last night, I picked him up from work, we went out to dinner, and then saw "The Reader." (Highly recommend it... not a "feel good movie" but one that will spark interesting discussion on guilt and responsibility). This morning, we started our day with Centering Prayer over at the parish. There is a group that meets two Saturdays a month for CP, and I try to go as often as my schedule allows. This was DH's first time, and he really liked it.

After that, we drove to a town about 30 minutes away that has an historic district filled with little shops and restaurants. We so rarely get to do that... just wander in and out of shops, most of which are filled with breakable items. A nightmare to consider bringing the kids, but a perfectly pleasant way to spend the day on our own. We had lunch at a Victorian-inspired restaurant. We got some great finds (including a Bible stand... and I've been looking for a nice one of those for some time!) at another little shop.

Right before heading back home, we stopped in the Irish shop. DH and I are both of Irish heritage. My paternal grandparents emigrated from Ireland to NYC in 1929 and 1930... meeting in NYC in 1931. We wandered a bit, and I found myself in a corner of the shop where they kept jewelry and perfumes. Did they have it? Yes. Inisfree. My grandmother's scent. She wore it infrequently, because it was expensive (at least, more so than her daily Jean Nate). Using the "tester," I squirted some on my wrists and inhaled.

Grandma died in 1992, 15 months after Grandpa, following a series of strokes that left her more and more incapacitated. In her final few years, alzheimer's wreaked it's havoc on her brain. But she was still Grandma, sweet Nora. My Grandma was always second fiddle to Grandpa. She was the quiet, faithful, dutiful partner. Grandpa was the life of the party, and the love of my life (until DH, that is). I never really noticed Grandma when Grandpa was around.

I remember their 50th wedding anniversary. My parents threw them a big party... a wedding reception, almost. My dad's cousin picked them up in NYC and drove them out to the NJ suburb where the party was in a limosine. (He owned a limo company). They were thrilled. These Irish immigrants, who never owned a house or learned to drive a car, were thrilled to be treated like such royalty. Grandpa was the great MC... the Master of Ceremonies. Grandma was the quiet Bride, sitting faithfully beside him, smiling at the worn-out jokes, with a little glint in her eye.

As I've gone throughout my afternoon, I've been filled with memories of Grandma. Every time my hands get close to my face, the scent of Inisfree catches me, and I think of her. I can see her smile, her gentle eyes. I can feel her warm embrace. I can hear the slight hint of the brogue that she had held onto, even after fifty years in this country. And I miss her.

Housekeeping

I have a confession to make: I am not a very good housekeeper. Those of you who know me know that it's not much of a confession. One visit to my house will convince anyone that I am not the best at keeping a neat, ordered home. Often, I blame that on the fact that I homeschool three children under the age of 7. We are here most of the time, and the messes build up. And, to a degree, that is true. But the plain fact is, I despise cleaning. I don't make it a priority, and I will find any excuse to avoid it. Therefore, the dust builds up on the shelves, the crumbs gather in the corners, and piles of clutter reproduce at amazing rates.

I keep our house reasonably clean... the floors are swept nearly every day, I try to stay ahead of the dishes in the kitchen, and the bathrooms get cleaned once a week. But I don't do much more than that on a weekly basis. Just enough to keep the rodents and the health department at bay.

About once a month, though, the mess starts to make me crazy, and I spend a few hours scouring the place. If everything lines up for me, and the kids are out of the house, I can actually sit back and enjoy the feeling of cleanliness for a little bit, before the clutter and mess settles in once again.

I think about this today because I reached that point of being grossed out by the state of the house last night, and I set aside a few hours this morning to get it back in shape again. As I swept, mopped, cleaned, scrubbed, and dusted this morning, I thought about how keeping a clean house is similar to keeping a clean soul.

I do a daily examen of my conscience. Nothing formal, but a quick review of my day at bedtime, looking over what went right and where I fell short. I pray for guidance where I am struggling, for forgiveness where I have failed, and for a peaceful sleep and a good tomorrow. The whole thing takes just a minute or two, right after DH and I pray, and before I go to sleep. It's not unlike my weekly swipe at the bathroom counters and swish in the toilet. I get rid of the "obvious" dirt... the messes that, if left unattended, could fester into something really troublesome.

But every 3-4 weeks, I start to feel that it's just not enough. The clutter in my soul has built up too much, and I need to do a real cleaning. There are little piles of venial sins in this corner. A layer of impatience has collected over there. Sticky spots of pride and anger need to be scoured again.

And so, I set aside time to do a more formal examination of my conscience. Sometimes I use an actual form, but lately, I've just prayed for knowledge of where I am falling short. Then I make a list. (I am nothing if not a list-maker). And finally, I get myself off to confession, where I can open up the blinds, turn back the curtains, and shine a light on the corners of my soul, where all this dust and debris has gathered. It is in the light created by this Sacrament that I can best see my trouble-spots, that I can get the right tools to attack the messes. And, in the peace that fills me afterwards, I always try to take a few moments to sit back and enjoy the feeling of cleanliness, of being right with God and my neighbor once again.

If I'm careful in my choices, that feeling will last longer than the floor remains crumb-free.

Jen vs. the Devil, Round 1

During my confession with Pastor last night, I told him about the powerful prayer session I had in the Adoration chapel the other day, and how frustrated I was with myself. I left the chapel, so completely filled with Goodness. I truly felt that God had filled all of my nooks and crannies with His Goodness, and I wanted to hold onto that feeling, to stay in that place of Goodness as long as I could.

Well, "as long as I could" lasted just about half an hour, and then I was snapping at the children, making snippy comments to DH, filled with impatience, annoyance and any other myriad of things not falling under the heading of Goodness. Within just a few hours, I could feel that entire experience slipping away from me.

I was really frustrated with myself. I had been given this amazing gift of union with the Divine, and it wasn't enough. Why couldn't that be enough for me to choose God over myself? I know how good God is... why isn't it enough?

Pastor jumped in immediately and said, "I'll tell you why. I know exactly why that happened. Do you realize that when you left the chapel, filled with God, that the devil saw that and didn't like it? So, he tempted you. He knows you as well as God does, and he knows your triggers. And he went right for them. Anytime he sees God making headway, he goes right at it. So, next time you leave the chapel, do so with the knowledge that the evil one is looking for ways to trip you up, and enlist God in helping you do your best to thwart him."

Now, to be honest, I was a bit sceptical. I've never been really comfortable with the whole concept of a devil following me around, tempting me. It's always seemed too easy. "The devil made me do it," so I'm not responsible for my actions. But I discussed it with DH last night, and prayed a bit about it before bed. And again this morning, I prayed some more, for some understanding of this whole issue. I believe in angels; I often pray to my children's Guardian Angels. Why wouldn't there be evil spirits out there, trying to lead us away from all that is Good and Holy? It really does make sense. I know that evil exists. If there is a Holy Spirit, why not an evil spirit, too?

So, I was content to just pray about it, to meditate on it, and live with the concept for a while. I decided to see where the concept of a devil leads me.

Tonight, I was working on my witness for the upcoming CRHP weekend. I have to share it with my formation team next week, and this is the shortest amount of time I've ever had to write and edit a witness. I was focused and working hard. I reached a point where I needed a little break, and decided to read a bit online. I came across this post on Catholicmom. Kate Wicker summed up exactly where my thoughts were leading me. There is some evil spirit or force in the world, and it wants very much to lead me away from God. It's the force that lures me away from the treadmill, that keeps me playing around online when I should be fixing dinner, that convinces me that I have it so tough (even while my life is, quite objectively, filled with blessings).

To be honest, it's almost a relief. Yesterday afternoon, as I was preparing for my confession, I was frustrated at my lack of willpower. Why am I not strong enough to choose God? But now, instead of seeing the devil as a one-size-fits-all excuse for my less-than-loving choices, I now have an enemy I can see. I'm not fighting against my own lack of willpower. I am fighting the evil one.

Well, watch out, devil. You are on notice. I know you're there and I know your game plan. And I love a good fight.

In Praise of Ordinary Time

Ordinary Time began in the Church today, but it also began here at our home. On Friday, I got all our Christmas decorations put away. The Boy Scouts picked up our tree on Saturday to recycle it as mulch.

Today is the first day in a long time that I've focused on getting our lives back to "normal." Eleven loads of laundry were folded and put away. I'm working on another 3 loads now. Dishes were washed. Candles and holiday plates were stored in the china cabinet again.

It feels really good. There is "space"again. Space for my eyes to rest. Space for us to all just "be." For us to grow, love, live and learn. Just space. As much as I love the Christmas decorations, the extended family time, the long days filled to the brim with activity, I need this time, too. I need quiet, ordinary days, filled with laundry, grocery shopping, reading to the kids, playing board games, catching up on blog-reading and emails. Nothing special, nothing note-worthy, just ordinary time.

A Powerful Physical Prayer

Nearly all of my prayer is mental, whether verbal (in my head or aloud) or centering. The act of quieting my mind in centering prayer is a very taxing mental activity, sometimes fraught with incredible frustration.

Today, I had an incredibly powerful, physical prayer session.

I stopped in for an hour or so at the Perpetual Adoration Chapel in the parish a mile from my house. I love this tiny little chapel. It is always a place of Peace. When I arrived, it was packed. All five seats were taken. I knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, and tried to still my mind and become aware of the Holy Presence. Instead, I wondered how long I would be able to stay with nowhere to sit. Should I stay on the kneeler? Go sit on the floor? Stand off to the side? It was definitely not one of my most prayerful moments in the Presence of our Lord.

Within five minutes, two people left, leaving one of the really comfy chairs open. I slipped into it, and took off my coat. Ok, now, I can focus on the Divine Presence. Oh, but the man behind me kept rustling papers. And the priest upstairs in the rectory kept walking around on the creaky floors. What am I doing here? Oh, yeah, Jesus. That's right. Focus, Jen. I tried reading from a devotional book I had brought with me, but couldn't concentrate on the words. Finally, I just closed my eyes and tried to imagine Jesus sitting here beside me in the chair.

Eventually, the chapel cleared out, leaving just me and one other person. I began to feel very strongly that I needed to get up out of this comfy chair and lay prostrate before the Lord. I felt uneasy. There was another person in the room. What would he think? Would I seem weird? But the feeling persisted, and I decided to just do it.

I stood up and walked a little behind this man, so as not to be in his peripheral vision. I knelt down on the floor and bowed my head down until it reached the floor. "My Lord and my God," I prayed. I wondered about the man. Did he see me? Did he know what I was doing? Was he thinking I was some sort of crazy nut? "My Lord and my God. Come on, Jen... you are not doing this for him. It's not about the guy in the other comfy chair. It's about Him... up there in the monstrance. My Lord and my God. My Lord and my God. My Lord and my God."

Eventually, I got caught up in the prayer. I stretched out into full prostrate position, and continued praying. My prayer ceased being mental, and was just this deep, incredible feeling of connection with the Divine, of being one, of no separation.

Time passed. I'm not sure how much. I became aware of my surroundings again. My thighs were cold from the pressure of the floor. I wondered whether my companion had even noticed my prayer posture. I got back into kneeling position and looked at the Blessed Sacrament, praying in words once again. In time, I felt compelled to return first to my kneeling bow and then to full prostrate.

This time, I prayed specific prayers... an Act of Contrition, the Fatima prayer... but pausing at the end of each phrase to personalize and add more specific petitions to the prayers. I was able to visualize the prayers, not as words, but as actions, as people, as places, as things. I began to pray for humility again. I had not prayed for that virtue since I'd had a really horrible, incredibly humiliating experience back in October. I've been too scared to go anywhere near praying for that virtue since. (Whoever said "watch what you pray for" had exactly that circumstance in mind!)

But today, I went back to that prayer. I asked the Lord to show me the way to humility, but to do so gently. I am fragile, Lord. I've been broken in so many places. I know I need humility, but I need to be led there gently. Please, help me get there... gently.

Finally, led by an inner peace I haven't felt in ... gosh, I don't even know when, I returned to kneeling, and just gazed at the Blessed Sacrament. I was filled.

A short time later, I stood up, put my coat and gloves on, and left, never giving my companion a second thought. My heart was too full to care what he may have thought.

Touch

As a mother of three small children, I find myself saying variations of "don't touch" often throughout my day and week.

"Yuck, don't touch that." "Careful, don't touch." "Put that down." "Don't pick that up."

And often, when I've been ignored or a split-second too late, I follow with, "Go wash your hands." "Here, let me give you some hand sanitizer." "Wash up, now."

In this morning's Gospel reading, Jesus reached out and touched a leper to heal him. Now, being God, Jesus could have healed him without touching him. He healed many people from afar, often sending people away with the assurance that the loved one on their deathbed at home had been healed by their faith alone. So it was not necessary for Jesus to touch this leper in order to heal him. But he touched him anyway.

Again and again in his ministry, Jesus used touch as a means of conveying his love and acceptance. He touched others, and he allowed others to touch him. Father pointed out in his homily that the Church continues this tradition of touch as a physical expression of Christ's Grace and Love through the Sacraments. We use physical items -- bread, wine, oil, water -- to convey the grace of the Lord. And, we often use touch. Touch is a key element in the Sacrament of the Annointing of the Sick. Some priests also use touch during the Absolution in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. In fact, I find that the Sacrament feels more healing to me those times when the priest lays his hands on my head as he absolves me of my sins. It is through the physicality of the Sacrament that I most feel the presence of the Holy Spirit.

When I warn my children not to touch things, it is usually to protect them from some disease or harm that I can see, which, often, they cannot. I want to keep them healthy, pure, free from illness and waste.

How amazing and humbling is it that our Lord, who can see all that is unhealthy, impure, sick and wasteful inside us chooses not to stay away, but instead to reach out and touch us... and through that touch, to offer us healing, grace, peace, and love.

Sleeping Around

Last night, at bedtime, we had this exchange:

LilBro: Mama, are you going to sleep in Daddy's bed tonight?

Me: Mmm hmmm

LilBro: The WHOLE night?

Me: Yes

LilBro: But I want you to sleep with ME!

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Ahhh, LilBro, you got your wish didn't you. At 3:23, Princess came into our room, shaking in fear of imagined dragons, and I squeezed in next to her, Dora, three Teddy Bears, a stuffed pig and two baby dolls. Sleep was fitful, with wrong pillow configurations and way too many extraneous bed companions. But that visit was short-lived.

Twenty-five minutes later, you emerged from across the hall, squinty eyed and whiny. "Mama, I need you to sleep with MEEEEEE." So, I bid the stuffed friends adieu and stumbled across the hall. Scooping you up, I got a whiff of your sleepy scent, and planted a kiss on the side of your forehead.

"Skooch over and make room for me," I whispered, so as not to wake BigBro in the next bed. You wrapped your little arms around me, held me tight, and together we drifted off. Again, my sleep was fitful, with wrong pillow configurations and a very wiggly companion. An hour later, I awoke, slipped out of your bed, stumbled down the hall and back into my comfortable bed, with all the right pillow configurations and a sleepy squeeze of my hand from DH.

Another ordinary night of sleeping around....

Reunion

One of the nicest parts of the past few weeks has been some emails I've exchanged with a dear old friend from college. During my sophomore year at the University, we were the best of friends. We worked together, were in the same major, and spent the majority of our waking hours together. In addition to that, I was in love with him. He was my first real love, and I spent many a free moment in that year imagining a life as Mrs. Dear Friend.

Alas, that was not meant to be, and while we attempted to maintain a friendship after that year ended, it was never the same. My broken and bruised heart always caused me to keep one step away, physically and emotionally, and when he graduated a year ahead of me, heading off to graduate school, I let the space between us continue to grow.

Back in mid-December, I was bumping around in the blogosphere, and suddenly his name popped into my head. It was the easiest of Google searches to find him. I simply plugged his name and the career he had planned ever so many years ago into Google, and voila, there he was... the same man I had loved so deeply, all those years ago, in a very prestigious position exactly where he had planned to be. I sent a short email to his work address, and waited, imagining how the email would be received. With surprise? Joy? Happy memories? Dread? Annoyance?

Two weeks went by. Christmas and it's activities kept me busy, but every now and again I would wonder how he had received the email. Had I unintentionally become the creepy Ghost of Christmases Past?

When I finally heard from him, it was a warm and wonderful email full of questions. And the catching up we've done in the past few weeks has been fun and, surprisingly, affirming. He has a good life. He is the same man I loved all those years ago. So many of the things he mentioned in his messages are exactly what I expected to hear: he remains committed to his family at all costs, to always giving more than 100% to his work, to being the best version of himself that he can be. Everything I heard from him filled me with a quiet joy. I am happy that his life has been so successful, so full, so very true.

But the surprising part of this little electronic reunion is what it has done for me. I have relived the last 17 years, in an effort to catch him up on the highlights. As I've read how his life has played out so closely to the script he had planned, I've considered how my life is nothing at all like I had planned. I've paused to look at all the choices that have led me to this place... very happily married, living 1,000 miles away from where I grew up, spending my days homeschooling, deeply entrenched in my faith. And the only thing that I can see is God's hand.

That 19 year old girl I was back then: she had all the answers. She knew who she was, where she was going, and how she was going to get there. (Man, what I would give for a bit of her uber-confidence!) She was so sure that there was nothing she couldn't do, no career she couldn't master, and that she was enough. There was no need for a Higher Power. And, after her heart was bruised, no need for a husband, either. She would be just fine on her own, thank you very much.

And she was just fine, completely and totally fine... until six years later, when an older, blond-haired, former Fraternity President (exactly the type of man she would have crossed the street to avoid in college) took her to lunch during a business trip in a city 1,000 miles away.

And now, I sit here in my toy-strewn family room, trying not to notice the piles of books stacked here and there, nudging the cat sleeping on my feet as I write on this laptop surrounded by pictures of people who never existed in that girl's script. I look at LilBro, the exact, spitting image of his Dad, even down to the texture of his hair and the impish smile, and the only thing I can do is pray. Thank you, sweet Lord. Thank you for knowing what that girl didn't. Thank you for your patience with her. Thank you for never giving up on her, not then, not now, not ever.

Love is an Action

This week, Father's early morning homilies have been variations on the same theme: in the Bible, love is not sentimentality, not emotion. Love is an action.

A few weeks ago, he asked me to change how I viewed exercise. He suggested that instead of seeing exercise as a chore, that I view exercise as an act of Love for God, my family, and myself. I've been praying a lot about that concept these past few weeks, and this week I dusted off the treadmill and got back on. And every morning, I've heard more about Love as an action.

At the same time, I am really struggling in the Spiritual Director role for our CRHP (Christ Renews His Parish) team. My heart is not in it, and I am having a hard time even getting my head in it. Last night, after the meeting, I stopped in the chapel to pray before going home. Again, I asked the Lord why He picked me for this role. Again, I had no discernible response... until this morning, when Father spoke again about Love being an action. If love is not an emotion, a feeling, then it doesn't matter if my "heart" is in the Spiritual Director role. I was asked to do this role. I said yes. Now, I need to act.

When Jesus told us to "love one another," he wasn't referring to our emotions, though I am sure he wouldn't mind if we felt love for our neighbors. He said, "Love one another, as I have loved you." Jesus didn't get caught up in feelings, in emotion. And I don't recall any part of the Gospels where he worried that his "heart" just wasn't in the teaching or healing that day. He loved through gentle healing, through patient teaching, through forgiving, through righteous anger at times, and always through prayer. There was nothing passive about Jesus' love. There is nothing passive about Jesus' love.

What about my love?

Back to Work

Today is our first day back to our usual routine, after a three-week break. I am ready. I think the kids are ready, too. At least, there's been very little struggle so far... from all of us.

After mass this morning, I actually dusted off the treadmill and hopped on. (And I mean literally dusted off... about 1/4" of dust had built up on that poor, neglected machine). Right at 9am, BigBro and Princess grabbed their books and pencils and got started. Princess amazed me with her latest academic growth spurt. We picked up a brand-new (to her) beginning reader this morning, and she just started reading. There was one sight word I needed to supply for her, and one word she needed to sound out. The remainder of the book she just...read. And giggled as she went (it was a very silly little story). Right now, she is cranking through the math book she had set aside months ago.

Even BigBro, who usually complains a bit before settling in to work, didn't this morning. (Praise the Lord!).

Here's hoping the rest of the week continues in the same vein!

Marriage and So Much More

Last night, 0ur Marriage and More group had its first "official" meeting. DH and I were hosting (and therefore running) the meeting. We began with prayer. DH led us in a brief prayer of thankgiving, and then we all joined in to pray the Lord's Prayer together. It was an incredibly powerful moment for me. Twelve adults, some good friends, others practically strangers, all sitting in my family room, praying aloud.

I got goosebumps last night, and I'm getting them again today as I recall the moment and try to capture it in words. I believe strongly in the power of prayer, and I am always affected by praying aloud with others. But this was new. Usually, if I am praying aloud outside mass, it is with a group of women, or with DH alone. But praying aloud in mixed company, six couples, all committed to our marriages and to our faith, there was a power and a Presence that I have not experienced elsewhere, and which I feel completely inadequate to try to express in mere words on a screen. It truly can only be expressed in feelings.

The rest of the meeting was amazing. It would have to be, I guess, after such a Spirit-filled start. I was amazed at the sharing that happened. Every couple shared the story of how they met. At the end, we spent a few minutes remarking on the many ways in which God's Hand was so clearly present in our meetings. We had long-distance couples, couples who kept running into each other, couples whose meetings were of such chance that only God could have orchestrated it. Then, DH and I passed out papers with a few questions for each person to consider. After a few minutes to compose our individual answers, we broke off into couples and shared our answers with our spouses. Finally, we came back together again and shared some of our responses with the group.

The group sharing took me by surprise. We have several husbands in the group who, while willing to be a part of a marriage group, weren't exactly thrilled with the idea of "group sharing." And yet, they shared. Some shared on such a personal level, I was really touched by their trust. And so many of our thoughts and experiences were inter-related, or bounced off of one to another. The conversation was moving, flowing, bouncing around the room. To be so affirming of marriage, to admit that it's not always easy, but it is for life, and it is more than worth the effort... well, that's not something we usually get from our culture. After the last couple left, DH and I were up talking for nearly an hour, and he kept commenting on how clearly he felt the Holy Spirit's Presence in the room with us all night.

I loved recalling how DH and I met, remembering how kind and funny he was, the little things that made me take notice of him and think, "This guy is pretty special. I'd like to get to know him better." I got a lot out of our couple-sharing time. We had come up with the questions (relating to our expectations of marriage before we were married and how they've changed), but I hadn't really had time to consider my answers in advance. I appreciated DH's honesty. One of the major benefits of our deepening faith life is that we've reached a level of honesty in our marriage that I never envisioned being possible with another human being.

Last night, I told him how much it means to me that I can share even those dark and dusty, dismal places in me that I wish weren't there. It is this incredibly powerful circle. Our deepening faith brings us closer in our marriage, so that we pray together and share our inner lives with one another, which brings us deeper into union with God and strengthens our faith, which brings us closer in our marriage, and so on. It flows so smoothly and makes so much sense, only God could have designed it.

Growing Into Marriage

Father was over for dinner the other night, and while I was getting the wound-up, overwrought-from-too-many-late-nights-and-too-much-holiday-excitement children tucked into bed, he and DH had a conversation about vocations. When I came back downstairs, fifteen minutes later, to the relative quiet and another glass of wine, Father told me what they were talking about, and that he had asked DH whether he was happy with his vocation as husband/father.

I made a little joke about all the chaos of bedtime being some great lure for him to leave the priesthood. He laughed, and then said that he's always felt he could never be a good husband, that he had felt "confined" in the relationships he'd had prior to entering the seminary. We were all quiet for a minute, and then I responded. "I think being a good husband -- or a good wife -- is something you grow into, over time."

DH agreed and we shared some examples of the struggles we had in exchanging two "I's" for a "we." DH and I were a little older and more established in our own, separate, adult lives when we met. That may have made the transition harder in some ways, and probably easier in others. It is what it is. But, certainly, getting married and staying married are two separate things. Getting married is fun. It's about planning, dreaming, throwing a party, imagining a new life together. Getting married is a lot about emotion.

Staying married is about action. It's a choice that we make every single day, many times a day. A choice to be the one to get up at 2:30 am to comfort the whining toddler because my spouse has a big day tomorrow and needs to sleep. A choice to give up the tickets to the ball game with the guys because it conflicts with a dance recital. A choice to empty the dishwasher without complaining, or to switch a load of laundry on my way out the door. Over and over and over, marriage is about choosing "us" over "me," about setting aside my selfishness, and choosing to act in love.

Parenthood gets much praise as a surefire way to grow in holiness. And it is, for sure. Children demand attention, time, love, food, clothing, and an endless supply of answers. My children are very good at helping me exercise my patience, kindness, and unselfish muscles. But marriage requires a different type of unselfishness. Because my husband is not a child incapable of getting himself a glass of water, or of washing his own clothes or preparing his own food. Caring for him is not an act of love borne in the biological need to care for my young. It is an act of love that comes completely from my heart.

And, of course, marriage is not without it's incredible rewards. When I turned in my "I," I got so much more than I ever anticipated. I got a best friend who means more to me each day. I got a partner who will happily take all the children out of the house for hours, every single week, so that I can clean, nap, or just have some peace and quiet. I got that reassuring squeeze of my hand at 3am, the tender kiss on my sleeping forehead when he has an early-morning class, the warm embrace every single time I need it (and lots of times when I don't). I got a worldview that extends beyond me, forces me to look beyond myself, to consider another in everything I think and do.

None of this happened overnight. We were happy when we dated, happy during our engagement, and happy newlyweds. But this deep peace, comfort and joy that we have in our marriage now: this took some time, some cultivation, some pruning and growing for each of us. This solid, deeply loving marriage is something we've both grown into.