My Six Year Old Teachers

I know I'm not alone in saying that my children are helping to make me a better person. Parenting forces one to let go of selfishness, personal agendas, and even dignity. (Who hasn't felt their last shred of dignity flee in the face of a public tantrum by a little person in their care?) My kids continue to challenge me to be more loving and caring, to live our Christian values, to reach outside my comfort zone over and over again.


Two years ago, then-six-year-old BigBro insisted that we were "not doing enough" when we made monetary and food donations to our local pantry. "There has to be more we can do, Mom. We have to help feed people who are hungry. We have to." His persistance forced me out of my general complacency. I made some calls, approached the pantry leadership, and stated my case for an exception to their volunteer age restrictions. A few weeks later, BigBro and I started volunteering at the food pantry. It is now one of the highlights of our month, a deep connection between the two of us, and the pantry has become our family's "pet project."


One month ago, six year old Princess asked me why we are the ones who get presents, when Christmas is Jesus' birthday. It didn't seem fair, to her. "Good point," I said. "What do you think Jesus would want for his birthday?" She thought about it for a few minutes, and then said that she thought Jesus would want us to take care of someone who didn't have anyone to help them.


Who needs a printed examination of conscience when I am surrounded by living, breathing ones?


We've made the decision, this year, to scale back on our own family's gifts in favor of adopting a family with real need. The kids really got into it, discussing ideas for gifts and meals, anxious to show this family the love of Christ. I find myself continually awed by their kindness, their concern, and their general giddiness for these people we've yet to meet.


This morning, we get to deliver Jesus' birthday presents. I woke early, and spent some still-dark time in prayer. How grateful I am for this family we are meeting today! They have given me -- given us -- the best gift this season: a reminder of what and Who we are about. I am touched by the humility and trust they have shown us, allowing us to be a part of their Christmas this year. I am awed by the generosity and enthusiasm of my children, anxious for their own Christmas surprises, and still so joy-filled about sharing Christmas with strangers. I am challenged by it all.

Where am I being called to humility and trust?

How can I be more generous, more enthusiastic?

Do I approach each day joy-filled, despite my own anxieties?

My six-year old teachers are so much wiser in the Way than I am. I have much to learn, so far still to go on this path.

And one more six-year old to come on the horizon....

Thoughts on the Priesthood

Last week, my Sacraments class focused on Holy Orders. We had some really heated and lively discussions. This morning, I woke with these thoughts in my head. I shared them with my class, but felt like they might have some use outside the class discussion, too. Peace.

*****

Our Church is very hierarchical. This is not meant as a judgment, just a simple observation. Pope is brother to the bishops, but head of the Church. Bishops are brothers to priests, but leaders of their dioceses. And so on. The hierarchy is even noticeable at Sunday mass. Priests and Deacons, robed in colorful vestments, remain nearly exclusively separate from the laity, elevated in the sanctuary.

One of the priests in our parish has a regular habit of praying in the sanctuary prior to celebrating mass on Sunday mornings. He arrives early in the sacristy, puts on his vestments, and then sits in one of the altar server's chairs in the side of the sanctuary and prays for a few minutes before mass begins. I always like when he's up there as we enter the church, or if he comes out into the sanctuary while we are kneeling in silent prayer before mass. The church seems quieter those mornings, as if Father's prayerful presence reminds those interested in pre-mass chatter where their focus should be.

Yesterday morning, we arrived at our "regular" pew early, and I knelt in prayer. Several minutes later, I sat back in the pew, my four year old climbed into my lap, and I looked up at the sanctuary. Father was there, but not in his usual chair. He was kneeling, head bowed, in deep, private prayer. I was moved by the humility in his position, the honesty with which he carried out his private prayer in a public forum.

That Father is a prayerful man, I already knew. He and I have prayed together often, and in many different circumstances. However, rarely have I seen him kneel in prayer. It brought to mind the picture in the Cathedral Basilica of Pope John Paul II praying on his knees during his visit here in 1999. I am always moved when I see our Church leaders, whether Deacons and Priests or Bishops and Popes, or even those well-known lay leaders (parish council members, lectors, etc), kneeling before our Lord. It reminds me that every one of us is but a beloved child of God, a fallen sinner in need of our Savior.

Our Church has been under attack from the beginning, though the cultural and media attacks in the past decade seem stronger than ever. We've had some lively discussions on the current Church makeup in this class. I am heartened and encouraged, though, because through it all, God keeps calling us all back to Him, and keeps providing what we need to move forward as His Church. Despite the scandals and challenges of the previous few decades, despite the growing secularization of our culture, we find many humble and honest examples of Holy Orders in our daily lives. I would bet that every person in this class knows at least one priest or deacon who is living this life of service in an honorable, humble, and Christian way. I am blessed by the presence of several loving, honest and committed seminarians, deacons, and priests in my life, men who continue to encourage me along this same path they are traveling... so that one day we all might hear, "welcome, my good and faithful servant."

Online Classes, Humilty, and Me

Other than bragging a bit about my mid-term grade last week, I've been mostly quiet in this space when it comes to the two classes I am taking online this fall. The one class is fine, quite lovely most of the time. I've developed a posting/board checking schedule that keeps me sane, and do my best to get the book-work for that class done early in the week, so the pressure is off.

The other class, however, is a huge disappointment. The textbook is filled with opinion presented as fact and a serious lack of source material. The online articles were obviously either cut-and-pasted from other sources and/or never proofread. And, most disappointing, the teacher is notably absent, nearly all of the time. We are required to post only twice each week, once on a board explaining a "practical application" of the week's readings and once asking or responding to a question on the material. He refuses to comment on any post or respond to any question in the current week, and often allows two or more weeks to go by before responding to questions. As it stands right now, at the end of week 7, there are unanswered posts from week 5 and more than 8 specific, unanswered questions from week 6. He has not posted any comments in more than 10 days.

I contacted the teacher privately to express my concerns, and was told, quite plainly, that my concerns were not his, the "proper venue" was the end-of-semester evaluation, and if I didn't like it, please drop the course.

I'm not sure that I've responded to all of this in the most appropriate way. I think, for the most part, I've been true to who I am, and I am trying my best to be charitable and Christian in my actions online. But, mostly, I feel angry and cheated. I paid for a class, and received instead, a poorly organized and poorly run discussion group. Honestly, I could have just joined a discussion group at my parish, had a better time, and learned more. And kept the tuition costs in our savings account.

Being who I am, I can't just go quietly into the cyber-equivalent of a dark night. I post frequently and honestly. I challenge the materials we are reading. I quote church documents and recap church history. I am, unequivocally, the most outspoken and forthright of the students in this class, at least as evidenced by my posts.

And an unfortunate side-effect of this is that I am growing even more prideful. Pride is already one of my major sin areas, but this class is exacerbating my prideful tendencies. I think that, in some ways, the online environment enables me in this. In a classroom setting, I would not always have the answers. It's easier to have the answers when you have ready access to a Google search bar, and the time to find the sources you need to support your position. In a classroom, I might think that it is appropriate for the laity to receive the Eucharist in both species, for example. Online, I am able to do a few hours of research and write a persuasive argument in favor of the practice.

I think what I am trying to say is this: online, I look smarter, better educated, and more put-together than I really am. And, even more disturbingly, I think I am starting to believe that.

I took this class to learn, not because I thought I knew it all already. And yet, as the class has gone along, my attitude is changing from "what can I learn from this material" to "is there anything I didn't already know."

I'm not really sure what the solution is. I can't stop posting, and I'm not willing to drop a class two weeks from the finish line. I've got some recourse as far as the academic institution goes, in the form of a lengthy and well-documented course evaluation, which I am writing as we go along. But, the bigger concern I have is for my soul. How do I keep my active participation (which is the only means for me to learn in this class) and not continue to grow ever more prideful? Is there a way for me to incorporate some humility into this experience?

Unseen Angels

Last Thursday night, I worked my monthly shift at the Food Pantry. This pantry has my heart. It challenges me, every single month. I come home and cry after every single shift. And I don't ever want to give it up. My pantry shifts make me a better person.

For about a year now, the pantry managers have been training me to do the intake and recertification interviews for our clients. For several months, I just observed the interviews. For the past few months, I've been running them, always with a helper in the room to guide me, and to fill in any information I miss. Since I only do this once a month, the learning curve has been steep for me.

This past Thursday, I was sitting in the small office when a volunteer from another organization came in and asked for an emergency box of food to bring to a woman, sick herself and home with three sick children and no food at all in her house. I sat and listened. The pantry managers and this volunteer swapped pertinent information and experiences with other organizations, and within a few minutes, the man was on his way with a box of food for the woman and her family.

I realized, as I sat there, that these men, aging and worn down a bit from decades upon decades of living, were angels... messengers for the Lord. They were not spending their "golden years" traveling the globe, or sitting on the beach, or even sitting on their front porches with the newspaper. They were feeding the poor. Literally. I couldn't begin to count the hours each week that these men dedicated to caring for those with less. I was humbled to be in their presence. I am humbled that they allow me to play even my small part in their work... humbled further that they are so grateful for my help every month.

Today, on the feast of St. Vincent de Paul, who himself worked tirelessly for the poor, I am pausing to praise God for all the unseen angels he places among us, to guide us, to show us how to love better, and to bring us ever closer to Him through His work. St. Vincent de Paul, pray for us... and, most especially, pray for the poor and those who serve the poor.

My Little Speed Czar

The other day, Princess asked BigBro to switch places in the minivan and BigBro refused. "I need to sit right here," he said, "so I can watch the speedometer."

While Princess accepted this explanation, I groaned inwardly. Uh oh. That little "incident" from last week? It wasn't going away on its own. I was going to have to deal with it.

Here's what happened: we stayed 10 minutes too long at the playground, and then everyone "had to have" a drink from the water fountain. By the time we were all buckled into our seats, I was feeling the stress, certain that we'd never get everything done in the time left in our afternoon.

I'm zipping down the street, going about 12 miles over the speed limit, anxiously checking the clock every thirty seconds. My mind is racing even faster. Can we get it all done? If I go this way, will I save us another minute? If I switch the order of my errands, will we still make it on time to our appointment?

My unrelenting inner monologue was rudely interrupted by the shocked voice of my firstborn. "Mom!" he scolded me. "You're driving ten miles faster than the speed limit! That's not safe!"

He's right. I know he's right. But we're late. Doesn't he get that? Why is he pointing out what I'm doing wrong when he's part of the reason we're running late?

In one of my lesser "mom" moments, I snap at him to be quiet, we're late darn it, and I keep on speeding down the road.

Later that night, after an afternoon in which we did actually get it all done, I thought that perhaps I needed to sit down with BigBro, apologize for snapping, and explain that I'd been wrong to speed that afternoon.

It was a good idea, but not the most appetizing, and so I put it off til the next day. And then, promptly forgot about it, until I overheard that conversation between my children in the van.

In confession on Monday night, with my conscience still pricked by BigBro's comment to Princess, I mentioned the triple-decker sin of unsafe driving, impatient snapping at my son, and setting a bad example. As Father and I discussed the incident, he spoke his assumption that I had already apologized to my son for my poor choices. When I admitted that I had, in fact, not followed through on that, he responded, "Well, that sounds like the perfect penance to me."

Which it was. Of course. There's nothing like the humility that a little accountability brings.

I'm reminded, again, that motherhood will push me (sometimes kicking and screaming) down this path toward holiness. I am not just raising children. I am laying down moral foundations, developing characters, and forming souls.

Every example I set, whether in speeding or in apologizing later for it, is watched, is learned, and may some day be followed.

Speed Czar or not, I'm thankful that I overheard that conversation in the van. It's made me more aware of the example I am setting these days... for a boy who will be sitting in the driving seat before I know it, for his siblings, and for myself.

Sackcloth and Ashes

Yesterday morning's reading was from Jonah, about the fast observed by the Ninevites in an attempt to stave off the wrath of God. And I can't help wondering....

I understand the forty-day fast. The Ninevites were big sinners, mired in sinfulness and selfishness. I get that they would do something dramatic to stop ... and, hopefully, change... their behaviors, to turn their hearts toward God.

What I don't really get, though, is the sackcloth and ashes. What is the point of sitting in a pile of ashes for about 6 weeks? Is it particularly uncomfortable? Particularly messy? Wouldn't it be better to spend that same time caring for the sick or the poor? Or reconciling with family and neighbors? Or in worship?

A quick Google search on the topic focuses on the humility expressed by the wearing of sackcloth and the sitting in (or dusting oneself with) ashes.

Humility.

One virtue that I desperately lack, and frequently ignore, is humility. Humility requires me to recognize how little I am, how ineffective, how not-in-charge. From this lens, I can see why I thought the sackcloth and ashes were a waste of time. I would prefer to "prove" my usefulness, my selflessness, my "holiness" even, through acts, rather than acknowledge that I am merely creature, not even close to being in charge.

Humility is uncomfortable; at least, it is for me.

I think about the sackcloth and ashes some more. What would the equivalent be today? Dressing in drab, shapeless clothes? Not washing my hair? Not dyeing my hair? (Now that would be a lesson in humility... having to face all those grays in the mirror!)

Perhaps I could set aside my own agenda. That's what the Ninevites did, right? They stopped all work for 40 days, to repent and fast. I can't do it exactly as they did. I can't stop all work and sit in a pile of dirt. My family needs food, clean clothes, an education, clean bathrooms. They need a wife and a mother.

But, what I can do is set aside my agenda. I can (try my best to) let go of my insatiable need to control every moment of our lives. I can take a deep breath and offer a prayer for humility when my agenda gets sidetracked by squabbling kids, by broken appliances, by crunched schedules, by missed appointments.

I can offer God my quashed frustrations, my swallowed scream, my bitten-back sarcasm as a sign of my repentance.

Patience can be my sackcloth. Kindness and gentleness my ashes.

And these forty days, I can turn my heart toward God once more.

My Place in the Imaginary Pecking Order

LilBro: "Mom, I'm not a kitty anymore. I'm a baby dragon now."

Me: "What do you like about being a baby dragon?"

LilBro: "Being with my Mommy Dragon."

Me (internal awww): "So, I'm a Mommy Dragon?"

LilBro: "No. Princess is the Mommy Dragon. BigBro is the Daddy Dragon."

Me: "Well, what does that make me?"

LilBro: "You're just a person."

It Just Figures...

that on the one morning I choose to sleep in, cuddling with DH, Princess and LilBro all tucked in our bed rather than bolting out of bed at 6:12 to make it to mass on time,

that on the one morning I am still hanging in my pj's, hair and teeth unbrushed,

that this would be the morning that Father would stop by at 8:35 am to drop off a basket of goodies he won at an auction for the kids.

Nothing like starting the day with a little dose of humility.

"I Bet Your Mom Can't Do That"

This week, BigBro is attending a Cub Scout fishing camp. Last night, he came home bursting with joy about the three fish he caught, but disappointed that his new rod wasn't working anymore. With promises to dig out the receipt and get a replacement today, I sent him off to a shower and bed.

This morning, I took the reel apart and examined it closer. I found a knotted tangle, and with some patience and experimentation, I was able to get the reel working once again. When I walked into the mudroom to keep it safe until camp, I saw BigBro's old rod abandoned in the corner. His Uncle had bought him that rod a few years ago, but it also had stopped working, and we'd never been able to figure out what was wrong. It wasn't an expensive rod, so it made more sense to replace it this summer

Armed with my new understanding of the internal workings of the reel, I decided I couldn't make it any worse. Fifteen minutes later, BigBro now has two working rods to take to camp tonight.

As I stored this rod next to the other in the mudroom, I overheard him telling his friend, "My mom fixed two fishing rods today. I bet your mom can't do that."

I glowed. Such praise... wow!

Friend quickly replied, "No, but my Dad could."

Ahhh... the little dose of humility my pride was needing.