My Daily Dose

Several years ago, when I was overwhelmed by the day-to-day mothering and homeschooling of three children 5 and under and a husband who traveled frequently, I started setting aside Tuesday nights (when DH was in town) for me. I always went first to 7pm mass, a quiet, simple mass in the tiny chapel. Then, I would meet a friend or wander in the bookstore, soak up adult conversation or silence, and return home a little more sane and capable.

And then BigBro's Kindergarten fall hit, our activities ramped up, and Tuesday nights meant soccer practice and Scout meetings and there was no way I could escape to the quiet of the chapel for mass.

So, I did what I had previously thought completely unthinkable: I began getting up very early a few mornings each week, to attend mass before DH left for work. At first, I could manage only 1 or 2 mornings each week. I still had a toddler, who often slept with us, and I desperately needed to sleep when I could.

Over the next six months, morning mass became more and more important for me. I noticed a difference in me on the days I dragged myself out of bed made the effort to attend. And, slowly, over time, daily mass became... well, daily.

Summer came along, and I lost the 6:30 mass at my home parish. A refugee, I tried several nearby churches, finally settling on one about 2 miles from my house. It wasn't the same, and yet, it was.

I am now on my third summer at this other parish, and I noticed last week, with a little jump in my heart, just how encouraged I am by this faith community. I know only a few people by name, but I do recognize most, and I am recognized by most. I am comforted and encouraged by the presence of the same folks, sitting in the same spots, as last year. There is something about their faith and dedication that strengthens mine.

I admire the people I know who are able to maintain a deep, daily prayer life on their own. I know several folks who wake early for prayer and exercise before work. I know others who keep sacred a daily walk and rosary. Left to my own devices, I seem to flounder. I need the external discipline of mass. I need the community of faith as much as I need the pockets of quiet that Father so brilliantly stretches out in a 27 minute mass.

I started out attending Tuesday mass, looking for a little peace in my life. In the past few years, I've learned that I am strengthened as much by these small faith communities as I am by the Eucharist and prayer. In order to maintain my mental and spiritual health, I need my daily dose, amidst a community of fellow travelers on this path.

Tools of the Trade

There was a time in my mothering career when I had baby wipes in every possible location: my purse, the car, the diaper bag, and throughout the house. Baby wipes could eliminate sticky fingers, erase spit-up drips from my shoulders, and of course, clean up the inevitable baby and toddler messes.


Baby wipes were completely indispensible.


Lately, I’ve noticed that I have a new indispensable tool in my box: Krazy Glue. This tiny tube fixes toys, games, wheels on matchbox cars, and any other myriad of “oops” created in a household with two young, active boys. I am on my third tube this year. There are days I would not get through without this trusty little tube of gluey-goodness.


But of all the tools that help me in the raising and rearing of three children, none is more valuable than the Sacrament of Confession.

I’m pretty all-powerful as mom. (At least, I am these days; I’m sure the teen years will take care of that). Seriously, though, I have the bulk of the power in the relationships with my children. I decide when we will eat, and for the most part, what we will eat. I assign the school work and the re-dos when it isn’t done well enough. I am the last word on play dates, activities, chores and outings. These three little people spend a lot of their day working on my agenda.

So, it’s particularly important for me to take time, regularly, to step back, look directly at my life, and humbly ask forgiveness for all the times I misuse this power.

I do a short examination of conscience every night before bed, looking back over my day, what worked, what didn’t. But this quiet conversation with God in the privacy of my mind isn’t quite enough for me. It’s like trying to cut fabric with safety scissors: the job may get done, but not as well as with a good pair of Fiskers. I need the Sacrament to get the full benefit.

My regular confessor is also my friend. He comes over for dinner once a month. We compete on trivia teams together. He’s seen me on good days, bad days, and lots of ordinary days. He knows me nearly as well as my husband, and certainly better than anyone else.

It is extremely hard to sit with him and name all of my wrongs. Humbling doesn’t quite cover the emotion. And yet, I do it, every single month, because I need it. Without the Sacrament, I know my mothering would be so much less than it is. I know that my ego, my agenda, and my controlling personality would reign supreme. I need to be humbled. I need to recall my failures, and to recognize my great need for mercy, compassion, and forgiveness.

Like any trusty tool, Confession surprises me with its usefulness. It doesn’t just fix the obvious problem (my sinfulness); it shows me how to be a better mother. By humbling myself, I learn to be gentler with my children when they make the wrong choices. Because I’ve received God’s mercy and compassion, I am reminded to treat my children with mercy and compassion. In learning to apologize well and often to God, I am learning the importance of apologizing well and often to my children.

I can foresee a time in my future when the tube of Krazy Glue will dry out before I can use it all. Like the baby wipes, this tool will serve its time, and be replaced by something else. But I cannot see any time in my life when the Sacrament of Confession will have lost its usefulness to me. This is one tool that has a permanent spot in my toolbox.

Exercise as Prayer

To understand where I am going with this week's Theology Thursday, you first need to know that I have hated exercise, in nearly any form, for all of my adult life. I could tolerate swimming laps, but after my kids were born, stopping by the health club to swim a few dozen laps meant dealing with childcare hassles. The winter that BigBro was 2 and Princess was a baby, I managed the hassles, but spent more time in the pediatrician's office with sick kids than in the pool. Since LilBro's birth, I refused to consider any form of exercise that meant leaving my kids in a germ-filled health club "daycare" room.

Three years ago, I came to the revelation that not caring for my body was a sin. It set a bad example for my kids, didn't show proper respect for my body as a temple of the Holy Spirit, and would likely lead to preventable illnesses and early death.

And so began my trip on the merry-go-round of misery. I would ignore any thoughts of exercise for the entire month. The night before my Spiritual Direction meeting, I would look over an examination of conscience and note that I'm not taking proper care of myself. I would confess the sin. Father would assign me an open-ended penance, something like: "get 30 minutes of exercise 3-4 times per week." I'd comply for a week or two, miss a few days, and lose my focus.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Occasionally, I'd string together a month or two of reasonably frequent exercise before giving up. It didn't matter, though. Over and over again, I would find myself not-exercising, with plenty of "good" reasons why I didn't/couldn't/wouldn't/shouldn't.

In May 2009, I sat in Father's office. I'd stopped exercising again, and had no desire to do it. None at all. "And please don't assign me the penance of exercising, because I won't do it. I know that right now; I won't do it. And then I'll have the sin of not doing my penance on my conscience, too. Please," I begged.

Father took pity on me offered this penance instead: pray for the desire to care for yourself as a beloved child of God.

I felt like I'd won the jackpot. All I have to do for my penance is pray? No laps around the neighborhood? No early-morning walks? Just some prayers? Yee-haw!

Well, those of you who read my blog regularly know how that worked out. But you may not know exactly how I got from there to here.

I prayed my penance faithfully. About three weeks into it, I was kneeling in the pew at my "summer parish," after receiving the Eucharist one Thursday morning. Suddenly, in the deep recesses of my head were the words, "you need to start running." I dismissed the thought. I don't run. Ever. For any reason.

But it stayed with me, nonetheless. And, being the lazy person I am, I rationalized. I could run for 15 minutes and get the same workout as walking for 45. Hmmmmm. Maybe running would work after all. But not today. No one starts a new workout on a Thursday. Monday. Yeah, Monday I'll start running.

And I did. Slowly at first, running for a minute and walking for a minute. I'd been doing it for about 2 weeks before I even mentioned it to DH.

Very quickly, I realized that if I were going to run, I needed to pray. Prayer was not an option. This running idea did not come from me; the only way I'd succeed was to turn it all over to God. So, as my muscles and lungs strengthened, so did my prayer life.

It's been a year now since I started running. I've learned a lot about the sport. I've run two races. I've read books and websites. I'm on my second pair of running shoes. And I pray before, during, and especially after my runs.

Running opens me up to God in a way few activities do. It drains me of my ego, wears me out, and leaves me panting and sweaty, fully aware of just how strong I'm not, just how "together" I'm not, just how much I do, in fact, need a Savior.

Every time I finish a run, whether a short 1-miler or a longer run, whether on the treadmill, on the trail, or around the track, I stop, stretch, and pray.

In that prayer time, I am open, spent, ego-less. All of the "monkey voices" in my head, all of my wants have been huffed and puffed right out of me. All that is left is an aching desire for God... a deep, gaping hole in my soul that longs to be filled by Him.

I stretch. I sit. I breathe deeply. "Lord," I pray. "I am yours."

Do You "Tweet" God?

I am starting this new feature, something I am calling "Theology Thursday" - a fancy name for a simple subject: this is no Summa Theologica, just a weekly post showing how I try to live my faith, day in and day out.

*****

When I got my first email address as a college student in 1991, I was thrilled with how easy it was to keep in touch with my friends across campus and across the country. I had near-instant communication that no one could overhear. Who could have imagined technology getting better than that?

Fast forward 20 years, and we've taken "keeping in touch" to heights nearing the summit of Mt. Everest. With iPhones and Facebook, Instant Messaging and Twitter, we know what our friends and family -- and what their friends and family -- are up to, every minute of the day.

But, I wonder.

We spend so much time keeping connected to each other, updating each other on the smallest of achievements (bought groceries, drinking a glass of iced tea, homework done!). Do we spend the same time keeping connected to God?

As we've learned from Facebook and Twitter, a lot of communication can happen in a few words. But you have to post (or tweet) for that communication to happen.

The same is true with God. It's not enough for me to get my hour of worship once a week. To have a real relationship with God, I need to keep in touch with the Him throughout my days. It doesn't need to be lengthy. It doesn't need to take hours. Help me, Lord. Guide my heart, please. Jesus, be with me.

Some days, I get a longer time to sit quietly in prayer. I think of those moments as email messages to a dear friend. But, I am learning that there is great value in the short "tweet"-like prayers throughout my day. A quick "help me be patient, Lord" when I hear a crash and scream from the other room. A Hail Mary when an ambulance passes by. Pausing in the midst of preparing dinner to offer thanks for the food I am preparing, and a blessing on those who don't have dinner that night.

These shorter prayers, interspersed throughout my days, have brought me closer to God, and helped me to see Him as readily accessible. He is not some distant god sitting on top of Mt. Olympus, waiting to catch me sinning. He's right here with me in the muck and the mess and the craziness of parenting and teaching and living.

On the days when I "tweet" God, when I turn my heart and mind to the Lord in short bursts, everything seems just a little more manageable, and I feel just a little less crazy.

Who ever could have imagined that a short, simple form of communication could be so powerful?