Just Faith, Everyday

Suffering doesn’t have tact. For some reason, though we’d like to think otherwise, the holidays are not immune to sorrow, which makes facing them--for those who suffer serious losses--all the more difficult. For years I have thought about those who have touched my life who have suffered through death and loss when everyone around them celebrates something joyful, mostly because I have come to know what this burden is like, and partially because I have always felt a pang in my heart for stories like that of my mother-in-law, who lost her 25 year old daughter to leukemia, and nursed her through the grueling chemo come holiday or not. For people like her, the world falls apart a little bit, and trying to piece together anything of a celebration becomes an Olympic feat. She finds great joy now in her grandchildren, simplicity in play with them, maybe some of that silver lining we want to look for, we force into platitude, but she’s come upon this honestly and genuinely. As for me, I h...

Platitudes as conversation stopper--as a way to make the ambiguity stop, to put an end to discomfort and fears arising from the sufferer. Reading about this recently made me pause and consider my culpability and experience with it. The idea here is that someone listening to your grief seems to think some one liner can help. I know I try to relate by telling my own story, and in some cases this may not be appropriate, in another may be the best thing--to forge solidarity, not try to find a solution, or wrap up the messiness as if you were clearing someone’s floor of your child’s detritus. I think of the ways telling my story has begotten this--first, trying to express my anger and anxiety about Isabella’s feeding and cleft issues, about the insurance debacles, about the stressful scheduling of appointments and negotiating or understanding the feedback we’d receive, the way we personally dealt with it all. How I just wanted someone to listen. To that mess. To the mess of my curre...

There’s nothing like being in survival mode to get you sober, off that high of life that can be misleading, detaching you from the mediocre, the material. I can only really attest to my personal experience with this, and feel sheepish sometimes talking about it, but lately my writing obsessions have turned to ways I can share my life with others--with those I love and those who don’t love me back, per se, but maybe need to hear a message of hope or change or destruction, and what comes of it. When I start writing about other people’s survival, I get on shaky ground, but here goes. At 5 am on a recent September morning, my husband woke me and gently said we need evacuate--our next door neighbor’s house was on fire. The panic that welled in my chest was a surprise even to me--and hours later, sitting and writing about this, I wonder what I would have done had we been the ones fire had chosen this particular moment. This reaction I pushed down to put on a straight face for Isabella, ...

I make lists. Of all sorts. Grocery lists, academic lists, chore lists--things to do and be done. but I also make lists about my hopes and dreams and maybe I’m weird that way, but I’ve found over the years that mindfully, thoughtfully considering my dreams has helped me make them reality. Some took longer than others. Finding a home we could afford took a little while and a lot of doing, but putting it on my list created a conversation between my husband and I about what we really wanted, what we agreed and disagreed on. Of course this list begat lists but created in us a unified front in the search. The same was true of Isabella’s cleft palate surgery: we rose to the occasion together, we learned what we needed, how to ask for it, what did not work for us and how to say no. We attained each measured goal and let go the parts we couldn’t. The measure of that list was our daughter. We would move mountains for her. Then there are the lists that seem impossible, perplexing. The grow...

There is a need for kindness. We need to be kinder to each other, to listen just a little but more, show just a bit more compassion, even in the small things, the everyday things. In the smiles we share, or the burdens--respecting that someone’s burden is as heavy as she thinks it is. Respecting that someone’s outlook matters in the moment, that this too shall pass, that there are realities and then there are realities. That there are violent people in this world as much as there are peaceful, but that peace trumps violence when it comes to resources: there are so many ways to love. The tools we’re given to love are masterful, mysteriously appear when we need them, surprise us, delight us. I am looking for that delight in every glimmer of sunlight, the coolness of moonlight, every face and touch and hope. There is fear, and war, and injustice. These things, too, do exist. There is an ugliness we have wrought which can bear down mightily on the most hopeful of souls. That can te...

It’s funny how idiosyncrasies strike me as life lessons--maybe I’m protecting myself against the harshness of reality by locking on to simple things, ways of grasping the all-too-real. I’m glad to have a trusted group of friends with whom I can discuss the ins and outs of the spirit which I know moves me. A recent topic was patience, and long-suffering that comes with it, sometimes, as fruits of the Spirit. (In a way, patience isn’t something you can develop all on your own--it’s a gift to pray for, meditate on.) The stutter start of life’s transitions has become a source for me of great frustration and doubt, tests of my will. At best these become bumps in the road, at worst real detractors that present an unearthing, a recreating that can be painful, mostly because what you’d hoped for yourself can get pulled up with the weeds, and patience becomes a required element to be able to step back and look at what to do, what the next step is. The discussion brought to mind a seemin...

When I create centeredness on the Spirit in my life, I find I’ve made room for seeing purpose in everything from conflict and petty arguments, to old habits and disagreements, strife and suffering and pain. I know I have done it before and can do it again, and in retrospect see how all the goodness came about in spite of chaotic human existence. When you’re in the midst of any conflict, it’s often hard to see and understand; our wills battle against what’s alien, especially when we’re somewhere--literally and figuratively--we’ve never been before. This place, this state of mind or being prepares us for more, nerves us, shores us up, bonds us with steel in the face of the worst life can and does bring. All this thinking came about after a trip North and re-acclimating myself to my now home-base, sitting on the front porch and observing. We recently got a new roof, and my husband and the contractor yabbered one day about some young engineers on their crews going to Georgia Tech (gasp...

When I think about mothering and motherhood too many things come to mind I can't address here: all the things I do now for Isabella amplify my appreciation for my mother and put into perspective what's gotten me here to this moment, when I realize and appreciate what it means to be a teacher, (strive to be) a role model, watcher of cognitive development and wiper of nose boogeys (my husband calls our daughter "Booger Butt," so nothing's sacred). Maybe what stands out most about what it means to be a mother is the sense of humor you HAVE to have to do these things and more--that long list of "duties as assigned," which includes everything from talking down a toddler from filching someone else's (cooler) bike, to conferring with teens about their next big steps in life. It's some kinda learning curve. While the tough times can be tough, as I am sure they were for my mother and the many mothers I have known, the quality of self revelation risi...

It's funny how to me, sitting in the passenger seat is discomforting--if your spouse drives *ahem* assertively like mine does, you'll find it especially discomforting--but I'm realizing that in this and other situations, point of view is the thing. Perspective--what seems faster from a different angle, but is not (looking at the speedometer I realize he's going as fast as I ever do)--changes my attitude and makes me anxious. Not being in control is part of it: I am not the master of my destiny in that situation. Then again, who is? When I realized how this lack of control works on me, I found in other situations the same sort of thing. The duality of control and chaos, its communion, is what seems to make our world go round. Everything from relationships to illness to world peace seems to revolve around who gets to control and who must surrender. It's both a despicable and desirable thing, surrender. Just depends on perspective. When I surrendered my body to th...

In a waiting time. In a holding pattern. A perfectly round, empty sac within my womb. A quiet miscarriage, with little of the external drama, but plenty of internal angst, which I have found I can only sooth by talking some, writing a great deal more, and maybe eating more than anything else. Because of the upheaval of this experience, I have broken and recovered over and over all sorts of Lenten promises and disciplines, and continue to pick myself up, with the words of many of my confessors in my mind: keep on. Continue as you would, in spite of failure. Giving up is not an option. Be compassionate to yourself as you would others--one gives way to the other. I am still waiting--for the end of this trial, for what lessons it holds, for what lies ahead. I have hope for what lies ahead, but am ever-wary of my limitations, of the noonday demons which weigh me, drown me in self-pity. I’m shaking them off. I’m looking for the silver lining, as they say. For the joy that I do have in...

Today I went to the wake of a 42 year old Japanese man who leaves behind a gorgeous family: a lovely wife who has made strong connections in our neighborhood, and two daughters, 4 and 8. Having experienced this kind of thing before in the loss of my uncle, I don’t have to tell you how sobering it was when this man’s little 8 year old wove her way through the line of people waiting to pay their respects, and looked for or gave hugs. She both sought and gave comfort, this beautiful child. It nearly broke my heart in two--I held her as if she were MY child, and prayed to God anything I might say or do could be a source of comfort to them. Life is odd, in its contrasts--today is Mardi Gras, a kind of odd celebration of life and in some ways a precursor to understanding different kinds of death. Lent reminds us of this--Ash Wednesday with its mark on us shows us that our paths all ultimately end, and how we choose to work that path, how we see the other side, massively affects us to ...

We bless what we touch. Think of that when you hug a child, complete a project, or place one palm against the other in prayer and thanksgiving. We bless our hopes, intentions, responsibilities, and souls. I’m really cognizant of this lately, especially as I get to this existential freefall of middle age. I'm worrying less about this vanity as I realize that time simultaneously does and does not matter--we need cherish it and let it go at the same time. Even though daily living can be a trudge and even horror for some, and a joy for others, every soul finds a need for touch, be it physical, mental, or emotional. That should be enough incentive to reach for each other, or to take great pride and care with our daily work, with what gives us purpose and lifts others up. That touch can make or break, create anew or even destroy. It’s our intentions that make the difference. Where our hearts find purpose is where the Creator deconstructs us and creates anew. If you can imagine it...

The prayer I have often cited as my best one goes like this: God, help me to see things as they really are (and not the way I want to see them). I’ve often turned to it when I know I’m getting in my own way, tripping and fumbling over life’s challenges. What's left out of the prayer, however, is something I didn't realize could or would be a problem until recently: what do I do with those realities once I "see" them? What if I don't know what to do? The patterns of life and human frailty have me considering sometimes unaccountable realities: specific neuroses, family tragedies, habitual behaviors. Human beings are such flawed creatures who paradoxically can be strongest when weakest, but it’s one thing to deal with your own shortcomings--quite another to deal with someone else’s. If I cannot "do" anything more than be patient about these, work through them, knowing these are long haul problems and not quick fixes, then what can I do when I am weary o...