Just Faith, Everyday

Isabella received a watch for Christmas, pink and perfect, and it puts me in mind of my Holly Hobbie watch, which I received as a young girl.  It marked time for me then just as this pink watch does for Isabella now. How as a child I became aware of time—so differently than my present self.  How the wait to Christmas was seemingly endless, and the passage of New Year distinct, and all time in between magical, mysterious, melding—disappearing. Playing blissfully. Unaware of day or hour. These many years later—some 30-odd years since that watch—I find the passage of time not quite the same, though it is the same measurement. It feels faster, more relentless, unforgiving, sometimes merciless. But it’s not without its mercies. The simplicity of childhood may not be there, on adult radar, daily—both in our personal lives and in the public sphere, in our own time and in time immemorial.  The travesties of this past year seem the mercilessness of ages rolled into one, suggest ...

It’s been a dream to be able to care for my new little bit, Charlotte, in her early months in this world.  Just the acts themselves of caring for her have been joy, even when they have been pain--I don’t know how that’s possible, by the way.  I remember being annoyed by first parenthood, and this second time around I am only sensing the littlest bit of that. What occurred to me the other day as I looked out our beautiful picture windows overlooking the yard and trees beyond was that I have been able to watch the seasons change.  Not just sort of acknowledge them, but actually watch the transition proceed slowly.  I remembered feeling that way during the trials of my miscarriages, in Spring one time, Fall/Winter the next.  Something about seeing the perceptible change seemed momentous, symbolic even, to just me, as if God were putting on a show for one (when I know they’re happening for us all). As if this symbol were nudging me to change from within, to both r...

Denial is a part of desire. How much either takes over is key, and not always what we think is best.  In some ways it’s good to deny--to build, or rather rebuild, the self.  But why we deny ourselves becomes a matter of discernment as well.  Some deny to avoid. In the case of an addict that’s ok, but denial doesn’t work this way in every context.  The example that comes to mind is denial of others, for any of a number of reasons, for fear of being led to sin.  All are made by God. All have the potential to teach us. Even our temptations temper our souls. That crazy dance or battle between denial and desire--with a third party of will stepping in--can forge a soul. These days I have slowly and awkwardly allowed my girls to teach me something about them, and about myself. I feel like I am becoming better because of this.  I am denying myself the urge to force my will, to impose myself upon their growth (within reason, but really, it’s hard to parent!  To...

I am still scratching my head at how I could be mother to two beautiful daughters.  I am thinking of my friend Holly, and understanding now what she meant about not knowing whether she could split this love, this heart explosion, for two little beings, soul made flesh, me a co-creator. I am wondering at my part in all this, too.  At my choice, at 41 weeks, to go ahead and get the family centered cesarean set up with the best doctor/midwife team, available on August 26.  Isn’t that the same as pushing to wait for little one to make an appearance herself? To want, rather than to feel need?  yes and no. Between 41-42 weeks there are real dangers that make the gamble too high stakes--ultimately that’s what made me decide in a way I never have before: on the spot, to take action.  For months I’d been practicing centering to guide me in the labor process, to cope with pain, to work through the mental pitfalls I still felt and had no idea how deep these were (at leas...

 I recently discovered, as we were cleaning out an old bookcase to make room for baby, a book by Joyce Rupp called The Star in My Heart , which Fr. Tom had lent me before he passed in July.  He’d been trying to help me find meditative material to work through the angst I still felt from the miscarriages of 2013, and thought this would be up my alley--though later, because I mentioned it, he came up with three new books directly on miscarriage and loss for the Catholic Center library, and got doubles for me to read and share with the many women I found telling their stories. He’d also started a bereavement group--one of his last projects in supporting our community, which he felt so strongly about because there had been so many funerals in just the past year. I also wonder whether he didn’t feel, from deep within, a sense that something was changing inside, a sense that suffering was growing in a way he hadn’t anticipated. I think about him every day. Today marks my due date, a...

There are a few times in my life I wish I could turn the clock back, and perhaps rethink or certainly relive a moment.  There was that time I should have gone with my family to Portugal--I should have quit my job, tossed caution to the wind, not cared about paying my student loans and debts, but I decided to be responsible.  Looking back I realize what I missed--how many stories and connections I could have made, especially time gone by as it has, and everyone having moved on in significant ways. There are smaller moments, too, when I wish I’d taken a little more time to savor what was happening--and knowing this only now, in hindsight, being able to see the importance of such a  moment. Right now, in a hospice in New Jersey, a man who was not only my spiritual advisor but also a friend, a father, a brother--who played so many roles in mine and my family’s life--is slowly dying. Long ago his kidneys made trouble for him, and he made it a point to live stubbornly through t...

Choosing to live and grapple with one’s demons is an act of courage. Every time I turn around lately I find someone with a story to share or a battle well fought, and this inspires me in my own battles with “acedia,” or the “noonday demon,”  originally noted amongst monks who live a solitary life and find themselves alone with their worst thoughts about themselves on a  regular basis.   Kathleen Norris writes eloquently on the subject  --but I suspect everyone can find someone who, if willing, has a compelling story to share. I’m grateful for the examples I have in my life at the moment: I have especially looked for fortitude and faith, a counting on God but also an inner strength, a belief that all will be well, no matter the circumstances. My current demons revolve around believing I can get through this pregnancy, and that I will hold my beautiful baby. That my  body won’t betray me. That I will have faith in God, make the right and healthy choices for...

On Holy Thursday, I was 20 weeks and 1 day pregnant.  And for the first time, I allowed myself to be fully joyful: inside, I had an all-out party with myself and Tiny Dancer.  I named the baby Tiny Dancer when I first saw legs and arms move as if in joy, as if to say to me--Mama!  Look at me!  And I did, and I fell in love. I saw, through the miracle of science, pictures of my little one, full head, limbs, belly, squirming and stretching and telling me, yes, I am here, I am going nowhere until it’s time. Little by little I learn the lesson of trust. Each milestone feels different this time, teaches me something new about myself.  In recent days I find myself coaching from within: accept whatever comes. Accept the strange feeling of your belly pulling down and outward; accept the possibility something has gone wrong; accept the possibility all has gone well. Accept it all--it may all be true. Accept the gift of each day given freely.  This, my latest lesson ...

I can’t see her anymore, roaming the yard, looking for her favorite sunny spot on a cold day. Our little Dot, with her hopeful looking brown eyes, always on the lookout, ever-protective of Isabella since she was a wee one.  She left on the tail end of 20 some-odd days of illness for us (sinus infections, bronchitis, flu), after suffering herself through joint and leg pain, and loss of mobility and desire.  In this past month, we have all lost our desire, become humbled by both desperation and dependence, and are just starting to emerge.  Maybe.  I can still see and feel the way I have turned inside myself, helpless to help myself, my daughter, my husband, and ultimately, my dog.  I also remember, being in the midst of this, holding fast, too fast--not letting go.  One day, sniping at each other, I broke. I let go the anger, unleashed it, felt bad and good for it finally coming undone from me, being freed of its tyranny. Before this I’d realized dully that s...

This morning, Isabella, sleepy-headed at breakfast table, said, “Mama, it’s been so nice to be here at home for Christmas--I don’t want to leave for school.”  In her little four years she, too, gets how absolutely lovely and wonderful sharing all this time together has been, and like her I have been hesitant to let it go. As I write, I steal glances at my Christmas tree, the mandate from my husband to take off the ornaments in the back of my head. I can’t do it just yet; I want to linger a bit in the loveliness of one of the best Christmases of my 42 years, to revel in the fresh memory of it so as years go on, I can access this feeling, this moment. Perhaps there will be even better moments to come, but this year will rank right up there, I think. As we drove to school, we discovered the pearlescent moon “following us,” as she said, joining us for the ride.  And I found what I love about the ride: the textures of countryside in contrasts of color, the frost glistening in that ...