Poetry Friday: When a poem gobsmacks

It's surprising sometimes, the way Poetry Friday just works. You think of a poet, and you're drawn to that person, their poem, that moment. And it's the perfect poem for that imperfect day. 

This morning, coming late to the Poetry Friday party, I thought, "What shall I throw into the mix? What about some Barbara Crooker? What about that one mentioning glorious things around us?" These are days when I find myself looking for glorious moments in the smallest of things. 

I found the poem and was gobsmacked. I'd completely forgotten that this poem swerves into mention of her mother, medically struggling day by day. I looked at the screen, blinked, looked left, then right, as if I'd see the source of this coincidence. I didn't see anything, but I feel it. All around us. 

Later today I'll go to the hospital where my mother, too, is having more bad days than good, where I, too, will look around and try, try fervently, to remember all that is glorious around us. 

All That Is Glorious Around Us

is not, for me, these grand vistas, sublime peaks, mist-filled
overlooks, towering clouds, but doing errands on a day
of driving rain, staying dry inside the silver skin of the car,
160,000 miles, still running just fine. Or later,
sitting in a café warmed by the steam
from white chicken chili, two cups of dark coffee,

....

(Read the rest of Barbara Crooker's poem here.) 

~~~~~~~~~~

Wonderful, talented Susan Thomsen is hosting the Poetry Friday round-up this week at Chicken Spaghetti. 

Bits and Pieces of Our Days: The Catch-up Edition

The last couple of weeks have been over-the-top busy, and this past week was jam-packed, featuring four consecutive days of four hours on the road each day. But this week will be less travel-laden, and, at the moment, I have a little time to reflect on what we've been doing around here when we're not on the road.


Besty graduated from college! 

The graduation ceremony was held outdoors, on a gorgeous day and we were glowing with pride over our Summa Cum Laude graduate. All would have been well if I had remembered the sunblock, but alas, I did not, and we were all glowing in a different way later (though "blazing" might be a more accurate word.) But the important thing is that Betsy is done and is in the midst of a job hunt. Whichever elementary school snatches her up will gain a treasure. 

Atticus Ran Another Half-Marathon! 

Here he is, crossing the finish line. Betsy and I were watching his time on the tracking app, and saw him hit 13.1 miles at 1:54:50, but his officially clocked "cross the finish line" time was an hour and 56 minutes. He felt pretty good about that time, and felt even better when he saw his cancer surgeon last week (just a follow-up, no worries!) and found out that he beat his surgeon's son's time. 

Endgame!

No spoilers, in case you care and/or haven't seen it yet, but Anne-with-an-e and I had fun creating this manicure for her. I think there's a nail for every Avenger, but I won't say which nails did or didn't survive. 

Gluten-free baking! 

Paleo bread, which was a bigger hit with me than it was with Betsy. Still on the hunt for a better recipe. 

Gluten-free chocolate cake (thank you, Pamela's Products!) and homemade, dairy-free frosting. What was the occasion? It was called, "Look! We can make a gluten-free, dairy-free chocolate cake that tastes delicious!" The other occasion was: 

My birthday! 

And now we are 59. 

Well, Gumby's actually 66, but Ramona chose him as the bearer of greetings that day. We have a ritual of taking turns hiding Gumby where the other will find him. It was her turn, so she enlisted his help in wishing me a happy birthday and it was indeed a happy one! 

This is fuzzy because we took it with my phone (bleh, not a great camera), and then I cropped it (bleh, further worsening the quality), but I'm thinking of chopping off all my hair. What say you? 

Our School Year is Almost Over! 

No more math with candlelight (it does help, a little) and just a bit more of Hamlet to read and discuss, and then ... we're done! A sweet, math-free summer awaits. We. Are. Ready. 

And Finally, Happy Day, Whether You are a Mother or Not....

It's Mother's Day, and if you're a mom, I celebrate you. If you act as a Second Mom/Beloved Aunt/All-Around Awesome Woman to someone in your life, I celebrate you. If you desperately want to be a mom, but it hasn't happened yet, I've been there, and I understand. If you've never wanted to be a mom, I've been there, too, and I understand. If you are a mom to children lost through early or late miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion, infant death, or at any stage in life, I grieve with you, and I understand. 

Let's all support one another on this day that celebrates mothers, even as we acknowledge that motherhood (and womanhood) has a million faces. 

Poetry Friday: Billy Collins Thanks My Mom For Me

Billy Collins, reading "The Lanyard": 

(Yeah. For me, it was a potholder.) 

Happy Mother's Day, Mom. 

~~~~~

The Ever Amazing Jama Rattigan is hosting the Poetry Friday roundup at Jama's Alphabet Soup. 

Poetry Friday: Nature Walk, by Gillian Wegener

Ah, this is a lovely poem. Gillian Wegener's "Nature Walk" conjures memories of nature walks with my girls -- part of our homeschool, part of our history, bits of our family lore. Some walks were laden with wonder, some were a push-me-pull-you of competing mindsets.

Nature Walk
by Gillian Wegener

The fern fronds glow with a clean, green light,
and I lift one and point out the spores, curled
like sleep on the back, the rows so straight,
so even, that I might be convinced of Providence
at this moment. My daughter is seven.

(Read the rest here, at The Writer's Almanac.)

~~~~~

Daughters do keep moving toward "whatever's beyond" but sometimes you still get to sneak in a nature walk with them. This is from ours, yesterday:

So many painted ladies! So much delight in watching them with my daughters. Laden with wonder. They flitted, they fluttered, they drank sweet nectar. And then they were gone. 

~~~~~

Matt Forrest Esenwine has the round up at Radio, Rhythm and Rhyme.

Bits and Pieces of Our Days

As Imperceptibly as Grief, the Summer Lapsed Away....

~~ Emily Dickinson 

No one can nail it quite like my girl Emily. 

~~~~~

I didn't mean to let the last few weeks slip by without writing. It just sort of happened, in the midst of a crazy late-July/early August. Some of the craziness had us dealing with some hard stuff (I don't mean to vague-blog...I'm sure I'll be able to say more soon), and some of it was just the busy-ness of life.

Atticus, for example, is already back at work. He started on August 9th. And, as happens every year, I'm scrambling to remember what it's like to think about making dinner every night. Can't remember where on Facebook I saw this, but it is the perfect new header for my "What's for Dinner?" chalkboard:

Pros and Cons of Making Food 

Pros: Food 

Cons: Making it 

~~~~~

This is one of our baby swallows. They nest on our back porch every year, and this year we were privy to every step of the fledglings leaving the nest. The girls and I were enchanted. 

~~~~~

I think Ramona should be a picture book illustrator. Here's her rendering of Ten and Rose. 

~~~~~

I love having a daughter who loves to bake. 

~~~~~

One of the highlights of every  month for Ramona: a new ScrawlrBox. Worth every penny for my teen artist. 

~~~~~

This cup? 

When my girls were little, it sported a Cookie Monster design. Over the years and through thousands of washings the design faded (as imperceptibly as grief, Cookie Monster lapsed away.) 

The cup has remained in the cupboard but this week it's going with Betsy to her first apartment.

Serve her well, Cookie Monster cup. We'll miss you. 

What Am I Using?

Sometimes in conversations with stay-at-home, homeschooling moms the topic of education comes up. Not our children's, but our educations. And not suspicious, raised-eyebrow inquiries of the, "Are you qualified to teach your children?" variety, but rather those of the "What are you doing with your life?" stripe.

Someone once said to a friend of mine, "You have all this education and you're not using it. It's going to waste."

Ahem.

I have a couple of things to say about that.

Nothing gets under my skin more than the assumption that a mother who is at home with her children is wasting her education. (Well, okay, there are more irksome skin-burrowing issues in the world, I'll grant you that, but this ranks right up there.)

There are a few situations where the assumption may be true. If Mom is lying comatose on the couch in the living room then, yes, we can safely say she isn't putting that Brit Lit class to use, at least not at the moment, but we can't really blame her, eh? Or, if she leaves her little urchins home alone every day so that she can play keno at the local sports bar, then, yeah -- probably not taking full advantage of the many hours she spent in lecture halls. But if Educated Mom gets up every day and after pouring a cup of coffee pours herself into mothering and homeschooling -- jobs which can be plenty thankless some days, thank you very much -- I think we must assume she is using everything she's got. That should include the assumption that her education is valuable in a home where small, barbaric human beings must be tamed, civilized, and taught cursive writing. And don't even get me started on the psychological nuance and skill that must be employed when puberty hits. (That alone is worth a couple of PhDs.) Homeschooling high school? Not for the faint of heart.

Of course, the first thing that springs to mind is what G.K. Chesterton said in What's Wrong With the World: 

How can it be a large career to tell other people’s children about the Rule of Three, and a small career to tell one’s own children about the universe? How can it be broad to be the same thing to everyone, and narrow to be everything to someone? No; a woman’s function is laborious, but because it is gigantic, not because it is minute. I will pity Mrs. Jones for the hugeness of her task; I will never pity her for its smallness. 

There are actually a couple of different things going on with the, "wasting" comments, so we should separate them. First, there's the assumption that being with children all day long is objectively a waste of time and brainpower. Second, there's the idea that throwing a wide net and reaching people outside of our families is far more important than a deliberate gathering-in of those within the walls of our home.

With the first assumption, I have little patience. I can't think of an assumption that devalues children more. Being with babies (then small children, then older children, then teenagers, and...you get the picture) all day can be a great many things, but it has never been a waste of my time or brainpower. Mothering has forced me to become a stronger, more creative, more persevering woman than I have ever been in my life. Thank you, motherhood. You have done what you were created to do.

With the second idea -- that reaching outside the scope of one's home is more important than focusing on what's under my own roof -- I again have little patience and will simply refer you back to Gilbert Keith. Thank you, Mr. Chesterton. I always liked you.

So we return to the question: Has it been a waste? Have I used my education over these many years? Has Atticus used his? I would argue that yes, we have both put our educations to good use, albeit in very different ways. Nothing that led me to the moment when I held my first daughter and realized, with giddiness and horror that Atticus and I were totally responsible for her, was wasted. Not my God-free childhood, nor my college years as a theater major-turned English major-turned dabbler-in-philosophy, nor my conversion, nor my short stint at a particularly challenging time in my life as a Merry Maid. None of it. It all combined and conspired to make me the mother I became, the mother I am still evolving into.

The world will pull us in a thousand directions, and so we must discern shrewdly. There are seasons and years when using one's education predominantly outside the home is right, good, or even best for our families. But putting an education to use in the wider world is not ipso facto the superior choice, it's just more visible. Just as important are the lively interactions and the child-rearing and the education that happens every day in so many homes, hidden though those worlds may be.

Blood is hidden, too. So is a powerful, beating heart. But without them? We would wither and die.

What am I using?

Every hidden thing that I am.

~~~~~

(Photo credit: FreeImages.com)

Danielle Bean and I Talk Triumphs, Mistakes, and the Patron Saint of Coffee

Danielle Bean has a new podcast! And I got to be a part of it!

I'm excited for her, excited for you to listen, and I was excited for me because Danielle's a lot of fun to talk to. The only downside was that we had to stop talking and get on with our days. (I could have kept her on the phone for hours.)

Danielle now has several episodes of "Girlfriends" available. The fourth and latest is called, "Yell Less, Love More," in which she, as always, offers practical advice and a dose of inspiration for moms. In the last 15-20 min of the podcast, I joined her and we chatted about life, motherhood, work, and having the courage to risk failure. I also did her "Lightning Round" of questions, in which I talked about locking myself in my bedroom to write.

Go here to listen to Episode #4 on Danielle's blog, or here to find it on iTunes.

And don't forget to check out the other episodes of Girlfriends: 

What 'Doing It All' Really Means with Jennifer Willits 

3 Do-able Health Goals for 2016 with Teresa Tomeo

 Overcome Jealousy & Competition with Lisa Hendey

Head over there today and be inspired by the woman who wants to help you "know your worth and find your joy"!

Why I Don't Miss Our Old Advents

When I first started blogging, my daughters were 3, 9, and 12, so when I wrote about Advent (as I did in the No-Panic Advent series), I was writing about creating traditions with children. Ten years later, I don't have young children. Two college students and a teenager live at my house.

Advent has changed.

We no longer do the things that were designed to help little ones step outside themselves as they quiver and count down the days to Christmas. Things like daily thank-you notes deposited in the Jesus stocking, or pieces of yarn (for every corporal or spiritual work of mercy) dropped in a manger, to make it soft for Baby Jesus. No one wants to dress up as St. Lucia on her feast day anymore (although, of course we still make that heavenly bread) and there are no fights over who will light the candles on the Advent wreath.

We still have a Jesse Tree, and Atticus still reads accompanying stories aloud to us on the nights when we have dinner together, but schedules are busy, and we inevitably miss days. I don't go back to pick up missed readings anymore. Everyone knows the major stories, the Scriptures that tell the story of salvation history. The Jesse Tree did its job all those years.

Some things, of course, will never change. Chocolate and Advent calendars will always be here, and none of us will ever be too old for our favorite Advent books. But these days, we also talk about who's read the latest installment of Bishop Barron's Advent reflections, about what kind of Advent resolution we've made, about going to confession. The other day we discussed the way Advent Scripture readings focus on the last things, and about whether or not that scares us or reassures us.

Advent with grown (and practically grown) children is Advent with a different flavor.

Advent, a season of watching and waiting -- the season of hope, as a priest in the confessional reminded me in the advent of Advent -- is about pondering what Mary thought and felt as she anticipated the birth of the Christ Child, pondering who Jesus Christ is, and why He came to us.

I've pondered my way through many Advents since I became a Catholic. With the Blessed Mother, I have wondered. I've thought about why God chose me to mother these particular children, and I've asked Him at times whether I am up to the tasks He's assigned me. I've thought about the ways Christ has come to me in the past, the ways He has promised to come to me in the future, the way He always comes.

I'm so grateful for Advent, for the genius of a liturgical cycle that forces me to slow down, think, pray.

Watching my daughters grow into young women who love this time of year, who love God and have claimed their faith as their own, and look forward to creating beautiful Advent celebrations with their own children someday, has confirmed something for me:

I don't miss "our old Advents" because they are still with us. Every Advent we've observed and celebrated is a part of us. All those years of Jesse Trees, Jesus stockings, and yarn in a manger -- the slapdash, stressful years, and the carefully crafted, calmly carried out ones -- shaped us. The Advents of our past gave birth to the Advent we are having right now, this year, this moment.

This season of hope.

God finds new ways every year to help me see that He is nothing but Hope. And that's why I can't miss the Advents of our past. Because Christ -- O come, Emmanuel! -- is always making things new.

Remembering My Lost Babies

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Month and I'm thinking about the babies Atticus and I lost through miscarriage.

Five losses, and each one shook my foundation ... it never got easier. Miscarriage isn't something one improves on with practice. I was devastated every time, crumpled every time, had to pull myself up and be pulled up every time. Who and what pulled me up? Grace, of course, yes. Prayer. A God who would let me scream at Him, then collapse in His arms, weeping, asking for comfort and for the grace to start over, to try again. My husband, of course, yes. He was devastated, too, but he was also somehow my rock.

And so many good friends. Friends who pulled me up, sustained me, helped me heal. Loving, supportive women, bearers of light and love.

The memories of things that weren't helpful are dimmer, thankfully. Everyone means well, and I always knew that, but we all hear our share of the unhelpful stuff, too, don't we? Words that hurt or seem to blame or that lack all understanding. Part of an imperfect world. I have said my share of stupid and insensitive things over the years, and I can only hope that those on the receiving end of my mistakes forgive me.

If I could offer just a few words about the main things that really helped me heal, and the things that really didn't, I'd say this:

What didn't help: 

1. "It was God's will."

Of course it was, in its way. Everything that happens is either because of God's active will (He made it happen) or His passive will (He allowed it to happen, allowed the problems of a fallen world to unfold.) But in the immediate aftermath of the death of my child, I didn't want to hear that God had chosen this for me. Maybe He did, maybe He didn't -- but I was in a state of shock and grief; I needed to absorb the pain before I could do anything else. Over time, I would slowly come to accept the ways in which God can work all things for my good, but in the first moments, the first hours, the first days, it was too hard. I just needed to cry.

2. "You'll have another baby."

That may or may not have been true. It felt presumptuous to me when people said that. No one really knew, after any of my five losses, whether I'd be able to have another baby in the future. And -- this is the most important part -- even if one could see perfectly into the future and tell me with complete certainty that there was another baby a year, or two, or five years down the road, what mattered most in the moments following my loss was this: no other baby is this baby.

No other baby is this baby. If Atticus died, no one would say, "You'll find another husband." Lost babies are not forgotten objects, easily replaced. Yes, I knew that if I had another baby down the road, I would love it, cherish it. But right now? I wanted this baby, this unique human being, at this moment in history. No other baby would ever be that baby.

3. "At least it happened early, before you really got attached."

I loved my babies fiercely from the moment I knew I was carrying them. Even before that moment, really. I loved the idea of them, the hope for them, the beauty of them, the knowledge that they were the embodiment of the love Atticus and I have for each other. Whether a miscarriage happens on the day of the pregnancy test, or at nine weeks, or at three months, or later, it's hard. Heartbreaking. Awful and confusing.

I was no less attached to my babies when I'd carried them two days than when I'd carried them for nine months. We can't quantify the level of grief a mother should feel based on how old her child was. (As pro-life people, we don't want to go down that road, right? Human beings are not worthwhile by degrees -- human beings are worthwhile, period.) My baby was a baby. I was attached.

On the flip side of the difficult things people said were the things that helped tremendously:

1. "I'm so sorry. I'm praying for you. I love you."

Simple, perfect words. Thank you for saying them. Hugs were welcome, too, as was understanding when I started crying unexpectedly or in public.

2. Listening

Friends who simply let me talk (endlessly, sometimes) about my babies were a treasured gift. Listening to my stories as I sifted through my grief, handing me another Kleenex, asking about my babies' names, listening to my fears and my future plans (or lack of them).... This kind of acknowledgement -- that I had experienced a loss worth grieving -- was so healing. It helped me feel sane and whole again.

3. A Concrete Gesture

Just a card or a note meant so much, even an email (I printed out and saved many of those.) There are so few physical keepsakes of a baby after a miscarriage -- a loving message becomes one of them. I treasured every one I received. My sister gave me a potted mum, something beautiful and alive and growing, an ongoing remembrance. Other friends nurtured my soul through the body: One friend brought an enormous meal, complete with chocolate cake. Another friend brought a bottle of wine. A new friend (someone I hadn't planned to tell, but I spilled after tearing up as we chatted about something else) dropped off a basket of teas and cookies. I didn't expect any of these things, but every one of them touched me deeply.

~~~~~

I remember my babies every day, especially when I ask them to pray for me. Anyone who's ever lost a child knows that we don't need a month officially set aside to remember our children, but the fact that there is one is a beautiful thing. Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Month says, "This was real. This was terrible. I'm so sorry." It says, "You're not alone." 

And as terrible as every loss was, I can honestly say now that I'm grateful for everything I've been through. The children I lost were -- just as my husband and my friends were -- bearers of light and love to me. My babies taught me, and continue to teach me, about surrender, sacrifice, and hope. Each of them taught me a different lesson. They have changed me forever. 

And my lost children, who are not lost to the Lord, are every bit as much a part of our family as Anne-with-an-e, Betsy, and Ramona are. I have a whole family in heaven that I -- God willing -- will see one day. I know they're praying for me. I feel it. They want me to keep slogging through, with the goal of meeting them face to face. And on that day, when I meet God and my children, I will know in fullness and for eternity the thing I cling to in this life, the thing that makes everything else make sense: He is the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of God, and He will wipe away every tear. 

~~~~~

(Photo courtesy of FreeImages.com.)

Do I Stay or Do I Go?

This is from the archives, and was originally published by Faith & Family several years ago, but I think the topic is always worth revisiting. It's about listening to God's scheduling memos: When to volunteer? When to pull back? It's an ever-changing push-me-pull-you, but I find that when I pay close attention to the memos, the message is usually clear.

I'm reprinting the article in its entirety below, and you can go to this archived link to see the original and comments.

~~~~~

Memo From God 

“But that’s my birthday!” my daughter protested. “How can you go on my birthday?”

My husband and I taught baptism classes in our parish, and I’d signed us up for June, oblivious to a date that should have been uppermost in my mind: the day my second daughter would turn 13.

“Ummm,” I fumbled, “well, you know we never seem to do parties on the actual day. We already talked about having the slumber party Friday night, didn’t we?”

She murmured assent and slumped away, carrying on her shoulders the weight of a forgetful, busy mother who (even with a constantly consulted day planner) had failed her.

It’s true that we’ve always been flexible with birthday party plans. Really. But, we still make a big deal of the day, party day or not, so I felt terrible. And guilty.

Prayerful Discernment
I’d been praying about the classes, and whether to continue or not. We share the teaching load with several other couples, and Tom and I are called on only a few times a year. But, in the last couple of years, whenever our turn popped up, we encountered a conflict with our kids’ schedules. Still, I told myself, stick with it. Surely such a minimal time commitment isn’t a big deal. But somehow I couldn’t avoid feeling nudged to give up this particular commitment.

And now, here was yet another conflict. I’d asked God for confirmation about my gut feeling and it seemed to have arrived. We stepped down from the teaching team.

Focus on Vocation
This isn’t the first time I’ve needed to pull back from a commitment or a committee, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. My primary commitment—to being an at-home, homeschooling mom—means that Tom and I must regularly tweak our schedules to keep them in harmony with our family’s goals.

That doesn’t mean we won’t volunteer again. But it does mean that we do it with a discerning eye. We step up to the plate when we feel clearly called to, but we’re equally willing to pull back when we see the need. It’s all part of adapting to the ever-changing circumstances of our growing family.

When we began teaching the baptism classes, our children were young and the parish offered babysitting each week (for both teachers and attendees.) We took the kids with us and emphasized to them that helping with the program was our family’s way of serving the parish together. But, as the kids grew, and their schedules changed, we began to wonder if this particular form of service was still right for us.

Continual Reassessment
In the past, we’ve made similar adjustments. Shortly after I was received into the Catholic Church, I joined our parish RCIA team. At the time we had only one child, and I actually loved getting out of the house once a week. Yes, I was giving my time, but it felt more as if I were receiving—I loved the riches of teaching, spending time with other committed Catholics (my husband was not yet Catholic), and offering support to those on journeys of conversion.

So, although RCIA was an intense time commitment, it didn’t feel like one in that season of our lives. It worked for us, and worked well until sometime after we had two children, with a third on the way. At that point, the demands of RCIA began to clash with my family and our homeschooling life, and it was time to step away.

And so it goes with every consideration of my time. As I live out this vocation of motherhood, I find I must frequently reassess how everything fits into that, rather than shoehorning my family into something I want to do, however good the “something” may be.

Sometimes I fail—I become the forgetful, busy mother who has disappointed her almost-thirteen-year-old. When that happens, it’s time to pray. I ask for some heavenly scheduling help, and then I read God’s memos and tweak accordingly.

He’s even better than a planner.

Becoming

Recently, I was talking with another mom about children -- about almost-adult children, children who are on the brink of independence but not fully ready for it, children who are no longer children, really, but who will always be our children.

Our children don't always know, from graduation day* forward, exactly what they are meant to do, or to be. The world acts as if they should know ("I will graduate from high school, go to the college of my choice, then go to work as a ___________.") But most of them don't know. When I look back at what most of my friends in high school and college, including me, thought we would do with our lives, I realize that we didn't have a clue.

Moving forward, one shaky step at a time and trusting that all will be well is a lesson I've learned and relearned over many years. And it's a lesson I've tried to pass on to my daughters (though, like most lessons, it's also one they'll have to learn for themselves.) I had no idea, when I was a teen or a young adult, that I'd end up where I am.

When I was a young atheist, working in the world of business (does that sound like the title of a bad sitcom? "Young Atheists in Business!") I already knew that God liked dashing plans. I didn't call Him "God" back then. I called Him "fate" or "destiny" or "the forces at work in the universe" or "luck" or "karma" or "my crummy life."

I'd never planned to work in the business world and yet that's where I'd ended up. I hadn't planned to go to college, either, until my senior year of high school, but since I didn't know what else to do, and I wanted to be an actress, I decided to major in theater. Then I added an English major and a philosophy minor. I maintained a healthy distance from the business department (no offense to you, Business People, it just wasn't my thing.)

So, how did a Theater-English-Philosophy person end up donning matchy-matchy suits, getting a "Manager" title, traveling to Manhattan to visit clients, all the while feeling that she was an imposter who was good at playing dress-up?

Umm, I had to eat. And pay bills. And the acting jobs in Omaha, Nebraska weren't exactly rolling in. Neither were the novel-writing or philosophizing jobs. The fact that I preferred not to starve forced me to take the first job that came along. And because I had nothing better to do than work hard (and my obsessive-compulsive tendencies made me ultra-organized in the workplace), I got promoted and ended up on those business trips, marveling at things like seeing the Waldorf-Astoria from the inside.

While I was working and getting promoted and going on business trips, one day I was asked by a colleague, "What's your five-year plan?"

I almost spat coffee all over my desk because the question sent me into a fit of laughter.

"My five-year plan?" I asked, recovering from the near-choking. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, "where do you see yourself in five years? Do you plan on working on an MBA? Do you still want to be here?"

Still laughing, I said, "I don't even know where I see myself next week. I certainly didn't plan to be doing this with my life. I can't imagine knowing where I'll be five years from now." And, because I regularly quoted lines from Casablanca, I added, "I never make plans that far ahead."

In a way, I still live by Rick Blaine's philosophy. When my colleague asked me where I'd be in five years, I would never have guessed that the answer would be, "In a small town, living the life of a newly baptized Christian." Or, that five years after that, my answer would be, "I'm Catholic."

Five years after that? "I'm homeschooling now. And -- oh, get this! -- my husband is now Catholic, too."

Nope. Wouldn't have guessed a bit of that.

I can make all the plans my organized heart desires, but God (as I now call Him) can force me into flexibility at a moment's notice.

St. Therese of Lisieux wanted to be a missionary, evangelizing the whole world. Instead, she was given a short, hidden life, full of mundane little tasks in the convent, tasks she learned to do with great love. And now, this Doctor of the Church is evangelizing the whole world through her intercession from heaven. It wasn't the way she planned it, though, was it?

We don't have a clue, do we? God is too big, too cunning, too crafty for us to outguess Him, dodge Him, or stay one step ahead of Him. Oh, sure, occasionally He lets us coast, thinking we're in control, but it's usually a set-up, because suddenly - bam! "Never saw that one coming."

Motherhood was like that for me. I didn't predict it, plan on how it would make me feel, and I certainly didn't know that I would one day say, "This is what I was meant to do."

Sometimes I picture God the Father nudging Jesus and the Holy Spirit, and saying, "Look! Aren't they cute, those little people We made? They try so hard to use all the faculties We gave them. Well, bless their unsuspecting little hearts. And prudence! Hey, they're actually trying to put it to use. Now, that's something a Father can be proud of. Huh. Sure will be hard to crush them when this plan falls apart [much nodding of Divine Heads at this] but, oh, well ... A God's gotta do what a God's gotta do, eh?"

And then, the Trinity often shares a good laugh at my expense, and turns me into things like a Catholic, a mother....

But, that's okay. That divine laugh usually shakes me to the core and then somehow rebuilds me from the inside out. Because that's what God is all about. Making me new.

"Behold, I make all things new." ~~ Revelation 21:5

And that includes my plans.

So, what's my latest five year plan?

To just keep letting God to make me new. Because I like surprises.

~~~~~

*I always feel bad for high school graduates. Everyone is asking, "So what's next? What are your plans? What do you want to do/be/become?" And most of them, if they were honest, would like to scream in response, "I have no idea what I'm doing! Leave me alone until the future reveals itself!" Hang in there, graduates. Get used to surprises.

Purified, Tear by Tear (for the Feast of Candlemas)

(from the archives):

The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, Rembrandt van Rijn

Today is the Feast of Candlemas ... the Purification of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Presentation of Christ in the Temple.

This feast day is rich and full of meaning -- so dear to me, and to the hearts of other women who have lost children. There are many ways in which they have been lost: through miscarriage ... stillbirth ... failed adoption attempts ... infertility. Those who have had our souls pierced by such a sword cannot read the Scripture passage on which this feast is based without feeling the sharp pain of the blade again.

And thy own soul a sword shall pierce

Other mothers have shared the connections they've made between the loss of their children, and Mary's obedient offering of Jesus in the temple and later at the foot of the Cross. I share their nods of recognition, their tears of recollection, their sorrow.

And I've always been struck by the fact that this day is both Mary's presentation of her Son and her purification, for it has been through the presentation of my own children to the Lord that I have been purified, bit by bit, tear by tear, and sorrow by sorrow:

When I had my first miscarriage, I asked the Lord, "Why?"

He whispered in my heart, "I won't tell you 'why' ... but I know what you feel."

And I was purified, knowing that He's with me in every emotion, and every circumstance, in a very real and personal way.

When I miscarried again, I asked the Lord, "Will we ever be allowed to have a baby?" and He whispered, in the depths of my pierced heart, that I must walk in darkness for a time.

And I was purified, knowing that I will not always understand His ways, but that His plans are for my good.

When we followed His promptings to try again, and then miscarried a third time, I asked the Lord, "How can I trust again? I was so wrong." He whispered to my confused and grieving heart that I was not wrong ... He had called us to conceive again, and now He was calling me to surrender to His wisdom at taking this child so soon.

And I was purified, knowing that I could trust His promptings, even when they did not end as I had thought or hoped they would.

When next I miscarried, I wept to the Lord, and said, "I am so sad ... and yet I know You will use this suffering. Please accept it, Lord. I give you my child and I beg her intercession for her father's sake."

And I was purified, knowing that He would allow my children in heaven to pray for their father's conversion.

When I miscarried again, I whispered to the Lord, "Oh, how I had hoped it would be different this time ... I so hoped for life instead of death." He held me close and whispered to my bruised and battered heart that my baby did have life, the Life we all long for and hope to share one day. And in this way, He used the short life and death of my child to heal me of an old and terrible wound.

And I was purified, knowing that He is the Lord of all creation, the Lord of my life, the God who saves and heals me, the Christ.

My Christ, my Savior.

And I gave thanks.

Mary's fiat -- her "yes" to bearing the Child -- was both an openness to life and an openness to death.

And that is what God asks of us. To be open to life is to be open to its loss, open to suffering. And yet, what choice do we have but to say, "Yes. Let it be done to me according to Thy word"? It's the only way that I know to answer the One I love so much.

And it is through our fiats that He will purify us. He is purifying me still, daily. Hourly, sometimes, it seems. Through sorrow? Yes. Through the sword? Yes.

But also through the resurrections. Because, though there is sorrow, there will always be a Resurrection, and there is joy awaiting us.

Mary saw her Son again. And we will see our children. Mary's Son -- and all our sons and daughters -- are waiting for us. As St. John Paul II said :

"You will come to understand that nothing is definitively lost .... "

And so we wait, we yearn. And we are purified, a little more. And then a few steps more.

Our presentations give us glimpses into the depths of the Divine, even -- especially -- the presentations that hurt. We will weep in the nighttime of this life, but there will be joy in the morning.

Because, as Simeon said in the temple, knowing that he had seen the face of God:

Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace,
according to your word, for my eyes have seen your salvation,
which you prepared in sight of all the peoples,
a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.

Poetry Friday: Called (aka, waking in the night with a child....)

This is a lovely little poem about rising in the night to answer the call of a child, and it reminded me of the one I wrote on the same idea, "Thirteen Ways of Looking At an Interruption."

May you not hear a distress call tonight, may your home be filled with peaceful slumber this weekend, and if you do hear that call, may you answer it with math, grace, and whatever else helps.


Called 
by Lisa Gluskin Stonestreet

and I go

down into it, the hall again
(streetlights, blinds)

all the same all the dark

down into it and do what must be done

(Read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~

Cathy Mere has the round up at Merely Day By Day.

A Favorite Old Picture from (in a way) the Early Homeschooling Days

This was our backyard (I miss that yard!) two dwellings ago.

Anne-with-an-e (in the Cinderella gown) was about four and a half, and Betsy was almost two.

Although this was before our homeschooling days actually began, this picture (I love this picture) captures the essence of homeschooling in the early years -- what I wanted it to be, what I strove for, what it was at its best.

Whovian Quote of the Day

Kahler-Jex: You’re a mother, aren’t you?

Amy: How did you know?

Kahler-Jex: There’s kindness in your eyes. And sadness. And ferocity, too.

A Review: Momnipotent

Just reviewed Danielle Bean's newest, Momnipotent, over at Amazon. Here's what I said: 

Danielle Bean speaks to the hearts and souls of so many women. We know we're not perfect, and Danielle cheerfully acknowledges that she isn't either. That's what makes her such an appealing messenger. We all have an "I was a mean, scary-face mommy that day" story and when she recounts hers, we can laugh, tear up, nod. Conversely, when she shares the things about motherhood that are stunning and amazing, when she points us toward ideals and ways to strive toward them (with reason, balance, and charity always) we nod again, and are grateful.

"It is not good for man to be alone," God said in Genesis. It's not good for moms to be alone either. In these pages, you'll be reminded that you are not flying solo.

I particularly enjoyed the way she opened each chapter with both a strength and a counterpoint -- the weakness that can result from a rigid pursuit or practice of that strength.

Real, funny, touching and encouraging.

Teaching From Rest: A Quick Review That Basically Tells You to Go Read It

Image: Amongst Lovely Things

Sarah Mackenzie's new book, Teaching From Rest: A Homeschooler's Guide to Unshakable Peace is a truly lovely book.

I just finished reading it, and ... wow. Sarah discusses and advocates so much of what I have long believed about homeschooling, relationships, schedules, curriculum, how children learn, what God calls us to, and the vital importance of always placing our relationships --  with God and our children -- at the forefront of everything we do.

As a mom who has graduated two daughters from our homeschool (with one yet to go -- Ramona just turned 12! I have only six years left with her!) I can say with confidence that living the kind of homeschooling -- the kind of resting in God -- that Sarah discusses has paid off enormously in our home.

I have always asked myself two questions over the years of our homeschooling:

Am I putting God first here, by trusting Him with every moment?
Am I giving my children what they really need in this moment?

Teaching from a place of rest has been a beautiful and rewarding experience for me and (I hope I can speak for them, too) my children. I treasure the relationship I have with my daughters, who are now 20, 18, and 12 years old. I have never tried to be their friend at the expense of being their parent, but I can honestly say that by deliberately cultivating our relationship over the years, we have become amazing friends, and our girls have received (we hope) a great education on the way.

Teaching from Rest is an encouraging, humble, honest, and gentle book.

It is a gem. I hope you find rest in it.

Poetry Friday: Battling Against the Brilliance

I'm sitting here a little teary-eyed, for a few reasons, as I think about Richard Wilbur's "The Writer."

Because he's just that good.

Because I have raised young women who write.

Because Betsy is graduating and growing up and away.

And because when Betsy has flown, I will remember my writer, enclosed in the world of her keyboard and screen, as she so often was -- jaw set, fingers flying -- pounding out her dreams, making them real and strong.

The Writer
by Richard Wilbur

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.
...

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
...

We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop like a glove
....

(Promise me you will go read the whole poem here, at Poets.org.)

~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth Steinglass has the Poetry Friday round up today. 

~~~~~~~~~~

P.S. Today is the last day to enter to win one of five copies of Deathbed Conversions. Just go to this link for details about the contest, the sale on the book at OSV, and to leave a comment to enter. The contest ends tonight at midnight (CDT). 

Talking With a Friend About Kids and the Culture

~~~~~

Spoiler Warning: 

If you haven't seen Frozen -- and I do not want to spoil it for you -- you may want to come back to this post at a later date. 

~~~~~

Another mom and I were recently emailing about all the influences on children that seem beyond our control. What's good for them? What's bad? What must be limited? What needn't be limited? How can we guide our kids through pop culture and help them become critical thinkers?

My daughters and I saw (and loved) Frozen, a movie that was part of my recent discussion with this mom. Other Mom and I were talking about how obsessed young children get with these movies, and she was wondering what effect certain things have on kids. For example, when a little girl hears Elsa sing,

No right, no wrong

no rules for me

I’m free

... does she take it to heart? Will she, too, think that being true to herself means slinking into a dress with a thigh-high slit and adding a little more wiggle to her walk? Or, will said little girl just be thinking, "Sparkles! Pretty! I want to build an ice castle, too!"

How much do kids internalize messages that are belted out by a beloved character? Can children sift through the chaff to get to the wheat? Do they know wheat from chaff, or is it all just glitter and a great hairdo to them?

With my friend's permission, here's what I wrote to her. This is a reconstruction of two emails and a short in-person discussion. I haven't polished it up, and I changed things only where a transition, etc., didn't make sense. And, wow, I use a lot of smileys when I email....  :) :)

Yes, I do know exactly what you mean, and you are doing the right thing. You are forming her as we speak, by navigating her through this process. The very fact that you are correcting things, pointing things out, giving her things to think about (even though her little five-year-old brain can't yet grasp all the implications)...you are forming her every minute. My girls used to get obsessed with the worst Disney role models -- of course they loved Ariel, who disobeys her father and acts like a spoiled brat and still gets everything she wants in the end. (Editor's note: And of course we still sang "Part of Your World" at the top of our lungs. And, you know what, sometimes disobedience based on conscience is called for. Was Ariel's dad being a bigot? That's worth talking about, isn't it?)  

So, yes, I think it's good that you worry a little, because that means you're viewing critically, and you're teaching your kids to view critically. Just remind yourself that it's a lifelong process -- we keep talking, talking, talking to them, helping them sort through everything our culture throws at them. Nagging them, really.  :) I guess I decided a long time ago that there were two choices -- shelter them from all of it, or guide the exposure, and let that guidance take the form of loads of discussion. But there's never just one discussion that settles it once and for all. Not only is it "never just one discussion" but it's not even just one discussion about one movie -- there are always multiple discussions about a particular movie, a character's choices, etc. And sometimes it wasn't even so much a back-and-forth discussion -- it was me pointing out things that the kids could (and probably did) overlook, helping them not to take a movie's secular message to heart, casting those things in the light of faith, helping the kids to think in those terms, you know? Even as young as four, five, six, etc. I used to, VERY often, say things like, "Well, in real life we wouldn't want to ... (fill in the blank), but he/she/it doesn't understand what it's like to be Catholic does he/she/it?" :)  Or, "In real life, we wouldn't want to show that much skin, but you're right, that's a very pretty dress that princess is wearing." :)

You know what I mean. We'll be fighting this fight our whole life, because our faith is counter-cultural, but I have found that it works out (at least so far) to do the "guided exposure" thing. Because there is so often some real beauty mixed in with messages that leave God out. I think it's important to point out that the beautiful parts do come from God and Truth, even if the person sending the message (composer, writer, singer, screenwriter, novelist, whatever) doesn't acknowledge God.

Keep doing what you're doing. It will pay off, I'm sure. You're a great model of faith for them, and you're a great mom.

And let's face it -- there's something powerful about that song. Let It Go appeals to the desire in all of us to fully be what we're called to be. But what we're called to be is open to a lot of interpretation. 

When you look at the whole of the movie, the very thing Elsa is celebrating in that song is actually the thing that's also destroying her kingdom, and she has to give up the isolation she's embracing in Let It Go in order to save others. The final message of the movie, too, has to do with sacrificing one's self as an act of true love. So overall I found it to be a very good movie --  flawed in some ways, as most things are, but good.*

I still say things to Ramona like, "Wait, Elsa just said there's no right and no wrong!" and she responds, "I know, Mom, I know. It's just a song." :)

Musicals do that to us -- they sweep us away. I guess I feel like that's part of the lesson, too, for my kids (and for me.) That just because something sweeps us away doesn't mean we interpret it to be all good, or the perfect message, etc. 

When Ramona and I talked more about Frozen, I asked her what she thought of the line, "Conceal, don't feel, don't let them know...." and she said, "Well, the trolls tell Elsa that she needs to learn to control her power, and her parents just tried to make her hide it and pretend it's not there. It's never good to keep secrets from people you love, so I think it's another case of bad Disney parenting." (Editor's note: I love that kid.) 

I think it's way better to worry a bit and address it and deal with it than it is to blindly accept everything the culture throws at us, as many people do. On the other hand, many people swing too far to the other end of the spectrum. Why does it have to be either, "Ban it all! Don't watch! Don't look!" or "It's just a movie! Lighten up! Nothing to talk about here!"

As is usually the case, for me anyway, the truest path lies somewhere in between, in the balance. 

Love,

Karen

~~~~~~~~~~

*I didn't mention this to my friend, but I absolutely loved the idea of turning the "love at first sight" thing on its head. I loved Kristof the moment he said to Anna, "Hang on, you mean to tell me you got engaged to someone you just met that day?" Oh, yeah. I shipped it then and there, and knew there was going to be something terribly wrong with Hans. And who doesn't love a snowman who is ready to melt for you? 

Five Things God Has Done For Me

Say to God, “How tremendous are your deeds!” ~~ Psalm 66:3

Our pastor's homily yesterday got me thinking -- yet again, because I think about it pretty much every day -- about all the things God has done for me. They are stunning and humbling things. He's kind of amazing that way.

God, that is. Though my pastor's pretty great, too.

Here are just a few of those things:

1. He gave me a beautiful marriage.
When I look back to the days when I thought I would never, ever want to get married, I am so grateful that God knew better than I did. I didn't have a clue about what a marriage could be, should be, or would be, but God went ahead and gave me a loyal, patient, devoted, loving, incredible man to be my husband. I didn't deserve Atticus, but I'm unspeakably happy I got him. Thank you, God.

2. He gave me motherhood.
When I look back on the days when I thought I'd never, ever want to be a mother, I'm gobsmacked by what I didn't know. I didn't know that my children would be some of the most amazing, enjoyable, fun, interesting, lovable people who ever walked the earth. (No, that's not just a mother talking! What's wrong with you?! I am completely objective!) I didn't deserve my children, but I'm endlessly grateful for the gifts that they are. Thank you, God.

3. He gave me faith laced with intelligence.
The Catholic Church is the only place on earth I've found a satisfactory mix of faith and reason. The doctrines are sound and sensible. Compassionate and beautiful. Sane and human. Divine and down to earth. Thank you, God.

4. He gave me joy.
Despite the difficulties of traveling through this earthly life, despite the struggles, the constant disappointments, the inevitable suffering, there is joy. It's a joy that's bigger than and different than happiness. It's the firm belief, the stubborn holding-on to, the reason-defying knowing, that there's something more out there, and that it is all meant for my good. Thank you, God.

5. He gave me hope.
I once lived a life that screamed, "All hope is gone!" That life has been extinguished. I am now the grateful recipient and liver of a life that says, "To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul, my God, in you I trust." (Psalm 25: 1-2) Everything points to and returns to that.  Hope. Trust.

Thank you, God.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank you again. How tremendous are Your deeds.