Just Faith, Everyday

I am infuriated at the way in which politics, media, and general fear and hatred cycles have made life in this country a difficult one to live.  However—I have known this was around me all along.  In these past weeks, I have seen Trump signs overtake lawns within a mile of my house; in these past years, not one, or two, but THREE armories have thrived within three miles of my house (you read that right:  three within three, in which you can get an AK with relative ease and pointlessness); this past couple of weeks, the Georgia legislature decided to railroad all sense by pushing the “open carry” law in MY classroom (that’s right: come this Fall, I and my colleagues have to worry about whether students will read the syllabus and where the kids with guns will sit in the classroom so that someone sitting less than a foot from them won’t be tempted to pull the gun out of the holster in front of them—as I feel this a legit concern). I. Am. Tired. Of. This. This is NOT the Chri...

Don’t fast. Not from love, not sharing a memorable time with your beloved, not opening your heart to each other, talking about losses kicking at your heart, or the difficulties of your days; not from those parts of everyday existence which bring joy, which reconnect.  I will admit somewhat ashamedly that I did not fast from meat last night, a Friday during Lent.  For the first time in over half a year my husband and I put down our concerns of the moment by moment care of littles; of money issues, our car reaching 205,000 miles (and that pesky check engine light); of my students driving me up a wall and his clients’ craziness—and we sat, at a table, just the two of us, threw caution to the wind, and talked about all things we hadn’t been able to with joy. We considered the big changes in our lives—the birth of our second little bit, the blending of our new little family, the loss of our beloved Fr. Tom (who we miss now with a keener sting, during Lent).  Slightly buzzed fr...

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...