Close to Home

ANNOUNCEMENT

2009-07-08T15:03:00.000-07:00

ANNOUNCEMENT:

"Close to Home" has moved!! I have consolidated my once divided interests into a single, cohesive, and hopefully more professional package. Please, please come and visit me at my new location:

http://mollysabourin.typepad.com

pardoned

2009-06-11T14:22:00.000-07:00

For those of us fortunate enough or, more accurately, crazy enough to stick around after our college graduation and establish roots in the heart of downtown Chicago, the thickening of our skin became a required adaptation for survival. Everywhere one turns, shops or dines they’re boldly confronted by a disorienting dichotomy: excessive wealth meshing with dire poverty.

To dwell on it, to care too much, is to dangle ineffectually between feelings of envy and disgust for the monumental chasm separating the haves from the have nots. I, myself, soon grew accustomed to the anonymous outstretched hands begging the hordes of rushing, cappuccino sipping, passersby for leftover change out of their bulging pocketbooks. The first thing I abandoned was eye contact, followed shortly thereafter after by a dropping of my half-hearted, “no, sorry, not this time” response, until finally those fingers, the soiled clothing, their pleading voices were ignored completely, like the white noise of ocean waves or a ceiling fan.

I had one friend, however, who never evolved like the rest of us, whose thin and sensitive skin remained, against all odds, translucent and tender. Much to our dismay, and despite our consternation, she kept her ears and eyes wide open, laying dollars and coins in every dirty palm that beckoned from grocery store exits and street corners.

“What are you doing?” we’d hiss in frustration, “That newspaper you bought is like three days old. He just picked it up off the ground and sold it to you.” But none of our sound advice could penetrate that dense skull of hers. She stubbornly continued on with her imprudent habits until, finally, after one too many accusations that she was essentially funding drug addictions, my benevolent friend quietly but firmly relayed to us that it wasn’t her place to make judgments on others’ motives or intentions. Someone in need had asked her for help and she gave what she could.

*********

I could tell by the way it was presented on the flannel graph board in my second grade Sunday School class that I was supposed to be happy about the Prodigal Son’s celebratory reunion with his father and disapproving of his older brother’s snotty attitude toward the breaking out of the fatted calf in honor of what? Greediness? Stupidity? Utter failure?

Perhaps it was because I was just a kid, and hadn’t yet experienced true remorse born of foolish and destructive behavior, that the parable left such a sour taste in my mouth - that in fact, to me, the whole story seemed to reek of injustice.

I could have stomached it, maybe, could have possibly even embraced its significance and symbolism had, as a footnote, the teacher merely added, “Isn’t it ridiculous and amazing that God’s compassion has nothing to do with our worthiness or actions?! Isn’t it crazy that, heavenly speaking, mercy trumps evenhandedness?!” Because who more than children are still open to outlandish possibilities, are pliable enough to snuggle up to, and feel at home with, such backward notions?

Each year we spend here on this earth we are that much more in danger of becoming encased in our “eye for an eye” logic in which charitable acts are only commendable when bestowed upon the innocent and deserving. Giving aid to orphans in Africa? That is good, very good. Exonerating thieves, liars or rapists? Handing out cash to homeless and reckless alcoholics who will surely squander it? Unacceptable.

Uncomfortable with ambiguity, our default reaction when attempting to wrap our finite minds around salvation and eternity is to try and apply that sensible ethos to matters of faith and redemption. When we are kind and brave and selfless we, albeit often unintentionally, have a tendency to feel at least a tad deserving of God’s grace.

When we hate and hurt and doubt and whine, however, we find ourselves fighting off the despair nipping at our ankles, threatening to devour us, if ever we lie down and let it, with the assertion that it makes zero sense for us to be pardoned over and over and over again, with no strings attached. We cannot, on our own, bridge the abyss between divine love and fairness and thus we dangle ineffectually from a noose of our own making. “God is disgusted with us,” we assume, “because we are disgusted with ourselves.”

The only way that the peace producing elements within genuine mercy, as exemplified by the father of the prodigal son, can even begin to puncture our rationalistic worldview, is by us allowing the whispered directives of the Holy Spirit (as opposed to our own human understanding) to become the context out of which all of our thoughts and deeds originate.

When we can accept that revelation is a gift, made available through our obedient participation in prayer, communal worship, the sacraments - the rich and abundant Life of the Church, we will transcend the mental imprisonment barring our freedom to both give and receive unconditional love.

Jesus forgave his mockers, his torturers, his deniers, his murderers – every one of us, while in the throes of an agonizing crucifixion, and thus it is imperative that we also forgive - forgive others and ourselves. God desires that “all men be saved and come to the knowledge of the Truth,” and thus we must petition Him for that exact same longing, for the wherewithal, the wisdom to see holiness in everyone.

Blessed are they who have the audacity to believe in, to be content with, Mystery, tossing aside their temporal and shortsighted suppositions. Blessed are they who rejoice in the compassion so generously showered upon them and in thankfulness respond by spreading out that same mercy like a blanket of impartiality on a world whose fragile inhabitants are in desperate need of some warmth and unreserved kindness.

Blessed are they who come home again after making a big old fat mess of their lives, and blessed are they who with tears of joy open wide their arms to welcome them. Blessed are you, blessed am I because the infallibility of the Gospel trumps speculation, biased agendas, prejudice, the popular opinions of society. Blessed, oh how very blessed, are we.

Waiting for Change

2009-05-23T13:35:00.000-07:00

In general, I was a late bloomer - a late walker, always the shortest in my class, the last to lose my baby teeth, and the last, the very last to ride a two-wheeler. At seven-years-old, most of my peers were already zipping past me on their banana-seated Huffys and I was dying, aching, terrified to keep up with them. Up until that point, the point of beyond readiness, my fanatical fear of falling had trumped my embarrassment. It took the horrifying prospect of being left behind all summer long and taunted by the neighbor kids to get me out on a Saturday with the intention of mounting, for the very first time, my hand-me-down orange Schwinn, sans training wheels.

My father agreed readily to help me, his sweet baby girl, overcome my phobia of flying head first over my handlebars and cracking my head open ( Helmets? Car seats? Seat belts? U-m-m, no. In 1981, we still lived dangerously). On a sunny morning in June we took our places ready to act out a touching scene performed daily by parents and kids on sidewalks everywhere. I would pedal and he would run along beside me, holding on for just a minute or two before releasing me and then cheering as I sailed solo around the block, just me and my two wheeled rocket ship. That is what we imagined anyway - he and I both, so excited, so determined, so optimistic.

My first attempt went pretty smoothly. Dad stayed with me, keeping me steady while I got used to the sensation of riding upright instead of teetering back and forth between the round and rusted crutches I’d become dependent on. On our second try, however, I became a little cocky and yelled to my father, mid-sprint, Let go! Let go! I think I can do it! He obeyed and immediately I leaned sideways. The bike, with me on it, came down hard. What is the matter with you? I screamed. Are you trying to kill me?! My stunned father looked on dumbfounded at my bloodied knees, shaking fists and accusatory expression on a face red with rage. You told me to let go, he said, which was true but beside the point. And for the next twenty minutes or so I continued being impossible to please, barking orders and getting angrier with each failed stab at mastering a skill, this long overdue skill, instantaneously. Finally, though, he’d had enough and left me to my own dramatic devices. * It seems like yesterday, dad tells me now. I can remember so clearly watching you from the window all scabbed and furious banging that old beat up bike against the ground.

My own children are getting older and I am finding that what I’d never imagined possible (while up all night with babies) is totally true: it certainly does get more challenging, more heart wrenching, more everything as their blossoming ideals collide with barriers in the form of financial constraints, our rules, and their own limited capabilities. They get frustrated and then I get frustrated because to be honest, I thought I’d be better at this – managing schedules, meals, consistent discipline techniques and emotions. Albeit exhausting, it was pretty black and white when the kids were tiny - no swallowing quarters, no running in the street, no sticking your fingers in the electrical socket. Now, oh boy, we are swimming in grey, every day presenting different and unfamiliar challenges. And what I want, you see, is to figure it out NOW. I want to be good, highly proficient, at everything.

Our home parish’s patron saint is the Grand Duchess Elizabeth, who, fortunately, I know quite a bit about due to biographies, numerous photos and historical documents. I love her so dearly because she was a woman for whom piousness, courage and resilience were earned through hardships. I recognize myself in her expressions of fear, grief and disappointment and I am humbled by accounts of her increasing desire to meet the needs of others, stay loyal to the Church and be a beacon of peace in the face of danger. I imagine that if Elizabeth knew as a young bride what she’d be asked to endure later on, it would have paralyzed her. Only gradually, and by God’s grace, did she find within her soul the wherewithal to transform from an earthly princess to a heavenly bride of Christ.

A once greedy Zacchaeus paid back all that he stole and then some. A tongue-tied Moses became a spokesman for the Israelites. Paul went from persecuting Christians to unashamedly preaching the Gospel to Jews and Gentiles alike. Clearly none of us is spiritually limited by our deficiencies or immaturity. Clearly all of us are expected, however, to exert ourselves, in faith and just beyond what we feel we can tolerate, for the sake of salvation. I could never keep up with four kids! I’ve been told often at parks and grocery stores. I’ve said the same thing myself to those with five, six or more children. I can’t imagine where the energy and resources to nurture, dress or feed for one more son or daughter would possibly come from. I can’t imagine where I’ll find the time to serve a neighbor or clean our church. I can’t imagine being courageous instead of anxious. I can’t imagine, at this just now starting out point, being able to successfully navigate, without continuously second-guessing myself or losing my temper, the murky waters of adolescence where empathy must mingle with firmness and where being a parent must take precedence over being a friend.

This past weekend, on a rare and romantic date, this is exactly what Troy and I talked about over dinner. We are both feeling the reverberations of a sudden shift within our household. It seems like we just got down the logistics of caring for and transporting helpless infants and squirmy toddlers and now BOOM, our kids are out of that phase and we’re all, Hey, slow down here a minute! But nobody’s stopping. There’s no one size fits all formula for protecting your unique and self-willed children physically and spiritually. I can’t imagine having the wisdom to know when to toe the line and when to compromise, when to lecture and when to listen, when to hold them tightly to me and when to liberate them, let them fly. It drives me crazy to have to begin all over again as a mothering novice.

In 1891, St Ambrose of Optina wrote that, A man cannot correct himself all of a sudden, but it is like pulling a barge - pull, pull, and let go, let go! Not all at once, but little by little. Do you know the mast on a ship? There is a pole to which is tied all of the ship’s lines. If you pull on it then everything gradually pulls. But if you take it all at once, you will ruin everything. When I approach a dilemma by asking for help initially only to then research, fret, and speculate my little head off, I fail to align myself with God’s grace, with His will. All the days of my struggle I will wait until my change comes, said Job. It is hard to wait. It is hard to be content with stumbling forward and backward, or to keep on trusting anyways despite the quiet and almost imperceptible measuredness of it all. Slow and steady wins the race, as opposed to zooming forward unprepared, unassisted by choice, feeling out of control and mere seconds away from a catastrophe.

This evening I soaked in the bath while my husband put the kids to bed. I could hear five distinct voices laughing and yelling; it was a tackle dad, tickle the kids kind of night and it was truly a noise sweeter than most anything on earth. I remembered back on how we wondered if life with children would ever seem “normal,” how I mourned my loss of freedom even while passionately loving my family. I looked at my body, saggy and scarred; I thought of all the countless ways I’ve already been stretched by becoming a mom. I like me better now than before because of it. We must pray together, I told Troy when it had finally sunk in for the umpteenth time that I am useless, utterly clueless on my own. I simply can’t think ahead; it’s too overwhelming. So here I am, warts and all, ready to throw myself and my darling, growing, divinely wrought children, at Your feet. Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me today. Be in the words I speak this moment, the limits I set this morning, my reactions this afternoon and in the embraces I offer always, as often as possible. More than answers, I long for patience. Amen.

*I’d like to take this opportunity to publicly thank my father for only rarely smirking when my own daughters get all irate and over the top flustered by coming of age undertakings requiring persistence and practice to achieve. I am fully aware of how easy and even satisfying it might be to chant liberally and enthusiastically that, What goes around comes around! Ha ha ha! Your restraint has been greatly appreciated.

The above article is from the Spring 2009, The Truth about Heaven and Hell, issue of The Handmaiden. Click HERE to order a subscription!

let-down

2009-05-01T12:08:00.000-07:00

When planning our honeymoon, the very first thing that Troy and I did was to lower our expectations. It became obvious pretty quickly that my fiancé’s meager income, as a full-time employee of Barnes and Noble, combined with my miniscule hourly wage as a part-time publicity assistant for a small book publisher, was not going to fund a backpacking tour of Europe or a week long stint in Hawaii at a luxury beach resort. “We have friends willing to rent you their cabin in the Smoky Mountains,” offered my dad. “That’ll be fine,” we decided ready to move on to other more pressing matters regarding silverware patterns and the thread count of our future bed sheets.

It wasn’t until the big day got closer, however, that Troy and I both became truly excited about our upcoming trek to North Carolina. With all the stress and wedding preparations behind us, it would feel awesome, we thought, to finally relax and soak in the peacefulness of quiet and nature. What I anticipated, throughout the entire twelve hour drive up there, was to find the winding roads, the dense forests, the isolation, dreamy. I envisioned us reading side-by-side on a porch swing, taking long evening walks and eating by candlelight.

Hot and exhausted, we finally, around dusk, arrived at the cabin - that picture perfect, cedar scented retreat from all of the hustle and bustle of Chicago. Leaving our luggage and empty diet coke cans in the air-conditionless Honda Civic parked out front, we ran eagerly inside for a self-guided tour. It was lovely - quaintly rustic and obviously well taken care of. Out back was a deck with patio furniture. On the walls were family photographs and framed needlepoint samplers. We were alone, far away from traffic, the sound of sirens, other people. I mean, really…no other people were around - no neighbors, no tourists, not a soul within earshot. It was just Troy and me, Troy and me by ourselves, and the sun was going down rapidly.

Wait! Sh-h-h! Did you hear something? Something like a grizzly bear, maybe? Oh how silly! How ridiculous! “Honey, be a dear and go out there in the dark to get our suitcase.” My brand new spouse, bless his heart, took a big deep breath, bolted bravely out the door, grabbed our stuff from the trunk and was back inside in seconds. Should we rent Deliverance tonight? He asked facetiously. And then we laughed, but just a little bit because to an urban couple secluded in the woods that sort of a joke is only kind of amusing.

In my fantasies about that once-in-a-lifetime vacation, our first get away as husband and wife, we weren’t terrified by all the creepy nocturnal sounds we could hear but not see or interpret, there wasn’t a vicious swarm of bees hovering menacingly around my head on our hike by the waterfall, there wasn’t a three page long check-list of chores to complete in order to get the cabin ready for it’s next renters, we didn’t run out of things to talk about and we certainly didn’t become so stir-crazy and city starved that we drove all the way to Atlanta where my parents were staying for a conference and spend the night with them in their hotel room. It’s remarkable, isn’t it? How efficiently reality can rub the luster off our idealism. What you hope for isn’t always or, let’s face it, isn’t usually what you get.

If there is one thing that has dawned on me (slowly but surely) about family life, it’s that everything, every situation and experience, should be swallowed with a big old, sobering grain of salt. And though it sounds pessimistic, I can assure you that such pragmatism has saved me on countless occasions from throwing the proverbial baby out with the whining, moody, spit-up-ey, peed through, “gotta leave early because it’s nap time” bath water. By assuming all will not go smoothly, I am much less often discouraged and much more likely to appreciate the little victories woven into the over all frenzied existence and pace of being a raiser of children. If you make it out of any errand, vacation or excursion alive, for example, and still speaking to one another, without having to write a check for something that got broken, or to publicly apologize to store employees, other parents or (hypothetically speaking of course) a roomful of patrons at a Bob Evans restaurant for a sticky, syrupy mess your kids made or a high pitched outburst, you can consider that outing a grand success and be thoroughly pleased with your accomplishment.

I believe it is a positive thing that Troy and I have become calloused, by way of multiple blows to our vulnerable agendas, to the biting annoyance of “let-down.” My children, however, …well, they don’t really get it yet. “How could God let this happen!?” My son, Elijah, once wailed when our anticipated outing to a McDonalds Play Land was foiled by a dead car battery. I can see them writhing internally when unforeseen circumstances bar their pathway to that one item or event they just know will trump all prior gifts, parties, play dates, etc. in terms of coolness and I can empathize with them to a point but tire quickly of the theatrical, sackcloth and ashes reaction we typically see around here when disappointment rears its mean and unjust head. Inevitably, I pull out the old, “Life isn’t fair, get used to it,” speech, which they never take to heart just as I never processed it when my own mother performed it two decades ago. Patience and long-suffering are only learned, are only earned, the hard way.

It’s no secret that I struggled awhile to apply this recently acquired, “You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit" approach to Orthodoxy, specifically in regards to our attendance of services. I had to spend approximately 288 Sunday morning liturgies shushing, rocking, nursing, redirecting, wincing, warning and biting my cheek in frustration before I finally accepted that all of those distractions were, for now, necessary for my long term maturation. I’d been a feel good junkie for as long as I could remember and rearing children in the Church did a bang up job of teaching me to separate emotions from discipleship, that Christ’s commandment to, “Follow me,” meant, “obey,” out of love, not chase relentlessly after soul soothing, heart warming validations.

In the dryness of just showing up each week, of exposing my family to the ancient prayers and hymnography of Orthodox Christianity without any guarantee that I, myself, would be able to concentrate or reflect on the mystery of the sacraments, I passed through a more shallow and romanticized belief and into the rigors of unconditional and lasting devotion. It wasn’t until I stopped expecting and depending on immediate spiritual gratification that I developed a true and rooted confidence in God’s perfect (and often maddening) mercy. It seemed, initially, like motherhood was going to have a stalemating effect on my faith but in all actuality, it instilled courage, groundedness, flexibility, and an unflappability imperative for staying focused in the midst of life’s turbulent ups and downs, where before there was only skittishness and doubt.

Every once in awhile (BAM! out of nowhere), I get completely bowled over by an overwhelming sense of Christ’s actual presence among us, within us, working through us – like during a pre-sanctified liturgy when I stood tearily in the communion line behind my mother watching her receive the Eucharist or when chills passed down my spine during the Holy Friday reading of the Ezekial passage about the dry bones (“Then you, my people, will know that I am the LORD, when I open your graves and bring you up from them.” Ezekial 37:13).

I attended our local book club last week made up mostly of women from my parish and right there in my parent’s living room could hardly breath so thick and heavy was the sensation of paradise mingling with earth in the honesty and purity of our discussion about life and death, loss and forgiveness. The fact that these satisfying gems of enlightenment are not always tied to my ascetical efforts or attempts at conjuring up a geyser-like gush of giddiness for all things Orthodox, affirms that God’s grace is not limited by or contingent on my own failures and successes.

Eleven years ago, I envisioned myself being healed by our conversion and by my giving birth to our first child. In my fantasies about those significant milestones, I’d be freed instantaneously from selfishness, jealousy and insecurity, as one held captive by chains has the potential to be liberated by but a turn of a key. Never did I factor in a prolonged period of intensive training designed to build up my endurance. I’ve had to relinquish my skewed presumptions about what piety looks like, sounds like and yes, what it feels like, which is often like passing through a hot and stagnant desert dotted with cool and refreshing streams.

It is a hard, demanding, sometimes grueling journey, but one we travel hand-in-hand, carrying each other, encouraging one another, motivated always by the footprints of those who walked before us and stayed the course. My salvation is all wrapped up in this conviction that now is when we toil in preparation for the judgment and resurrection to come. I didn’t get what I hoped for (Hallelujah!); I got what I needed, and how rewarding, fulfilling and nourishing is becoming more Christ-like and durable, through the wisdom and compassion of God and His Church, than you ever in your wildest dreams thought possible.

Memories

2009-04-21T15:13:00.000-07:00

It's been eleven years, so many years since I've felt that stretch and strain (that thrill and terror) accompanying our conversion process from Protestantism to Orthodoxy. Just this afternoon, however, it came back to me in an instant - the fear, the hope, the hugeness of it all, by way of an interview conducted by Deacon Michael Hyatt, CEO of Thomas Nelson Publishing and host of the popular "At the Intersection of East and West" podcast, with my father, John Maddex, former head of Broadcasting for Moody Radio, founder of Ancient Faith Radio and now CEO of Conciliar Media Ministries. I don't know, to tell you the truth, if I've ever heard in that much detail before my dad's version of the events - the emotionally loaded series of heated conversations, the devoured books on Orthodox Theology, the mind blowing visits to various Orthodox Church services. For obvious reasons, I found his narrative fascinating and was struck suddenly, with the force of a bolt of lightening, by how strategically and divinely his life was engineered. He was born, it seems to me now, to serve Christ, to serve the Church, via broadcasting.

So what in the world, many have asked of us, would persuade an entire family of God-fearing evangelicals to step a million miles out of their comfort zone, to start completely from scratch, in order to ultimately find fulfillment and a home in the Orthodox Christian Church? Click HERE to hear our story through the eyes of my father.

You cannot imagine, dad, how proud I am of you and how inspired I have been by your courage, and your zeal for spreading the Orthodox Christian Faith. Thank you for your love and your example!

Understanding the Cross of Christ

2009-04-15T10:05:00.000-07:00

I don't usually do this here on my Close to Home blog but then again, it's not every day that I am so blown away, I mean really and truly moved to my core, by God's love. For those of you in the midst of Holy Week, I urge you to make a steaming cup of something, sit some place quiet and listen - be encouraged...no, not just encouraged, transformed. For those of you who might be curious about the Orthodox perspective on why Jesus died on the cross, I implore you to do the same! Click HERE to hear Father Thomas Hopko's warm and outstanding, "Understanding the Cross," lecture. I promise, it will be worth your while!

promise

2009-04-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

“Is this the day, mama?” asked Mary recently.

“The day for what, sweetheart?”

“The day I wear my Costco dress.”

I thought back on all I’d purchased over the last several months from that fantastical warehouse stocked with electronics, books, tube socks, oversized portions of food, toiletries, cleaning supplies and coffee – big, big bags of oily Kenyan coffee beans rich in color and aroma and…wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes, the Costco dress. As far as I could remember, I’d never bought one. But she insisted. My three-year-old was adamant and getting closer every second to imploding out of frustration.

“Mary, baby, let’s go to your closet,” I tried to reason with my preschooler, calmly. I would show to her, prove to her that no such dress existed but when we got there she squealed and pointed wildly to a clear plastic Lands End bag on the top wire shelf. “There it is mom! I told you! My Costco dress! Can I put it on yet?”

And then I laughed; I laughed and picked her up, embraced her. “Oh I get it! Your Pascha dress!” I’d ordered them a little less than a month ago – matching butterfly patterned dresses for my daughters. She’d tried it on and then I hid it, knowing how desperate she’d be to live in it, sleep in it, eat in it, play in it. Out of sight, out of mind, I figured. How silly of me.

“It’s almost time, Mary. It’s almost here. I promise”.

I need to admit something, publicly, over the internet, because I’m strange, kind of neurotic like that: My Lenten journey got pretty harried there near the end. Oh boy, did I hit a rough patch, feeding my restlessness, the natural restlessness accompanying quiet and introspection, with busyness – just like always, just like I always panic a little when the heat gets too intense and the realities of something deeper than mere surface level living.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been running like mad, feeling even more flustered than usual by every petty inconvenience, every news report of senseless violence, every reminder that I was dangerously close to following the letter but hardly the spirit of the law. I was going through the motions, fasting without praying and that, my friends, is a toxic combination I can assure you.

I was grateful last Wednesday for Troy’s offer to watch the kids so I could attend a Pre-sanctified Liturgy all by lonesome. By that point, I’d had had more than enough of the skirting and dodging of all things spiritually strenuous, things which called into question my priorities – ascetic disciplines I knew, now, were my only means for rising above the crap and horror of a culture enslaved to greed, voyeurism and the perverse and reckless impulses of its self-obsessed inhabitants.

Yes, it’s hard and scary to surrender not half-way, but completely to the unknowable will of Christ. The alternative, however, - avoidance, procrastination, even a fixated disbelief in a Great and Final judgment, in an all powerful Creator, generating a passionate revulsion for those ridiculous enough, impudent enough, to not cave in when branded as “ignorant”, even “evil” for their stubborn pursuit of salvation, is to wade in the mire of envy, anxiety, lust, despair – is to stay thirsty, to stay famished, to forget that authentic peace, mercy and love are even possible.

I stood in the choir that night next to the only other alto in attendance – our powerhouse alto, always present, always spot on. She’s a petite woman, blond and jovial, patient with my kids, welcoming to newcomers. After any given coffee hour, when everyone else has headed home for an afternoon nap, you’ll find her scrubbing away at the dirtied dishes and wiping down the counter tops in our parish’s kitchen.

Beside her were the sopranos, our priest’s wife and her teenaged daughter linked arm-in-arm. Behind us, I heard my dad singing tenor and Elijah’s godfather singing bass. I saw my daughter’s Sunday school teacher, her husband and grown son near my mother who was following along in a service book. We were a motley crew, ragged from child rearing, nursing the sick, working nights, creating expense reports. “Man, I adore these people,” I thought out of nowhere.

The hymnography that evening was just as timely, alive and remarkably insightful as ever:

I am rich in passions,

and clothed in the deceitful robe of hypocrisy.

I rejoice in the sins of self-indulgence.

There is no limit to my lack of love.

I neglect my spiritual understanding

That lies at the gate of repentance.

Make me, Lord, like Lazarus, poor in sin,

that I may not be tormented in the unquenchable fire,

praying in vain for a finger to be dipped in water

to relieve my burning tongue.

But make me dwell in the bosom of Abraham,

as the lover of mankind.

Nothing is quite so effective at renewing one’s determination to press on through the fluff, the static laziness, the inclination to keep Christ at a safe and non-threatening distance, like hearing your secret sins described in detail and acknowledged as universal by the Church. “There is nothing new under the sun,” wrote Solomon in Ecclesiastes. None of us is more behind, more in need of forgiveness. We are all equally in need of healing.

Our screw-ups should be taken very seriously, their painful consequences should bring us humbly to our knees, should keep us in our place but never, never ever should we allow them to trick us into believing that they are mightier and bigger than God’s grace.

I urge you – you, who like me, may have hit some bumps on this Lenten road, to dust yourself off and begin anew as we head into Holy Week. Let us keep in our hearts and in our minds the hope-filled words of St. John Chrysostom’s beautiful, extraordinary, Paschal Homily as we make our way together toward the cross and the empty tomb:

"Let all Pious men and all lovers of God rejoice in the splendor of this feast; let the wise servants blissfully enter into the joy of their Lord; let those who have borne the burden of Lent now receive their pay, and those who have toiled since the first hour, let them now receive their due reward; let any who came after the third hour be grateful to join in the feast, and those who may have come after the sixth, let them not be afraid of being too late, for the Lord is gracious and He receives the last even as the first. He gives rest to him who comes on the eleventh hour as well as to him who has toiled since the first: yes, He has pity on the last and He serves the first; He rewards the one and is generous to the other; he repays the deed and praises the effort."

It’s almost time, my brothers and sisters! Pascha, the Resurrection, it’s almost here!

I promise.

Naming the Child

2009-03-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

My dearest little one,

I am trying to wrap my mind around you, all these years later, and that too brief encounter in which we were present, together, in the same place and at the same time. Name your child, insisted our doctor at that very first appointment, our doctor with the conviction that from the get go you were a person worth acknowledging and claiming; we called you Lucy.

Your brother, Elijah, was but a toddler when I discovered, by way of a violently nauseas reaction to the smell of my morning coffee, that you were blooming in my abdomen, wreaking havoc on my hormones. Who else but an expectant mother could take such pleasure in her own discomfort?

I was never much of a planner, never one to map out my life from month to month, year to year. I was surprised, pleasantly so, but not shocked by your arrival; I was ready, from the very second I knew of your existence to become a mother all over again. What’s in my tummy? I’d ask your two-year-old brother, who’d jab at my soft but not yet bulging stomach and answer every time, to my delight, the way I’d trained him to: baby, baby, baby.

It is hard to explain how immediate that bond is. I day dreamed about you. I relished in my awareness of you, of you being with me throughout every menial task I performed, every errand I ran and every chore I completed. It could have easily been argued that we hadn’t the space, the money, the time for another son or daughter but my joy and instinctive devotion superseded any misgivings regarding the logic of bringing yet another child into this world under our current, perhaps less than “ideal,” circumstances.

In my head I had already built up a life, a long life, one in which you and I would be forever more inseparable. I jumped ahead of myself because the kind of adoration felt by a woman for the miracle, the individual forming extraordinarily within her body, being fed by her body, taking on, even while the size of her thumb, her characteristics, cannot be tempered. There is no choice but to love hard and with reckless abandon.

Pregnancy is a real faith stretcher, because the stakes are always higher when people, or more specifically, our own flesh and blood are involved, are all entwined in the uncertainties too haunting to ponder without one’s breath being taken away by the enormity and apparent permanence of our inescapable mortality. Whenever loss is a possibility, there is a danger of our gladness, our gratitude, or our intrepidity becoming contaminated by doubt and fear.

It is precisely this universal vulnerability, this lack of say in who leaves us and when, that prompted Christ to weep for all of humanity when at the tomb of his friend Lazarus before so boldly revealing His omnipotence and then conversely, death’s constraints. He understood then, as He understands now, that it can be awfully distressing and agonizing to have to wait on this side of eternity for a “one day” reunion with our resurrected friends and family members.

It’s not your fault, they all assured me after hearing my theory about how the plane ride I’d taken was to blame for your sudden departure, which I had anticipated for several disturbing hours before the actual miscarriage took place because I’d woken up that morning feeling indescribably, inexplicably … I don’t know, just different - a little less alive than before. I was desperate for an answer that could explain such an abrupt emptiness. I was so full of you and then, just like that, you were gone.

I like to imagine you as nine-years-old, your freckled arm linked affectionately in the Prophetess Anna’s – my patron saint and my child, united. When we gather as a family to say prayers, attend the Liturgy, stand in the bosom of Christ’s Church where earth and heaven intersect, I like to think that you meet us there, worship with us there the same God, our merciful God who promised, Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.

Sweet Lucy, I haven’t forgotten you and now I’ve that much more incentive to keep on plowing through the distractions, the disillusionment, the despair, to reach that other side of glory where the curtain will part and I will feel you, hold you, stroke your hair, kiss your face. Pray for me, darling.

I love you,

Mama

Several weeks ago, I began this letter to Lucy, the baby I miscarried in 2000, inspired by the stories of grief and hope shared gracefully and candidly in the pages of a brand new book entitled, Naming the Child - Hope-filled Reflections on Miscarriage, Still-birth and Infant Death by Mat. Jenny Schroedel. It was quite challenging, to be honest, revisiting my own past experience. I procrastinated, I think in part, because I felt guilty about not having made the effort earlier to forge a connection with a soul I knew was thriving and yet was so insulated from my own limited understanding. It was good and healing to finally give myself permission to recognize my miscarriage as a legitimate and significant encounter with the mystery that is God’s incomprehensible wisdom, to reach out and spiritually, emotionally, embrace my child.

For both parents who have lost their children so heartbreakingly early in life and for those friends and family who don't know what to say or do - how to just be there for them, Mat. Jenny offers a tangible resource full of tenderness and compassion. With eloquence, warmth and courage, she explores thoroughly and with sensitivity a topic more often than not tip-toed around or spoken about in whispers.

For mothers and fathers whose grief remains palpable despite the years that have gone by, the subsequent children born of them, the diminishing support as everyone else, not directly affected, moves on, Jenny has provided a safe community empathetic to the unique struggles of these parents bearing quietly an ache for their babies who have passed on from out of this world and into the next. The chances are pretty good that every one of us will at some point, either personally or through someone we care about, be touched by the tragedy of infant death. I encourage you to visit Jenny’s website, http://namingthechild .com, where you can find articles, letters, poetry and ideas on how to help, as well as information on how to order her book.

During this season of Lent, as we ponder upon Christ’s voluntary sacrifice on the cross, let us remember these hurting families in our prayers and anticipate with expectancy, bravery and longing His (and our) Resurrection.

Interview

2009-03-27T07:01:00.000-07:00

I am very nearly finished with my next Close to Home post/podcast but in the meantime, I wanted to share with you this link to an interview I just did with Kevin Allen, host of the wonderful Illumined Heart program on Ancient Faith Radio regarding my book!

I'll be back soon!

Arise

2009-03-06T09:01:00.000-08:00

There is a reason I don’t write much about homeschooling. It is the same reason I don’t write more about exercising or recycling: I believe in these things but as a bumbling, greenhorn of a disciple propelled in an out of zealousness by an amalgam of uncompromising convictions, idealistic intentions and what I like to refer to as, “spontaneity” but what might also, in some circles, be known as, “a lack of discipline.”

On our good days, I am sitting on the couch, under an afghan, sipping coffee while one of my children reads to me from our book of saints. I hear the bus drive by and breath a sigh of relief because this year, Elijah is not being manhandled in the back row of it by peers who are in his grade but are not necessarily his age with their already creaking voices tossing out language foul and crude, not to mention factually inaccurate and demeaning. We marvel together at the resourcefulness of homesteaders, the love and courage of the Grand Duchess Elizabeth surrendering her royal title for the sake of Christ and His Church, the ferociousness of a starving crocodile. On our good days, I am a geyser of warm, erupting satisfaction. I am a proud, fanatical, “never look back,” brand of homeschooler.

There are other days, however, many, many other days when if you asked me, would I recommend homeschooling, I would lean in real close like, grab you forcefully by the collar and whisper, Run away! Don’t even think about it! It’s a harebrained idea- teaching your own kids. And then I’d smooth down your shirt, pat you amiably on the shoulder and just smile as benignly as can be, like that whole dangerous exchange never happened.

Less than a week ago, Great Lent began. In preparation, I cleaned out the refrigerator, bought a freezer full of hummus, falafel, and veggie burgers from Costo, subscribed to an even wider variety of Orthodox Christian podcasts, printed out Lenten Sunday School lessons, wrote the service schedule on our calendar and then braced myself for the emotional soreness that follows an increase in spiritual activity. It’s true you know that distracted minds are hardly a threat to devilish schemes. A lukewarm anybody is much more likely to be left alone. But cease for just a second with self-absorbed musings or frivolous undertakings in order to turn even slightly more heavenward and WHAM the gloves come off; you’re beaten down.

What’s wrong? Asked my husband when he called from work – when I, who am usually all too willing to spew forth haphazard thoughts and anecdotes until he is forced to interrupt my captivating ramblings by reminding me that he does have a job to get back to, reacted to his inquiries with one word answers. Responses like, downtrodden, drowning, suffocating and tragically, woefully behind, seemed a tad heavy, a bit dramatic for a quick, mid-morning, “just checking in” type of chat. So I went with the generic “I’m really tired” excuse, which described as well any other despondent term I might have chosen the malaise strangling my joy and crippling my hopefulness.

Suddenly and inexplicably, I had no tolerance, whatsoever, for the bedlam - the same mayhem that for years has hovered around our household like a dense but relatively harmless fog I’d learned over time to pretty effectively grope my way through. The substantial burden of my responsibilities – to handle solely the education of my kids, to feed my family healthfully, to makes our house look a little less like a landfill, to be a loyal friend, a more consistent disciplinarian, etc., etc., (My gosh, the list goes on and on; it’s like I cannot catch a break!) was wearing away at my usual optimism like dripping water slowly but surely eroding a boulder. And now here it was Lent and I was adding to my already gargantuan load a desire for true repentance, for communicating to my children the importance of preparing for Pascha by way of increased prayer and almsgiving and fasting. I had turned off our television, simplified our diet, decreased our access to secular influences and yet my annoyance was steadily increasing. I growled at my loved ones like a cranky, hungry dog instead of speaking to them with kindness, calmness, respect.

Church was the last place I wanted to be and for the first twenty minutes or so of Saint Andrew’s Canon, I struggled hard to pay attention. I was a million miles away in “feel sorry for me land” where all you haven’t accomplished whines and complains with cruel persistence in your ears making you deaf to Christ’s invitation to cast all your cares upon Him and find rest. But I sang, I prostrated, heck, I showed up – it took all I had in me to silence the taunting for just a moment and listen, to actually swallow the penitential refrains that up until that point had just been sitting there in my mouth. I strained to stay focused and own the sentiments being offered to me by God through His servant, Andrew, as a means of breaking through a toughened and calloused exterior. Alongside my fellow parishioners I cried out with all the genuineness I could muster:

I have adorned the human shape of my flesh with the many-coloured coat of shameful
thoughts, and I am condemned.

Have mercy on me O God, have mercy on me.

I have cared only for the outward adornment, and have neglected what is within - a body
bearing the divine likeness.

Have mercy on me O God, have mercy on me.

Like the harlot I cry to you: “I have sinned, I alone have sinned against you.” Accept my
tears also as sweet ointment, O Saviour.

And then, to my surprise, the tears did come. I’d been pried open and exposed as a wretch and as a betrayer, as a hearer but not a doer of the Word. My regret at having become numb to the sacrifices of God, the Son, became more palpable than my stress. For once His holiness felt less like a soft and fuzzy blanket and more like a scalding, searing, flame engulfing my trite and lackadaisical approach to the Faith - reducing my vanity and perceived competence to ashes. In this state of remorse and pliability, I went to confession. Weeds embedded deeply within my heart had been painfully uprooted and with my priest as a witness I handed them over with every intention of beginning anew by praying incessantly for both the strength and the alertness to nip their efforts to re-implant themselves in the bud. Having been humbled by the realization of my nakedness and then purified, fortified, vitalized by forgiveness, I left for home.

Recently, I got a fascinating letter from a friend of mine who lives in Australia in which she relayed to me many details regarding the everyday goings on in her far away country. She wrote about what they eat (lots of Vegemite), what they fear (poisonous spiders) and gave the following description of the Australian Bush, one I found to be rich in symbolism:

The Australian bush – except for in the very North of Australia - is very dry and flowers are hard to come by. Australian forests grow very old and don’t really generate new trees until a bushfire destroys it – because only a bushfire is hot enough to crack open the seed pods. So bushfires are an interesting paradox for Australians. Often the National Parks do controlled burning to generate the bushland.

Like an unrestrained blaze can become quickly, wildly, unmanageable producing destructive and lethal effects which far outweigh the positive aspects of its life-regenerating potential, so can igniting one’s soul with asceticism cause more damage than good when unsupervised by the Church and Her holy wisdom. To fast on one’s own, without the sacraments, without attending the prescribed services, without the guidance of a spiritual father, is to set oneself up for certain pride or despair. But to participate fully in Great Lent, to cooperate with this Holy Spirit controlled burning, to bear as a community the uncomfortableness of having our own stubborn wills crushed and leveled, is to unearth the fragrant fruit too often encapsulated by worldly cares.

Had I not gone that night, had I attempted to self-medicate my infirmities with reason, another organizational plan or an anesthetizing diversion, I would have stalled the healing process only mid-way through and gone on for who knows how long taking random and frantic stabs at trying to pinpoint the origin of my disgruntlement. I have learned that when I am anxious to avoid services, Scripture reading, confession, morning prayers, it is a sure sign that I am in need of them more than ever. The Church has laid out before me the cure to my empty and wholly unfulfilling selfishness and yet so often I respond with a big old “no thanks” by putting my schedule, my priorities, my lust for what is most convenient ahead of everything else, including God. And then I scratch my head and wonder why my life feels so chaotic and disappointing.

I’ll tell you what I don’t have and that is any confidence in my ability to make it all the way through Lent without grumbling or forgetting what the point of it is or heeding the nagging and ruthless voices in my head suggesting I’m not pious enough to complete the Fast. What I do have, however, is this one day right here in front of me to offer up as a sacrifice. I have the tools at my disposal to help me stay attentive and vigilant throughout it. I have the awareness that we are all in this together and I have plenty of first-hand experience confirming a half-hearted approach to following Christ is as effective as training for a marathon by simply buying new fancy tennis shoes and a sports bottle – it’s one thing to look like a runner and another to put in the necessary, sweat inducing, muscle stretching, endurance building labor to become one.

My soul, my soul, arise! Why are you sleeping? The end is drawing near, and you will be confounded. Awake, then, and, be watchful, that Christ our God may spare you, Who is everywhere present and fills all things. – Kontakion from the Canon of Saint Andrew.

Quiet

2009-03-01T17:22:00.000-08:00

Thy grace hath risen, O Lord, the illumination of our souls hath shone forth. Lo, now is the acceptable time; the season of repentance hath come. Let us cast down the works of darkness, and put on the works of light, that we may pass the great tempest of fasting and reach the summit of the third-day Resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the Savior of our souls. - The Aposticha for Forgiveness Vespers

Imagine, I told Elijah, if I never stopped Mary from gorging on sweets - if, when every time I caught her with her hands in the brown sugar bag, with mouthfuls of sugar dissolving on her tongue and dripping from her lips like syrup, I did nothing but stand by and watch her attempt to feed an insatiable desire for that which, in the long run, will make her sick. Part of loving her is enduring her protests, her disappointment at being separated from passions empty and addictive. I know that it is very difficult to understand, at your age, how a parent saying 'no' and 'not now' is, believe it or not, an act of mercy.

This afternoon, after Liturgy, we gathered again as a congregation to bow before one another, to ask forgiveness of one another, to begin, as a community, to take part in Great Lent. We will fast from meat and dairy, we will remove from our daily routines distractions loud and numbing, we will attend services breath-takingly, hauntingly, beautiful in preparation for the Feast of Feasts, for the Resurrection of our Lord and God and Savior, Jesus Christ.

If you knew me, how impulsive I am, you'd understand how very trying, how very necessary is this period, this gift from God, this deliberate separation from my greedy, forgetful, self-centered spirit passions empty and addictive. You'd know why pausing, why emptying my mind of frivolous stimuli, my stomach of foods heavy and rich, will inevitably bring me to my knees in frustration in despair over my own lack of discipline. I will be forced to come to terms with my dependence on Christ's compassion, to face head on truths I usually push away: my lust for earthly treasures, my obsession with comfort, my mortality.

Yet even in the midst of intensive repentance, we, the Church, anticipate with renewed zeal, the moment when Life will conquer sin and hell - our victory over death through the sacrificial love of the Holy Trinity. We wait and watch for the Bridegroom so as not to be off flitting and fretting about when at last He arrives in all His splendor and glory. By stretching ourselves spiritually, emotionally, physically, we'll find the joy at having arrived at the empty tomb (finally!) that much more satisfying and triumphant.

Quiet now, quiet. I ask for your prayers and forgiveness. For my haughtiness, my vanity, my apathy, my laziness, I am truly, truly sorry. May God bless you and keep you in His perfect, His redemptive, His incomparable peace.

A House United

2009-02-25T11:03:00.000-08:00

It wasn’t something we’d discussed prior to our engagement. Troy and I got married the summer I graduated from college and I was pregnant within the year. I hadn’t had time to establish a career or create for myself some adult standard of living complete with long- term goals or a hard earned graduate degree before motherhood descended upon me. We both assumed that I’d be the one to stay home and raise our baby.

We couldn’t be more traditional in our roles, my husband and I. I cook and clean, wash the clothes and teach our children. Troy mows the lawn, pays the bills and wears a tie and sports coat to his job in the city. I’ve never resented this arrangement because, truth be told, the idea of full-time employment in an office building where the hours are set in stone is very, very unappealing to me. Sure I’ve broken down, more times than I can count, over the rigors and stressors of stay-at-home motherhood but never have I been tempted to seek out an alternative involving me earning our income, carrying the weight of providing for us financially on my shoulders. And I’m pretty darn sure that Troy has no ill-conceived misconceptions regarding the challenges I come up against daily while managing schedules, meals, emotions and toys that seem to multiply and cram themselves under beds and between couch cushions. Over the years, I’ve settled in, taking ownership of my position as the matriarch. To my children, I am comfort, normalcy, security wrapped in skin. Nothing unnerves my three-year-old like the sight of me wearing a jacket and carrying car keys, on my way to somewhere, anywhere, without her.

This past October, I had the extraordinary opportunity to reunite with my four best friends from college on a weekend wine tasting excursion to Michigan. I hardly need explain to you why I had looked forward to it for months. But if you happen to be a mother, you might also understand the twinge of secret apprehension that dampened slightly my excitement at leaving my family for a “girls only” adventure. "Are you sure you'll be ok?" I had asked him more than once and each time Troy replied, "yes," using the same expression and tone my son, Benji, might employ if I asked him was he certain the Force was stronger than the dark side or if the Chicago Bears was still his favorite football team. Troy is solid as a rock and not easily intimidated, but this I thought was different - four kids, our four kids, were a whole lot to handle and maybe he was being just a tad bit naive, forgetting how Mary melts down when she's tired and Benjamin wanders off if you turn your back for even a second.

As I waved goodbye, I begged God to protect them. I expected little, really - that they'd "get through it," probably, but would be awfully glad to see me upon my return."Have a good time!" Troy told me, which I was so grateful for because all it would have taken to negate my joy was a look of resentment. Mothers, or maybe it’s just me, tend to think of themselves as the glue holding everything and everyone together. My husband could do a fine job, but of course I'd always, in general, do better when it came to nurturing the children and managing our home. Had I taught him all he needed to know to ensure those couple of days without my hovering presence would be a success for them, for me, for everyone?

When we pulled up to my house all rested and restored, I found Priscilla, Ben, and Elijah jumping, laughing, and rolling in a leaf pile. Troy sauntered up quite calm-like and hugged me. There were lots of squeals and kisses, partly (or mostly) because of the brightly wrapped packages in a bag I was carrying with the words, Oh My Darling Toy Store printed boldly on the side of it. "Whadjyou bring us? Whaydjyou bring us?" they were dying to know. After a whirlwind half hour of thanking my friends profusely for such a wonderful, wonderful time, handing out souvenirs, and emptying my duffel bag, I finally cornered Troy and started questioning him about how everything had gone in my absence. "Fine," he answered, keeping consistent with his usual minimalist approach to my wifely interrogations. "What did you do?" I pressed on out of curiosity. "Oh, let's see," he tried to remember, "...this morning we got the emissions test done on the car, then we went to the DMV, then Ace Hardware, then out for pizza. After lunch, I put Mary down for a nap, we cleaned up the yard and then did our inside chores."

"All of those things?! In one day?!"

The very idea of it made me exhausted. That kind of errand running required multiple snacks, water bottles, and some extra strength Tylenol, items I was certain Troy had not even thought about packing. "How did they do?" I winced, figuring Mary had most likely screamed, Elijah had pouted out of boredom, Priscilla had complained of hunger and Benjamin...well, who knows what? With Ben anything, literally anything can happen. Priscilla, overhearing our conversation, interrupted me."Mommy!" she beamed, "the lady at the car place told daddy we were good kids!"

"Is that true?" I asked. "Yep," My husband answered. "She said she was impressed by how cooperative and quiet my children were, just sitting there reading their books. They did great." I looked around, then, and it dawned on me for the first time that nothing had exploded. No one was bandaged up or clamoring for my attention. When Mary walked by, five seconds later, Troy said, "It's time to get your jammies on, baby." And so - get this- she totally went right upstairs and got dressed in her pajamas...all by HERSELF.

Troy, I suddenly realized, assumed they could; I assume they can’t and because of that, I end up, much of time, over-assisting and ultimately feeding their habit of whining, and surrendering when something is difficult. My very competent spouse opened my eyes to a mindset I was stubbornly clinging on to and which was hindering me as a mom. I (gasp!) discovered something helpful and important that I could learn from him in the parenting department: If I insist on aiming low, I shouldn’t be shocked when my kids choose not to surpass my menial expectations.

I had gotten myself into a rut, maternally speaking, but busyness and misplaced confidence in my ability to tackle solely all discipline and character issues were preventing me from switching up my tactics, thinking outside of the box. I could have avoided some frustration by noticing sooner that Troy was more than just a wingman; we are co-pilots, both necessary, providing unique but equally valuable influences on Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin and Mary. It is hard, as a mom, but ultimately beneficial for a marriage and a family to surrender control in exchange for open-mindedness and respect for a partner’s well-intentioned differing point of view or priorities.

Even after eleven years, my relationship with Troy is still unfolding. Marriage is such a mystery, so alive with possibilities, so effective at stretching, humbling, improving me as a person when we work hard at staying connected and keeping Christ and His Church as the foundation of our commitment to one another. It requires a lot of tongue biting, apologizing and forgiving but the rewards are both fulfilling and eternal. Take it for granted, and a marriage will slowly but surely begin to unravel, to weaken from starvation and neglect. I am grateful for the like-minded women in my life who have encouraged me to continue trying and loving and learning by their sacrificial efforts to keep their own marriages healthy and their souls attentive to opportunities for continuous growth. Just recently, I read the following on my sister-in-law’s blog site and Paige has generously given me permission to share her honest (and very relatable) reflections with you here:

This is one of my favorite pictures of Bobby - for several reasons. First, I love that smile. It's really what first attracted me to him - I told him it was his eyes - and they are beautiful - but really it was that smile: a little crooked, full of confidence, just about to emit something unexpectedly hilarious.

In college he was usually the center of things - so full of energy, life and witty remarks that people just wanted to be near him.In this picture, my daughters and my husband look like triplets (which makes me chuckle in and of itself) but to see the three of them together like that - so happy, natural, and united - it makes me see the past differently.

It's just that I was so hard on Bobby during the "baby stage." I wanted and expected him to have the exact same skill set I did - I, a woman who bore the children, who was the oldest of six kids, who baby-sat nearly every day from age 12 to age 21 and then went on to become an elementary school counselor - I expected him to be right there with me - interpreting our babies' cries and anticipating their every need (in addition to understanding mine). No wonder his transition to parenthood was a little rocky! I never allowed him to transition (or myself, for that matter).

I know my husband is a great father, now. I am reminded of this by my two-year-old daughter who says incessantly, "I need my DADA." And by my four year old who reminds us all how big and strong Daddy's calf muscles are (that's a huge compliment in her world, by the way).

If only I could have seen ahead a little - maybe I would have been a little kinder; a little more patient. Looking at this picture I see though, how even then - in the midst of baby time - Bobby was an amazing father. My girls look so happy and safe - as though they are in the best place of all, their Daddy's arms.

More than a dishwasher loaded perfectly with all the utensils facing the exact same direction, more than my kid’s leaving the house with smooth hair, brushed teeth and in a tastefully coordinated outfit, more than a “do what I want, how I want, when I want it” carbon copy of myself kind of spouse, I want an involved and devoted father whose not afraid to step in and get his hands dirty in the invigorating messiness of family life - even if his methods might diverge from my own.

Nothing discourages participation like scrutinization and nit-picky criticisms. Few skills are as valuable or worth the diligence and discipline required to pass them down to our children and grandchildren as the ability to compromise and communicate courteously. A house divided against itself, said Abraham Lincoln in 1858 in reference to the intensifying discord between Southerners and Northerners, cannot stand. This is no less true today or less applicable to the familial unit. And so I pray, like I always do when selflessness is required, for the determination to treat my husband as I would like to be treated for the sake of our intimacy with one another, unification with our children, and above all else for the obtainment of my salvation. Yes, oh yes, Christ is here, here, in our midst, in our marriages, in the ordinary moments and exchanges fusing together to comprise a lifetime, and ever shall be.

The above article can be found in the current edition (Winter 2009) of The Handmaiden. Click HERE to order a subscription!

Announcement

2009-02-09T08:06:00.000-08:00

For a long while, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. It wasn’t the exhaustion or sudden loss of freedom per se; I was sure that eventually time and experience would remedy (or at least numb) the ill effects of those violent intrusions on my health and emotions. When the claustrophobia and hormonally charged periods of baby blueness came and went and came again those first several months, I knew deep down in my gut that they were not the cause, not the root anyway, of my discontentment either. I wanted to be a mom. I was committed wholeheartedly to this invaluable opportunity to raise and nurture my children. No matter how hard I tried, however, to line up my thought life with my set in stone convictions regarding the sacredness of parenthood, I couldn’t make one consistently reflect the other. In my mind, bouts of resentment, impatience, and insecurity were obviously signs of failure – were simply incompatible with good and prayerful parenting. What was dampening my experience as a mother (aha! I finally figured it out!) was that impossibly wide chasm between my ideals and capabilities. My main objective in life, then, became to cross it.

To combat my incompetence I sought voraciously the advice of others. I positive disciplined, sleep trained and chore charted my way to success – success that would last a week or so before I’d lose steam and give up, and then agonize over my laziness? my selfishness? my flightiness? To be honest, I didn’t know what exactly was wrong with me! Somewhere there was a key that could unlock that mystical secret of maternal satisfaction and until I found it, I would dart all over the place testing theories and hypotheses claiming posession of precisely what I was longing for. Out there lay my happiness, perfection and fulfillment. I was always but an article or surefire tip away from arriving at that mommy plateau from which everything runs smoothly and where everyone, parents and kids alike, respond pleasantly and appropriately from that point forward to life’s challenges.

In the midst of a never ending voyage toward an ambiguous and elusive finish line, I began to open up, out of frustration, to my fellow mom friends. What I discovered repeatedly, surprisingly enough, was that each of us was struggling with our own unique self-doubts. Each of us was worn out from trying to live up to our impeccable standards. Each of us was concerned that our children were abnormally something – shy, aggressive, willful, behind in development, you name it. It also began to dawn on me, however, that those conversations so honest and yet seemingly unproductive in which I vented to a supportive and empathetic peer provided comfort unlike any how-to manual I had ever combed through for answers. Feeling part of something bigger than the little lonely world I was dwelling in and worrying in and yet would sacrifice anything to stay in, brought me real and sustained peace. In apartments, houses and condos around the globe were women and men just like me – parents who adored their kids, parents whose families were flawed, parents inching their way toward enlightenment two steps forward and one step backward at a time.

Several years ago I got an idea in my head. I wanted to chronicle my experience as a new mom coming to terms with the actualities of her role. I wanted to state clearly and candidly the misconceptions holding me back from taking ownership of my position as the mother of these distinct children placed divinely in my care. I desired to scream from the pages of a book not, “Here is how you do it!” but rather, “You, my friend, are not alone!” I am abundantly thankful for Conciliar Press and for their willingness to take a chance on me. With Conciliar, I was able to freely and thoroughly examine motherhood in light of the Orthodox Christianity I had converted to. It was rigorous work, writing with four small children on my lap and at my feet, staying up later than I should to finish just one more thought, one more paragraph. It was (and still is) scary, I’ll admit it, to become so vulnerable through the sharing of my faults and fears. But bigger than the challenges were the revelations! I was floored to find out how applicable and transforming are the teachings of the ancient Church to modern day men and women in the throes of disciplining, praying for, and doting on their children.

It is finished; I can scarcely believe it! Close to Home: One Orthodox Mother’s Quest for Patience, Peace and Perseverance is now available to pre-order at Conciliar’s website. I am honored for this chance to reveal how my numerous mistakes and disappointments, a sense of community, and the teachings of Jesus as revealed through the mysteries of His Church, are enabling me to focus less on what I can’t be or do and more on what God can. I want to take this opportunity to thank you, all of you who have listened to these podcasts and read my blogs and who have inspired me to wake up each morning and try all over again to be a little more like Christ than the day before. Let us continue pursuing the unearthly gratification that comes from serving one another, uplifting one another – from loving sacrificially in the name of the Holy Trinity our spouses, sons and daughters, siblings, parents and neighbors.

Community

2009-01-21T12:15:00.000-08:00

What’s fun for Mary, is abhorrent to her siblings. Several times a day I call out like the Little Red Hen, Who will help me sweep the floors, fold the clothes, stir the batter?

Not I, says Elijah.

Not I, says Priscilla

Not I, says Benjamin, I’m much too busy.

But my youngest, Miss “I will” Mary, still oddly fascinated by mops, bed making and lint traps, answers back almost every time in the affirmative. Soon enough, however, judging by my family’s track record, she will also bend over backwards to avoid anything chore related. Familiarity can all too efficiently suck the marrow out of intrigue, leaving what once was full of novelty as flat and dull as a week old birthday balloon drained of helium.

Admittedly, I’ve been active myself lately, evading work that when ignored gnaws steadily, tortuously, at my thoughts and emotions. The fact that I have the luxury to withdrawal at will from the gravity of life and death contemplations reveals a lot about the odds stacked deep and wide against me, against anyone pursuing belief alongside freedom and material prosperity.

Ten years ago, I was enamored with faith, The Faith - with access, through the sacraments, to Christ and His Kingdom previously unknown to me. A decade ago, I viewed asceticism, in the form of prayer, confession, Eucharist and fasting, as a luminous privilege. I felt what I should have at that early stage of my conversion, a pleasant buzz confirming the nearness of God and His saints. Who will deny himself, pick up his cross and follow me? asked Jesus.

I will! I answered eagerly, and I meant it.

I meant it also when, at the age of twenty-two, I told my future husband, Troy, that, Yes! Of course! I’d like nothing more in this world than to grow old with him! I meant it two years later when, while cradling my suckling newborn, I declared emphatically that I was thrilled beyond words about becoming a mother. Infatuation, warmth electrified, is the sugary candy coating disguising, initially, the necessary bitterness within our soul healing medicine. Easy is pleasurable but also shallow, static and stupefying. Untested love is whitewashed lust demanding, Please me! Fulfill me! Make me Happy!

I’ve grown accustomed to the smell of incense and the lilting sound of prayers, Scripture, and hymns being chanted. What was exotic, impossibly foreign, now seems like home. I’ve settled reflexively into the rhythm of fasts and feasts, Vespers and Liturgy, inspired to keep at it out of a fervent desire for Christ one minute and plain old habit the next. True conviction needs neither euphoria nor pangs of tingling adoration to be authentic.

What it does require, however, is my consistent participation in tangible rituals intended by a most merciful God to override our fluctuating passion for the Gospel message. By becoming integrated, through communal worship and a shared partaking of the Holy Mysteries, into the larger Body of Christ, I am often times called upon to carry on my shoulders those who are struggling, and just as often to accept my need to be carried, when I, myself, am dry as bone and have nothing to give.

In her captivating biography of Princess Ileana of Romania (later to be known as Mother Alexandra) entitled, Royal Monastic, the author, Bev Cooke, describes a moment when Ileana, exhausted from a lifetime of enduring one excruciating tragedy after the next, comes to terms with her powerlessness to evoke within her heart any tenderness at all for the faith of her youth. I’d like to share with you below that extraordinary passage:

Ileana stands in her icon corner, eyes fixed on the mother of God, who holds the somber faced infant on her knee. She begins the prayers. “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen. O Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner. O Lord, have mercy on me…”

The words continue, but they’re just words. They come from her mind, out of her mouth, empty of the love, the dedication, the joy she’d always felt when praying before. Once the formal prayers are said, she stands, unable to open her heart as she has in the past and pour out her feelings and thoughts. There are no words to express what she feels, for most of the time she feels nothing at all. All is dead inside.

She considers the emptiness and tests it again. What if her children were taken from her? She shrugs. It would be awful, and she would miss them, their voices, their hugs, their laughter and tears, but she can summon none of the sorrow, the panic, and the devastation such thoughts caused even as little as two years ago.

She should finish and leave – there’s so much to be done, but something holds her in place, and she shifts her gaze to the icon of the Lord Himself – His eyes as compassionate and sorrowful as always.

As she stands, she feels a pressure around here – not physical, exactly, but what it is she cannot say. It holds her gently in place, saying the things she cannot say for herself.

As she gazes at the icon of the Lord, she realizes that this is the Church – the prayers of the faithful, of the monastics who stand for hours and days before their icons. They are saying for her the words she cannot think, expressing the feelings she cannot feel, keeping her standing, her heart open, empty and waiting. She nods, not content, exactly, and not feeling anything more than she has since the night her family left Romania, but not yet ready to leave the corner and God’s and the Church’s embrace. If she cannot pray, then she will let the Church pray for her, until the words come back.

When I am discouraged, or restless, or excited, or…let's just face it, it is always very tempting to disengage myself from that arduous struggle to choose salvation over self-appeasement or self-pity. The longer I hem and haw, weigh the pros and cons of pausing today to exert myself by attending a Church service (or cracking open my prayer book, or checking in on the acquaintance I know is hurting), versus tomorrow, when its more convenient, the more in danger I become of albeit unintentionally still ostracizing myself from the only Source on earth able to rescue me from death, disillusionment, and despair.

God’s grace cannot be earned but it can, and certainly should, be extolled and never squandered. Out of love, tested love, unconditional love immune to whims and changing moods, I imperfectly offer my labor as a sacrifice of praise. I must work to become like Christ, which sounds so daunting and sometimes more than I think I can bear, but through that work, we are bound together for eternity.

Who will help me develop patience, serve my neighbor and desire meekness over honor and recognition?

My friends, my brothers and sisters, by striving for such things yourselves, you already have.

Absorption

2008-12-31T07:21:00.000-08:00

For three nights in a row, we watched the children and ourselves age at the speed of light on our television screen. First birthdays, second birthdays, third then fourth, crawling then walking, squeaking then speaking, babies then toddlers, then small boys and girls – it was dizzying and a bit gut wrenching to witness such large chunks of time being whittled down into highlights and snippets, reduced to slivers. “Wouldn’t it be awesome,” asked Elijah, after our marathon viewing of old family videos, “to be able to see every part of our lives all over again?” And immediately I thought of my teenage years, my early twenties, how I reacted last week to a string of certainly aggravating but hardly earth-shattering disappointments and I shuddered at the idea of being forced to observe repeatedly my past foolishness and folly. Thank goodness for fresh starts and new beginnings.

We have mornings, Sundays, apologies and the 1^st of January: all shiny, un-scuffed, perfectly promising opportunities to dust oneself off and begin anew. It is best, in my humble opinion, to go ahead and try your darndest to seize all of them. What could be wiser or more productive than grasping at these lifelines, these dependable and consistent breaks in our harried and hectic schedules fraught with potential? Why not revel in the mercifulness of free-will and forgiveness by choosing active, eager faith over immobility - over wallowing in self-pity or determined ignorance?

Now resolutions of any kind require forethought and a game plan; two things I, in general, have great difficulty conjuring up from out of a mind whose default setting is stuck on “ramble.” Perhaps by sharing publicly, officially with you all my 2009 aspirations, I’ll become more focused. So drum roll please, and hold onto your hats; what I’m proposing here is especially grand. For the next twelve months and (Lord-willing) beyond, I would like to fully dedicate myself to the process, the sacred, mental and emotional art, of absorption.

H-m-m? What’s that you say? You need more clarification? O.K. then, let me try here to explain. You see quite often when life gets challenging, as is its very nature to do so, I respond by tensing up, gritting my teeth, closing my ears and my eyes in protest to the injustice, the sheer terror of it all. When you’ve worked so hard and diligently at manipulating…I mean, maneuvering your every situation until they all line up neatly with possibly fine, probably decent, but nevertheless your own ideals, only to watch on dumbfounded as tragedy or inconvenience bowl them over, it is instinctive to stomp your feet and declare authoritatively that that is NOT FAIR! It is tempting at that point to see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing but the blackness, the silence, the painful sting of your grave disenchantment.

I know this because I do this, sometimes out of bitterness and sometimes out of straight-up fear. It is scary – let me say that again, SCARY, to uncurl your vulnerable soul from its hard as metal ball of self-protection. I don’t want to learn from this! I don’t want to be stretched any further! And yet…and yet (Lord have mercy!), I kind of do. It is that exact tension, that violent back and forth between a desire for eternal and then earthly and then eternal again treasures, that wears me thin and leaves me spiritually discombobulated. I can’t straddle this and that, here and there, now and later, and honestly expect to make any progress, to move ahead. It is all or nothing, backwards or forwards. It is totally up to me to either keep my eyes locked in on Jesus or to gape open-mouthed at the waves licking my shins and dousing my plans. I can either take God at His word or panic.

I am realizing as I get older and as my love spreads wider and thicker, grows deep as tree roots in individuals whose mortality lies outside of my control and jurisdiction, that the risks of staying engaged in the lives of those you absolutely and unequivocally adore, are breath-takingly great. I’ve found that jobs get lost, pregnancies miscarry, health is fragile and that death eludes no one. My face is becoming wrinkled from so much wincing. So rather than construct a paper castle for myself only to then spend my energy on dreading the rain, the wind, or the bullies who could so easily knock it down, I’d like to stop for awhile the ambitious scheming, the “I can almost taste it” day dreaming that keeps me distracted from my salvation and the gifts right in front of me. I’d like to quiet my thoughts and phobias, simply “Be” in the presence of my Savior, and replace my impermeableness with a responsive and porous spirit prepared to soak in all of the encounters, whether joyful or taxing, satisfying or sorrowful, divinely designed to rescue each one of us from the lulling effects, the numbing effects, of the tepidness inherent in comfort and material satiation.

When tested by some trial, wrote St. Mark the Ascetic in the Philokalia, you should try to find out not why or through whom it came, but only how to endure it gratefully, without distress or rancor. That right there, my friends, is enough of a challenge to keep me prayerfully occupied for a good long time. That right there is a New Year goal, an every morning goal, a minute-to-minute goal, far superior and far, far more fulfilling than objectives too thin and shallow for supporting the unrealistic expectations we tend to want to heap upon them in lieu of surrendering our most intimate of longings to Christ.

Be anxious for nothing, wrote Saint Paul to the Philippians, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all comprehension, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Yes, it is incomprehensible and harder than anything to stomach much less believe unwaveringly, that it is suffering and trials which bring about illogical peace, peace immune to whatever crazy circumstances life may throw at us. I am trusting here that dogged vigilance will be the key to achieving temperance and an outlook viewing adversity as a tool rather than a hindrance. I am trusting that this year, this day, this minute, there will be plenty of chances for strengthening my resolve to bristle less and comply more -to shift my knee-jerk response to irritation from one of, Come on! You have got to be kidding me! to: Thy Will – Thy Perfect Will Be Done.

Silent

2008-12-16T11:21:00.000-08:00

Mary and Joseph were outfitted first, in head coverings and bed sheets altered to look like robes worn in Biblical times – pretty standard fare for a Nativity reenactment, starring children. The smaller kids then gathered to claim their costumes from a pile of random sheep tails, camel ears, wire halos and sparkling wings. “Here you are, sweetheart,” said a preoccupied volunteer to my four-year-old daughter, Priscilla, who recoiled at the armful of matted brown fur being thrust in her general direction. And though she would never protest openly, the tears in her eyes spoke volumes about her longing to be anything, and I mean anything at all, but a stinky old donkey and so I quickly intervened. I grabbed everything white I could find from the diminishing mound of remnants. Three minutes later, she was beaming, smiling, not crying - relieved as all get out to be an angel.

Priscilla had been anxious the entire week prior to participate in the annual Christmas Pageant being held at Holy Trinity Cathedral. She’d wanted all of her friends and family to watch her perform upon a stage; we made sure before we left there was film in our camera. She was excited when she woke up, excited after liturgy, excited in the church basement getting ready with her fellow miniature thespians. She was excited, excited, excited until the director began with the shushing and the lining up of actors, in order of their appearance, in the hallway. All at once, then, her face contorted into a frozen expression of fear and she couldn’t, simply wouldn’t, get in place. “You can do it,” we coaxed, “It will be fine,” we promised, until it was clear that verbal encouragement was, in this case, not going to cut it. “Come with me daddy,” she begged, after everyone else had already taken their places by the manger and baby Jesus. Photos from that day depict a silent night, holy night, crammed with pint-sized wise men, bleating animals, heavenly hosts, and a 32-year-old man, my man, in a button-up dress shirt holding protectively in his arms a timid cherub.

I am sitting at my computer, fingers poised above the keyboard waiting impatiently for my molten thoughts to cool-off - become touchable, examinable, solid. As a child, I’d wake from a nightmare, grab paper and a pen and try to chase away the demons using misspelled words I’d impulsively string together to form something like an appeal, or perhaps more like a mantra describing evil being conquered by light and kindness. I wrote to name, to try and define that which was frightening, ambiguous, unfamiliar. The stack of journals in my basement, I am often tempted to burn, reveal my three-decades-old dependence on run-on sentences that smother doubt, low self-esteem with their stifling and dramatic weightiness. My attention span was short when it came to math, science, sports, music lessons, but consistently I penned my stories, my made-up songs, my angst-ridden poetry. This, this writing, was all I was ever kind of good at, or at least the only hobby that for a lifetime retained my interest.

I tried in my early twenties to imagine possible scenarios involving me pumping out brilliance O’Connor, Welty, L’Engle style, but I was so far out of their league and that distance between my own feeble skills and their timeless, breath taking capabilities, shut me down – muted me. Compared to others’ contributions mine felt flimsy and amateurish. Why create at all if I could never keep up with the best? I honestly wasn’t pouting, just merely leaving it up to the “experts” to challenge the status quo with their wit and poignancy. It wasn’t until I had nothing, nothing at all to prove, that I was drawn again to write for the therapeutic effects of it. After carrying and birthing four children, after eight years of marriage, after converting from Protestantism to Orthodoxy, I had two tons worth of emotions that needed desperately to be sorted through. I used my God-given survival tactic to find clarity and resolve within the mayhem that is motherhood. I began to pray daily via Microsoft Word.

Now, behold, here I tremble, like Priscilla, at the thought of playing a role in spreading the news of my Savior’s incarnation. News with the potential to be a balm for the broken hearted while inciting the raging fury of those opposed to Truth and its boundaries standing firm against an “anything goes” philosophy. We’re asked to offer whatever we have, guaranteeing a wide and colorful array of gifts and unique treasures to lay before the feet of Christ and His most pure Mother. By presenting my foremost passion as a sacrifice to God, I risk the disapproval of those who find my message irrelevant, redundant, predictable, offensive. I wrestle endlessly with my motives, my insecurities. What could I possibly say that hasn’t been said before by individuals far more versed in the theology of the Church? I am easily discouraged from sharing the peace and redemption I’ve encountered within the Mysteries of the Faith by remembrances of my frailty, naiveté, self-centeredness.

Shepherds, lowly shepherds – unlearned, un-obvious, unable to fall back on fancy pedigrees and solid, sterling reputations to bring legitimacy to their claim that Immanuel had indeed come down to earth as an infant, were chosen, specifically, to hear first the amazing announcement and then to worship for themselves the King of Kings. Had it been scholars, Pharisees, pillars of the community whom were visited that evening by an angelic choir singing triumphantly of a God-man come to save us, I might be justified in stifling my urges to imperfectly express my thankfulness for freedom from the oppression of sin and death. But as it stands, excuses for keeping quiet, for doing nothing, centered on my ignorance and unworthiness, are pretty groundless.

Am I less than fit to represent the love of Christ in a fallen world? Oh mercy, yes – believe me! Am I exempt from trying anyway because of the probability that I’ll be ridiculed, disrespected and ultimately exposed as the fumbling, rambling novice that I am? Were the forgiven prostitutes, the tax collectors, beggars and lepers who spoke openly of their healing to anyone who would listen, more qualified than you or me to be living, dynamic witnesses of the Gospel? Maybe so, if the criteria is hope, and the acceptance that we are nothing, powerless at producing anything entirely noble, outside of God’s grace and salvific intervention. I’ve been going about this backwards, trying to fortify within myself that which should ultimately be leveled and keeping contained that which should flash, boil and spontaneously overflow with gratitude and expectation. There is much to be learned this season about humility, priorities and righteous fervor. Much to contemplate when at last we can declare:

Christ is Born! Glorify Him!

Beautiful

2008-12-09T10:34:00.001-08:00

My brother was getting married in less than a week and I had nothing to wear. Mom watched on patiently as I covered a fitting room floor with pants and blouses and long, short, floral, black, rayon, and linen dresses. I was twenty-years-old, a junior in college, and uncomfortable in my own skin. Within a year, I had cut my hair short - super short - tattooed my shoulder, and began favoring dark nails, dark lips, and dark eyeliner. The clothing I chose and how it hung on my 5’3 frame was crucial – I mean, so very indicative of the identity I was trying to craft like an interior designer using color, patterns, and textures to define a living space.

On that particular day, it was my thighs and their stubborn refusal to elongate and smoothen under the light and airy fabrics revealing cellulite and bulk that were causing me great angst and frustration. My reality and ideals were colliding in a suburban shopping mall and I was resentful of the limitations an inherited figure had placed upon me. I was cursing under my breath a perfectly healthy body until, that is, my mother, holding armloads of hangers and forty some years worth of life experience, had had enough. “I had no idea,” she told me - firmly, calmly, honestly, “that you were so vain.”

When three-year-old Mary gets angry, she’s like an automobile without breaks. Her temper picks up speed if just the slightest amount of pressure is applied to set ideas about how she’ll pass the time or what will go into her mouth as a snack before dinner. “No,” I say, “Not now” or “ Put that away, please,” and off she goes, down a road too twisted and slick for a preschooler to rationally navigate without crashing. Although she twists and turns away from me, I hold her forcibly until she melts into my shoulder with relief. You see she wants to regain control but feels powerless to do so thus, ultimately, she is grateful for an intervention.

On that fateful afternoon, fourteen years ago, in front of a cruel and unforgiving three-way-mirror, I, too, underneath it all, was thankful for being confronted on a self-deprecating obsession which had warped my view of beauty and fulfillment. I admire my mom for risking a daughter’s wrath by not catering to an emotionally, physically, and spiritually destructive tendency to judge my worth in terms of inches, pounds, and good or horrid hair days. Reassuring me that I was perfect (cute, thin, attractive) might have temporarily softened the sting of being flawed, but in the long run would have validated a debilitating assumption that losing sleep over one’s appearance is just par for the course, if you’re a girl.

During the next five years, I would struggle to strike a balance between succumbing to my vanity and denying categorically an inherent desire to be feminine. Due to Scripture verses such as Proverbs 31:30 (Charm is deceitful and beauty is vain, But a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.) and a faction of pious Christian women refreshingly at ease in their simple wardrobes and unmade-up faces, I’d learned to embrace the notion that there should certainly be a disconnect between myself and the materialistic fetishes of our current culture. What I assumed that meant, however, was an immediate and total annihilation of any residual cravings I might be storing in my subconscious to look “pretty.”

And so I devoted myself, throughout the end of my twenties, to not caring (or at least acting like I wasn’t concerned) about something so banal as split ends, dark under-eye circles, or the cut of my skirts. I wore no cosmetics whatsoever and denied myself the luxuriousness of high-heeled shoes or perfume, and then internally I waged a war against jealousy and condemnation of those girls, those Christians, who went right on looking exquisite and put together while I, meanwhile, was near constantly swatting away impulses to follow suit. “This is what You want from me, right?” I prayed earnestly, “Than why am I more focused on my looks (and the looks of others) than ever?”

In 2002, I became a mother for the third time in a matter of four years and my body, which I’d spent the previous decade shaping, ogling, comparing, and then ignoring altogether, broke down from the stress of breastfeeding, sleepless nights, and a lack of solid nutrition. I was feverish, exhausted, and in a good deal of pain from a throat infection I couldn’t shake using Tylenol and lozenges. My doctor lectured me on the merits of taking better care of myself and then wrote me out a prescription for some hefty antibiotics. Seven days later, I was weak but incredibly relieved to be out of bed and able to swallow without grimacing. “Never again,” I promised myself, ”would I let things get this dire.” Vitamins, exercise, and better food choices, I realized, made a marked difference in the quality of my everyday life.

I slowly but surely began processing that separating so starkly my “flesh” from my “spirit” might not be as beneficial as I’d imagined. By first condemning the shape of my legs, my hips, and my ankles, and then alternatively reproaching myself for such pettiness I had, essentially, exchanged one form of blinding negativity for another, losing sight altogether of true meekness. … Inner and real humility, wrote Elder Joseph the Hesychast, is for one to feel, that whatever he has, life, health, wealth, wisdom all are foreign, are gifts of God.

These blessings of blood vessels, organs, and bones housing my soul were to be honored with joy and thanksgiving for their potential to help me represent Christ’s love to a fallen world. Good stewardship of my health and hygiene were just as important as Scripture reading and Church attendance when it came to physically ministering to others. The energy I felt from taking time to nurture my brain, my heart, and my muscles with activity, supplements and whole grains, fresh produce, and lean proteins, not only increased my stamina for playing with the children or listening attentively to my husband at the end of a busy day, but also regulated my emotions which were often out of whack due to fluctuating hormones and exhaustion. After wasting countless hours and much mental duress on attempting to standout, as either an exceptional beauty or a virtuous saint, I was more than ready to fill my thoughts with something, anything, other than myself.

These days, I keep my hair trimmed, my eyebrows plucked, and my weight in check. I found a resale shop in my neighborhood selling gently used clothing in styles and colors I feel great in, for next to nothing. I am thirty-four years old now and satisfied with the likeness of myself reflecting back at me in the mirrored closet door. This body of mine has birthed four infants, has held the hands of hurting friends, has rubbed my spouse’s feet and braided pigtails for my daughter.

This nose inhales the incense in our Church on Sunday mornings; this mouth sings hymns of praise and receives the Eucharist. I respect the expert craftsmanship that went into my creation and do my best to treat this miracle of a unique “ME” as a temple of the living God. I’ve noticed, as I’ve aged, that the women I admire glow even brighter the more you get to know their personalities, and that emulating the godly traits that make them so lovely and striking is a far superior way to grow more Christ-like than trying to become them. God created every one of us for a specific purpose, with distinctive features and distinguishing characteristics. This nation, however, is breeding generations of little girls who disdain their inimitability, wishing only to become clones of one another.

I want for my daughters, Priscilla and Mary, to delight in being female – to make modest choices based on personal preference rather than societal trends. Toys, now, commercials, backpacks, t-shirts, and lunchboxes advertising “role models” I think many parents are uncomfortable with, compete against us for a higher percentage of influence over our families. We are careful in our home to regulate as much as possible the amount of aggressive marketing techniques our kids are exposed to, knowing full well (unless we shut ourselves off completely from the world at large) that, eventually, they’ll have to maneuver around the tricks of the trade themselves and combat what I imagine will be an even more intensive campaign for both their loyalty and money.

It will take prayer, much prayer, and discretion to instill within my daughters a healthy, productive, and Christ-centered sense of confidence that can transcend both conceit and insecurity in order to break through the barriers that “keeping-up” with others can place upon one’s time, witness, and contentment. I must not minimize the pressures placed upon them to fit in, nor compromise our standards centered on being “in this world but not of it.” I will look for signs of struggle, watch for cues to intervene. I will seek out as many opportunities as possible for discussion. Let us offer up to God all of our children, granddaughters, nieces, sisters, and even ourselves that He might save and protect us from faulty thinking and then together, as women precious in His sight, let us praise Him for the love and generosity he bestows upon each of us who were sculpted, with forethought and precision, in His image.

This article is featured in the Fall 2008 issue of The Handmaiden. Click HERE to order a subscription!

Thankful

2008-11-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

It was this time of year in 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th grade, that I would make turkeys at school from out of handprints, or Popsicle sticks, or paper bags, even. I would also list on autumn themed worksheets, which we would tack onto bulletin boards designed to look like giant cornucopias, what exactly I was thankful for. Though I can’t say for certain this is true, I would bet that if you compared those lists side-by-side, they would be nearly identical. “I am thankful for my family,” they would undoubtedly have included, “and God, and having food to eat.” In the latter grades, I may have mentioned “freedom” or possibly our mangy Shi-tsu dog, but all in all, it is pretty safe to say, I covered the basics, the expected, and was done with it.

In but a few short days, I will gather around a festively set table with my in-laws where everyone present will take turns sharing why it is they are grateful. In the past, I’ve mentioned pregnancies, employment for my husband, a new home, and yes, God, food and family. There’s nothing wrong with stating the obvious. Counting frequently my overt blessings is an excellent way to dispel the myth that we are somehow missing out on that greener grass up yonder. But I am thinking of mixing things up, just for kicks, perhaps taking my cue from Metropolitan Philaret’s morning prayer: In unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by You. This Thanksgiving, I’d like to try and redefine what constitutes, as Martha Stewart might say, “a good thing” by digging around a bit in the dirt, examining closer what appears on the surface to be nothing but plain old yuckiness, in search of meaning, enlightenment - gold. So here is it, a rather unconventional, 2008 version of my thankful list displayed here for your viewing pleasure in no particular order:

Bronchitis:
Last winter at this time, I became ill with a nasty sinus infection, which moved swiftly to my lungs and rendered me agonizingly unproductive for nearly two months. I couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t function during the day. Our house reeked of sick and sadness and claustrophobia. Remembering back on how my steady diet of sugar and caffeine mixed with zero aerobic activity, had (surprise, surprise) not really fortified my immune system, I determined a few weeks ago to make some serious changes in preparation for the upcoming flu season. Out of sheer terror, I began exercising regularly, watching what I stuck absentmindedly in my mouth, taking my vitamins consistently, and going to bed before 11:00 pm. Although it’s completely possible that I will still get sick despite these extra precautions, the side effects of my wellness inspired vigilance have been remarkable. I am awake, wide awake. I have fewer cravings for empty calories. By hitting bottom, I became desperate enough to better myself physically and ultimately emotionally as well.

The Demanding Threes:
Oh, I know what they say about the terrible twos, how that period from 18 to 36 months is the most trying for parents, the most frustrating. But having lived through that stage four times over, I beg to differ. For me, it was (is) the threes - the “demanding three’s” I like to call them. At three-years-old, each of my children turned a corner developmentally and they used all those burgeoning verbal and reasoning skills to strip me of patience, with the speed and utter thoroughness of piranhas ripping flesh from a floating carcass.

My daughter, Mary, for instance, was a mild mannered baby. She’d play quietly with her toes, smile readily, and drift off in her crib peacefully without me rocking her or pacing the floors back and forth swinging her steadily in my arms. In August, however, she left toddlerhood behind and crossed over the threshold into preschooler territory. Ever since then, pouty lips, nonsensical requirements (such as socks that are neither too tight, too stretchy, too purple nor too bulky, for example) and clinginess have replaced her previous ability to independently entertain herself. She’s also stopped taking naps unless I lie down right beside her until eventually she falls asleep, at which point I can sneak, with ninja-like stealth, out of her bedroom.

At first this new cramp in my afternoon schedule made me fume inside with annoyance, thinking of all I wasn’t accomplishing just lying there for half an hour, staring at the walls. After several days of this, however, I surrendered to the present situation at hand, the one that wasn’t changing no matter how stern I got or how many bribes I offered. Mary’s dainty little body inhaling and exhaling, her warm and delicate breath on my face, began to lull me into a state of relaxation. I now look forward to our naptime, or at least I don’t resent it and that is kind of like being thankful, so it counts.

My Husband’s Long Work Commute:
Oh boy, this is going to be challenging.
I knew that when we left the city and yet Troy’s job didn’t, a major downside to our otherwise lovely life in small town America would be the twelve-and-a-half hour work days Troy would have to put in due to a really long train ride in and out of Chicago. What this has meant for me is that at 5:30 pm, when I naturally start shutting down, he isn’t there the way he used to be to tend to the kids while I finish making dinner. He isn’t there at 6:30 pm to start the bedtime routine while I clean up. He can’t come home if I feel sick, can’t go in a little later if I’m particularly exhausted and unfortunately, there’s very little “us” time in the evenings. And now I need to interject a moment to tell all of you single mothers or mothers with husbands in the military gone for weeks and months at a time, that in my eyes you’re akin to cape sporting, high-flying, super heroes and just knowing you’re out there raising your children all on your own makes me actually feel very sheepish about my bellyaching.

But thankfulness, back to thankfulness. I am thankful for the minutes that come after my declaration of: I simply cannot do this anymore! Because it turns out that when you have to go on, despite the fear, loneliness and weariness, despite what looks and tastes and smells like insurmountable obstacles in your path, by God’s grace, you somehow do. And though our methods for staying afloat may not be pretty or ideal (i.e. Elmo or pancakes –again- for dinner), the fact that you made it through to other side of those baths, that tantrum, that never ending, teeth- clenching afternoon means that you and I are more resilient than we ever imagined we could be. It means that yes, yes we can do all things through Jesus Christ who strengthens us (Phil. 4:13).

The High Price of Food, Clothing and Technological Gadgets:
So I was standing in the middle of Aldi not too long ago holding a calculator and a shopping list. Things were tight, the refrigerator was empty, and payday was another week away. I’d brought cash so as not to overspend, as is easy to do with credit cards. What I had was what I had. Period. I began with my staples– milk, eggs, cheese, fruit and vegetables. From there I had to separate my actual needs from my perceived ones, which, it turns out, were merely “wants” masquerading as things we absolutely, positively, cannot live without. I pared down that original list, more than once, by the time I got to the check-out line. I left the store with a dollar in change and an unexpected sense of fulfillment at having successfully avoided the costly trappings of impulse buys and convenience foods. By thinking twice, I had beaten a system based on knee-jerk decision-making and an “enjoy it now, pay for it later” mentality.

See, here is the thing (the thing I’m trying to explain to our kids who swear backwards and forwards to me that if they only had that one special item, they’d be satisfied forever): having stuff is addicting. I know this because, say, I get a dress – automatically, I want shoes to go with it. New pillows for my couch – I’ll want a throw rug. What’s cable without a DVR? What good’s a cell phone without Internet access? A new winter hat? What about gloves, a scarf – heck, a better quality coat? A-h-h-h! Somebody stop me! Oh wait…I can’t afford any of those things, not when my children need to eat and stay warm and become educated. By not having the minimal funds necessary to even begin competing in the game, I am totally disqualified from playing. So, once again, I am oddly thankful, thankful for the financial limitations that, for now, are protecting me from getting caught up in a rat race I’m not yet disciplined enough to simply stroll through without getting trampled.

And then there’s the engine light that’s gone on in our minivan and the mysterious leak in our attic. What about $3.00 ATM fees or all that spam in my e-mail inbox? Maybe next year, I’ll have matured enough to find their silver lining. After all, it is a process, the changing of one’s mindset from superficial to eternal, one I’ll struggle to undergo throughout the rest of my life. But here’s the good news: God is patient. He understands how hard it is to stay spiritually alert what with all that distracting noise and, what the younger generations like to refer to as, “bling” up in our faces. Thus His gifts of the holy Church, the holy sacraments and the Holy Spirit, to help us stay focused. ‘Tis the season, as they say, for remembering our great fortune at having access to Christ’s goodness and mercy in even the most difficult and trying of circumstances. I wish for you and for me, an extended spirit of gratitude made more palpable by our hope and acts of kindness.

Tenacity

2008-11-05T15:35:00.000-08:00

It was a hard call. On the one hand there were article deadlines looming, but then again, the boys were all out of underwear. Dinner? Oh, please; that wasn’t even on my radar screen and, oh yeah, I just remembered, I also volunteered to lead a book club for 4-7 year olds this Thursday centered around the riveting theme of “Apples.” What to tackle first? With so much on my plate, it was important to proceed wisely, making the most of what little time I had available to devote to each task. With so much at stake, I sat myself down and chose… avoidance. I caved in to my impulses. I wasted an hour researching digital cameras and reading articles while the mess got messier and my mood, grumpier. It’s tiring, stressful, frustrating to fall behind.

I grew up immersed in order, watching my mother fight clutter like her life, our lives, depended on it. My job was to clear the table and clean the bathrooms; my brother emptied the garbage and mowed the lawn. Sure, I resented it. I couldn’t fathom why my mom would get so testy about our lack of concern over smudged windows or a sink-full of dishes. I went to college and rebelled by throwing everything, including clothes, folders, and textbooks, on my dorm room floor.

I wish I could blame it solely on my environment - on cell phones, on the Internet. I’ve tried to hide behind a conviction stating women need no longer be held captive by domesticity. It would be convenient to claim for myself a free-spirited, unconventional identity and be done with it already but the truth is, I’ve wrestled for years and years and years now with feelings of guilt and anxiety due to my living by the seat of my pants and just barely getting away with it – because I’ve been permanently stuck in crisis mode. I’ve overspent, overeaten, overreacted and under appreciated my many, many blessings in response to that terrifying sensation of feeling out of control. For years and years and years, I chastised myself for a myriad of reasons including what I assumed was a lack of empathy and a limited amount of patience. I agonized over character flaws I was sure were deeply rooted in my soul.

Two weeks ago, my husband, Troy, went to town on our garage, installing hand-me-down cabinets and putting away bikes, tools and beach toys. Inspired, I rolled up my sleeves and got busy myself, tackling one room at a time while washing load after load of laundry. For eight hours, eight literal hours, I scrubbed, swept and sorted, pausing only to prepare meals for my kids. By that evening, I was sore and sweaty, and giddy with satisfaction. I’d given my all to a difficult task and the outcome was unbelievable fulfillment. For in the arduous process of bringing beauty and rhythm to our home, I forgot to check my e-mail, to long for stuff we can’t afford, or to dull my mind with stimuli neither relevant nor affirming. All those pesky “what-ifs” that often leave me shaking in my boots were effectively muted by nothing more than simple elbow grease and the thrill of accomplishing something I had started.

What my mother embodied while raising us, which as an adult I struggled for so long to emulate, was not superhuman talent or energy, but rather a solid sense of purpose uncomplicated by the lure of rampant escapism effectively stripping our generation of a respect for moderation, stick-to-itiveness and frugality. She was, and is, an excellent steward of the gifts bestowed upon her and has long understood that the quality of her life hinges solely on her willingness to make the most of her present circumstances. Whether she’s ironing, filing papers, entertaining guests or baking scones, she commits to that specific undertaking wholeheartedly and thus enjoys the many fruits of her labor, including relief from the nagging self-doubts that often accompany idleness and taunt a mind all wrapped up in itself. “Wow," my sister-in-law, Paige, once told me, “When my house is clean, I remember how much I like it.” And isn’t that true of anything we care for including jobs made more enjoyable by a tidy workspace, dinners more scrumptious because of a table set neatly, feverish babies finally resting on the shoulder of a parent willing to temporarily set aside their heavy workload for the sake of their child.

The more we separate ourselves from reality by way of living beyond our means, having an unhealthy preoccupation with instant access to stuff, entertainment, and information via our computers, Blackberries and DVR’s, and withdrawing from our communities in favor of keeping to ourselves and our self-absorbed addictions, the faster numbness and unbridled restlessness will set in until we forget, altogether, what it means to be truly, thoroughly, joyful. For the past fourteen days, I’ve endured a sort of technological detox, praying through the urges to flee the mundaneness of my responsibilities and surrender to the lure of on-line videos, healthy eating tips, and homeschool chat rooms. I exchanged irritability, seclusion and shame for a vested interest in the people and objects pertinent to my role as a mother, wife and neighbor. I tasted of achievement and it was far more delicious and nourishing than the unsubstantial, muscle-zapping sugariness of evasion.

Twice last week, opportunities to meet a need presented themselves – opportunities I would have never considered or even noticed had I been drowning in my usual ocean of chaos. I could be hospitable, volunteer to bring dinner or watch a child because for once I was being proactive, rather than passive. Just a bit of organization went such a very long way in allowing me the enormous pleasure of participating in Christ’s mission to sacrificially love others. There is no shortcut, no substitute for a strong work ethic when it comes to squeezing the most you possibly can from out these brief years spent on earth. I ask for your prayers as I continue to battle, every minute, for victory over my laziness and weak resolve. The faith of a mustard seed is what I’m aiming for, here, and confidence that God will pick me up and dust me off - will forgive me when I stumble. It’s not painless, my friends, all that unplugging and sustained exertion but nothing can compare with the elation that comes with freedom from enslavement to our barren whims. There is no time like the present to choose depth over shallowness and excellence over cheap and easy. Enough procrastination … let’s begin!

Rest

2008-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

If I stir, if I twitch, if I cough or clear my throat, if the phone rings, if the birds outside our window start up again with all that maddening, infuriating, cruel and incessant chirping, he will open his eyes and I will vomit on the floor. It’s been eight days since I’ve slept for more than an hour or two consecutively, eight days since I delivered that crimson bundle of skin and hair now swaddled and lying still at my side, save for his frail and spastic breathing heightening the tension like ominous music foreshadowing danger and doom; he scares me.

Why, oh mercy, can’t I shut out the noise of my half-baked thoughts and lose consciousness? Stand me up, sit me down and I’ll drift off like a narcoleptic but here, in my bed, all reclined and covered with blankets, there’s too much pressure to take advantage of this fleeting opportunity to achieve sanity via quiescence, to make up for those nights void of any relief from exhaustion - my exhaustion putting a strangle hold on the normalcy I took for granted before my life imploded. I am suffocating.

You don’t ease yourself into motherhood, pausing between each new responsibility to catch your breath, slowly adjust to the changes, become acclimated. It’s more a jump off a cliff into the ocean then sink or swim sort of deal. A fair amount of flailing and panic, those first few months, are to be expected. The sleep issue (or more specifically, how new moms don’t get any) was a big one for me. I’d hear women complaining about their surly, sometimes lazy adolescents and I’d find myself pining for the season when I’d be frustrated by a son who’d moan and groan when told repeatedly to “wake up and get a move on!” I swore to myself that if I somehow survived his infancy, I would revel and rejoice in Elijah’s addiction to his pillow and blue cotton sheets. In fact, I’d crawl in right beside him and he and I would snore, drool, dream away the mornings. The two of us would finally, after all those trying years, refuel and refuse to greet the day until we were good and darn ready to. I’ve made many such vows as a mom too ridiculous, too impractical to keep.

Of course, I have to shake him now and turn the lights on and announce LOUDLY a dozen times over that it is, “time, young man, to get down here for breakfast!” I made it through, somehow, to that next stage of parenting where the nights are uneventful and the days are but a blur of classes and clubs, errands and meal preparing. Rarely, anymore, am I jolted from out of a deep and heavy slumber by crying or the urgent needs of fitful little ones. When I retire for the evening, I can expect, for the most part, to make it all the way through to dawn without interruption. And yet, silly me, I’ve been fighting a fog of fatigue, lately - one I’ve managed to stumble into all on my own, by way of dawdling. I’m beat, I’m telling you, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine.

We read a lot in home school, which is lovely but sometimes painful in a “I was up until 3:00 am studying and now this 8:00 am Western Civilization class is practically forcing my eyelids to close” kind of way. The subject matter is interesting but also quiet and scholarly, and nothing at all like a cold shower. “Break time,” I declare every fifteen minutes or so to stretch my legs, refill my mug and keep from passing out cold on the couch. “But too much coffee,” I once complained to my brother, “makes me jittery and even more tired later on.” To which he replied,

“You know what the cure for that is, don’t you? More coffee.”

I had an epiphany last week while sitting back down to continue on with that day’s assignment: More than half of my current frustrations, including my sluggishness, lack of productivity and my irritability, would decrease dramatically if I…brace yourselves for this…went to bed earlier. I wasn’t helpless. I could decide not to send out yet another e-mail or put down my novel. It’s just so much more convenient to pour some Espresso on the problem than to organize my life and make room for the actual solution. It takes discipline to set boundaries, to pry your attention away from the task or distraction at hand and make surrendering to the source for true refreshment and well-being a priority.

“He promised to send the Holy Spirit,” I read to my children, between yawns, from Barbara Pappas’s excellent book, God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love, “The Holy Spirit would be with them always! The Holy Spirit would give them power to do everything God wanted them to do. The Holy Spirit would fill their hearts with as much of God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love as they would let in.” And then I paused, I read that final sentence again, struck even in my sleepy state by the significance of those last five words. How many of us still picture in our heads a God that comes and goes, depending on our worthiness? How awesome would it be to help our kids absorb early on that His promises are constant, consistent, and unbreakable? It is tempting to make things more complicated than they need be when we cannot wrap our minds around a Love that’s not dependent on our actions or intentions or ability to reciprocate with the same degree of steadiness and deified perfection. It requires restraint to ignore our doubts and take Christ at His word.

If I wander, if I forget, if I concentrate on only the warning signs or spend all of my waning energy on treating the symptoms and not the cause of my agitation; if I run in the opposite direction of where calm and rejuvenation originate and perpetually generate in the form Christ and His plan for our Salvation, God will nevertheless keep His arms open wide and I will only be hurting myself by choosing, by preferring the coldness and the darkness of my own egotism to His warmth and brightness. It’s been too long since I last yielded to my cravings for wholeness and rest. It’s up to me to change direction, to slow down, to turn around - to accept the incomprehensible and be satisfied.

Checklist

2008-10-07T12:58:00.000-07:00

They’d be arriving in fifteen minutes. I was sweating, literally perspiring from sprinting into rooms and out of rooms shoving clothes into closets and wiping down counter tops. I was desperately hoping the kids would have been settled by then, in their beds, reading quietly but, no, no, they were doing nothing of the sort. Five minutes. It was only five minutes now until my new neighbor friends came over for dessert and coffee. I had five minutes to construct an environment reflecting harmony and order where there was none. “Do NOT get out of your rooms!” I ordered the children.

“Your home,” they said, “it’s lovely.”

“Oh, thank you,” I answered casually, handing out pie pieces on porcelain plates. “We love it here,” I added, gathering from the looks on their faces that I was succeeding in presenting our family as respectable, delightful, God-fearing people worth getting to know. The evening went well, exactly as I’d hoped it would. Why, then, did I feel just a teensy bit guilty, like I had pulled something over on my guests? It wasn’t the first time or the last that I’d question my motives, my genuineness - my identity.

For the past twelve years I’ve been chasing around a shadow, attempting to fuse myself to that which comes and goes with a change in whatever social climate I’m currently trying to adapt to. The vision I have for what I could and probably should be can broaden, shrink, or disappear completely depending on where I stand and what or who is positioned next to me. I used to know what to say, how to act, how to carry myself in such a way that would communicate clearly my commitment to the Christian faith - you know, the updated version of it where you totally believe but also totally relate and try to look like and sound like those who don’t.

I was autonomous back then (no spouse, no kids, no needs to meet besides my own) and thus in a better position to craft a persona and stick with it. But you’ve heard what they say about familiarity breeding contempt; knowing thoroughly all of the rules, the proper etiquette and what was expected of me, I felt justified critiquing a system on which I was, obviously, an expert. After arrogantly picking it apart, I was ready to move on to something else, anything else, with the capacity to challenge or even surprise me.

Ask me now what I know or how confident I am that my next decision, step, or word spoken will be the right one; ask me how comfortable I feel as an Orthodox Christian, even a decade after converting; ask me today the best way to identify a real follower of Christ. My indefinite answers might make many (myself included) a little uneasy. I’ve tried, for the longest darn time, to find some sort of formula, to figure out this Eastern Orthodoxy and fall into a spiritual rhythm I could memorize and depend on to feel authentic. At first this seemed challenging, yes, but doable. Fasting? Check. Saturday night Vigil? Check. Pre-Communion prayers? Evening Prayers? Morning Prayers? Check. Prayer Rope? Icons? Censer? Check. Check. Check. I went from 0 to 60 mph in one month flat, ascetically speaking, and was pretty sure I was proving myself to be a serious, “in this for the long haul,” type of convert.

I knew better than to think that my zealousness was guaranteeing me God’s approval, but…well, I kind of thought it anyway. In fact, I worried, or more like agonized, when I wasn’t disciplined enough to cut out dairy on a Friday or attend a weekday service, that I was failing to represent a sort of “one size fits all” ideal I’d managed to piece together from observing my fellow parishioners. I couldn’t shake that old habit of measuring my success as a Christian up against the status quo. The natural ebb and flow of faith and doubt, warmth and coldness, restraint and indulgence, I interpreted as signs of ineptness. I reasoned in terms of “good” and “bad”; I reasoned instead of listened. I’ve been attempting to keep up with that mom, so friendly and patient, and that couple over there with the beautiful, sweet, charming children and that fellow with a passion for serving the poor, but it isn’t working.

God, I thank You that I am not like other men—extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector. Every year, as Great Lent approaches, Orthodox Christians around the world are reminded that a Pharisaic confidence in ourselves and our pious efforts can bar our path towards enlightenment by blinding our eyes and blocking our ears to the wisdom granted only to those whose humility and dependence upon the compassion of the Holy Trinity keep them close enough to the Spirit to hear God’s will for any given situation delivered in whispers. God be merciful to me, a sinner, prayed the cheating, lying tax collector, having no leverage whatsoever with which to “earn” such a reward. It is this publican, Jesus tells us, who left forgiven.

Of all the astute things my priest has shared with us, the most helpful as of late has been about mystery - the Mystery of the Church and its inherent ambiguity when it comes to salvation. There is a necessary vagueness in the miracle of the sacraments lest we focus too much on the gifts ( how exactly they work and who most deserves them) and not the giver. When I act, using the tools provided by the Church, out of love and a longing for more and more of Christ, they effectively strip me of the biases and assumptions interfering with Divine Illumination and the Peace transcending all understanding. When I view them as a mandatory checklist for attaining the grace of God, however, those exact same tools break me down and remind me that I am nothing, capable of nothing pure or selfless on my own. I can’t, I am realizing, assess the Faith, define it, or try and crack it like a code if I want to tap into its soul transforming, life changing capabilities. No, it’s only through living it, clinging to it on a daily, moment-to-moment basis that I find any relief from the treadmill effect of feeling full of pride one minute and in despair over my sinfulness the next.

Just last week, my wonderful Matushka, our priest’s wife, stopped by the house. It was a wreck; the kids were loud and disruptive. I was exposed as the frazzled and fallible gal I am and it was humbling, very humbling, to say the least. Without batting an eye at the chaos, she kept on making small talk and then proceeded to help me clean the kitchen, sweeping floors and washing dishes while I dried them. I had nothing of value to give in return for her kindness and generosity – no flowers, no zucchini bread, no bottle of wine, only a flimsy but heartfelt thank you which I offered again and again. She left and I teared up because it’s healing but also painful to have to accept for yourself and reveal to others your weaknesses. I was pondering this fact when I walked down to the basement to get my laundry and found a basket full of clean but rumpled clothing belonging to my sister-in-law whose been borrowing our dryer till theirs gets repaired. Having been blessed so undeservedly, I wanted to show my appreciation and pass on a mere portion of the thoughtfulness I’d experienced and so I folded those clothes, Paige’s clothes, because that’s what was right in front of me.

And so it goes, I inch my way from one lesson and revelation to the next, never peering too far ahead and praying continually for the fortitude and the confidence to not look back. From this day, from this hour, from this minute, said St. Herman of Alaska, let us strive to love GOD above all. There is clarity for those who seek it out of a yearning for true communion with the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. It’s crazy illogical and totally maddening, intellectually, that God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise and the weak to shame the strong (I Cor. 1:27), but there it is, plain as day, as hard as anything to accept but so freeing and fulfilling for those brave enough to get over themselves, let go of their misguided preconceptions and follow willingly the Truth of Christ as revealed through His Holy Church, wherever it leads them.

Aflame

2008-09-17T21:10:00.000-07:00

They were both on my lap, each elbowing the other. I wanted my coffee but it was too far out of reach and lukewarm now. “Can you stop that, please?” I asked, scarcely masking my growing impatience by speaking slower and a tad more loudly than I normally would, if I hadn’t been trying my hardest to keep from snapping. Last year I decided I wouldn’t send our children back to their public school when August rolled around. I ordered my own curriculum, rather, and joined a homeschool group in my neighborhood, and now I am shooing away those nagging insecurities with their unproductive assumptions. As if I wasn’t certain enough that I have patience issues and some serious organizational deficiencies.

We have breakfast first, followed by readings from Scriptures and then a story, an Orthodox story involving saints or important feast days. There is so very much to learn about our Faith, and they are old enough, I believe, to start moving past the “hows” and onto the “whys.” For it’s the reasons behind the actions that fill empty gestures with meaning. It’s Her past, Her heroes, Her Tradition and theology that make the Church such a strong and sturdy refuge from the wily entrapments of sin and distorted “truths.”

Ideally, before I embarked each morning on this monumental task of ingraining within my children a love for the teachings of Christ, the house would be in order; I’d sit in our living room rocking chair with the four of them at my feet, listening attentively and interrupting only every so often to ask a clarifying and completely applicable question. We’d end in prayer, of course. I’d have no need to bite my lip in order to keep from speaking harshly. And the kids would be enthralled, so utterly moved by the sacrifices and bravery of the martyrs who spilled their blood for the sake of the cross. But ideals, it turns out, can be the bane of my existence as a mom.

There is something about bored expressions, a screaming preschooler, and piles of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink that can dampen a mother’s mood and negate the significance of a family devotional. As hard as I try to muffle all of the paralyzing and negative self-conjecturing, suggesting I’m not spiritually mature or disciplined enough to make these concepts penetrate through our thick and impermeable obsession with ourselves, I can’t help but think repeatedly, “Why, why, why, why bother?”

We had moved into the living room, where I cleared a spot on the love seat and grumbled at the kids about the mess, their bickering, and their antsy-ness, before opening to Chapter 6 in the book, Grandmother’s Spiritual Stories: An Orthodox Treasury of Stories for Young and Old, written by Georgia Hronas. “The Miraculous Light of the Tomb of Christ,” I began. “Benjamin, are you listening? Keep your hands away from your sister, please!” And I went on, with a downcast and tired demeanor, to share with my sons and daughters about the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem where every Holy Saturday a miracle occurs drawing thousands of pilgrims annually who wish to witness for themselves, “The Sacred Light.”

Also known as the Holy Sepulchre, The Church of the Resurrection has a courtyard, the Golgotha, which is the area where the Holy Cross and tomb of Christ were found by Saint Helen, the mother of the Emperor Constantine. The Patriarch arrives at the tomb at 11:00 am, I read. He performs a Litany around the Tomb chanting special prayers and Psalms. And then he pauses before the entrance of the Holy Tomb. There, in the presence of the pilgrims, the Patriarch is searched to insure that he has nothing with which to start a fire.

I had heard of this event. I know someone who traveled many, many miles to take part in that holiest of celebrations. But on this day, just an ordinary Tuesday with a long and tedious week ahead of me, this detailed account describing how at midnight, while the Patriarch prays with earnestness in pitch blackness, a bluish colored light appears suddenly, turning white, then into a red flame before igniting the Patriarch’s candles and the vigil lamp on the Holy Tomb, gave me chills and even piqued my children’s interest. It’s shocking, isn’t it? Especially if what you’re used to is complete and total access to a domesticated version of God, whom this nation has no qualms about mocking or defining or limiting the role of to but a mild mannered wish granter who is ours for the reconfiguring when the changing tastes of society demand it. A true display of sacredness, in all of its terrifying glory, rarely leaves one feeling comfortable or unchallenged.

What I personally experienced was an overwhelming sense of unworthiness. I imagined the fasting, the waiting for hours upon hours, all the sacrificing of time, convenience and personal space made by the Christ-hungry parishioners packed shoulder to shoulder in nervous anticipation of something bigger and so much brighter than their day-to-day disappointments and frustrations. I saw my own distracted soul, so easily put out by the mundane-ness of my chores, by children being children, and by the intensity of the life I was created to live but so often water down because it’s hard, good gracious is it hard, to deny yourself.

I looked over at Elijah, Priscilla, Ben and Mary; I took in the sight of my cluttered and un-swept home; I remembered how often I forget to put salvation at the forefront of my goals, thoughts, and decisions; I questioned my capabilities as an Orthodox Christian parent called to pass on my convictions and exemplify a Trinitarian inspired love of God and my neighbors. It became obvious that I was failing, that I was flailing and drowning because I’d ceased depending on Christ and was now swimming upstream on my own. “We’re almost finished,” I assured them, “after this page we’ll take a break. I promise.” When they were quiet again, I continued, picking up near the end of the chapter with a testimony from a middle-aged man who had journeyed from Greece to Jerusalem to take part in the Paschal Divine Liturgy and receive for himself a small portion of the extraordinary and Spirit-filled fire spread from candle to candle among the faithful.

I went to church early, he explained, so I could get a good seat close to the tomb of Christ. As people began to arrive, the church was filled with thousands of people and I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave and went to the courtyard where I sat on a bench. When the light came and everybody was rejoicing, I cried, praying and saying, ‘O Lord, I traveled so far to see your Holy Light, and because of my sins and weakness I was unable to see it.' Oh how I felt for that man! It was as if I were seated next to him, also looking back from a distance on the obedience and steadfastness of my spiritual brothers and sisters whom I’d unsuccessfully tried to emulate only to be left feeling isolated by and quite ashamed of my limitations. We were together there, on the bench outside the church, asking God for mercy and coming to terms with our own inadequacies. As I was praying, he continued (and I continued, vicariously through him), I held my thirty-three candles with both hands on my knees. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a flicker of light like a small lightening bolt and lit my candles. My eyes were filled with tears, and my heart with great joy. My joy was so great that I stood up and shouted as loud as I could with the others, ‘I have seen your Holy Light, Oh Lord, Glory be to You!!!”

Although nothing changed outwardly; although my life was no less stressful; although we had not one more penny in the bank or one less bill to pay; although my kids were still feisty and my house still a wreck, I took comfort, an enormous amount of comfort in being treasured undeservedly by a God who is bigger and so much brighter than my own day-to-day trials and let downs. “I can’t do this!” I cried, and He blessed my newfound wisdom not with material prosperity or by releasing me from my obligations and the weight of my uncertainties, but rather by revealing to me that He is more than enough. I carry this hope like a divinely lit candle and the closer I remain to the Source of that illumination, the less I stumble around in confusion, tripping over the same old hindrances to my peace of mind.

What good are my words if my heart isn’t in them? How can I speak to my family about serenity and meekness and forgiveness, about the completeness of a life lived for Christ, while still enslaved to my fears and aggravations? What greater gift can I give to my children and husband, to you, or to myself than moving nearer, and nearer still, towards God through prayer, almsgiving, and the sacraments of His Church? What else, I daresay, even matters?

Photo by Tanjica Perovic on Flickr.

Honorable

2008-08-26T06:33:00.000-07:00

Last May, I received a phone call from my nine-year-old son, Elijah, but I couldn’t understand him due to his intermittent sobbing between just about every other sentence, “I’m in trouble,” he was whispering (at least I think that’s what he said), “but I’m not sure why.”

I am forever on a quest to make the abstract more accessible, particularly in areas of faith where miracles lose their significance, their capacity to wow and woo, over time. But maybe that’s just me, which is all the more reason to spend my years fighting, praying for the discipline to understand and absorb what is holy but hidden from the loud, the extravagant, the rational. In giving birth you preserved your virginity, in falling asleep you did not forsake the world O Theotokos, we were singing as a family a couple of weeks ago in preparation for the Feast of the Dormition, when the Orthodox Church commemorates the bodily ascent of Mary into heaven at the end of a fruitful yet often excruciating life. I chanted the Troparian slowly, so my children could make out clearly the words, which, as usual, I believed in but had a difficult time making penetrate my present circumstances.

Mary, Theotokos: there is so much I simply cannot comprehend about her multi-faceted identity as the Mother of God.

Elijah’s teacher got on the phone, “Mrs. Sabourin, we’ve had an incident.”

My chest tightened, my heart rate quickened, “What’s going on?”

After Columbine and Virginia Tech - in the aftermath of too many horrific occurrences involving senseless brutality and young people in our public schools, strict rules were set in place and uniformly followed through on. “I really don’t think that your son meant any harm,” purred Mrs. H, “but unfortunately, we didn’t have a choice. It is school policy that if any student makes a threat of any kind, that threat will be taken seriously and the student evaluated by a counselor. “Its just protocol,” was the underlying message I was receiving, as in, “Your fears about the darkening of your son’s reputation sound awfully paranoid for the situation at hand.” I was assured that the episode had been investigated and deemed innocuous. But Elijah, still raw with inexperience, was only beginning to come to terms with the shame and confusion accompanying those accusations, accusations of a type of violence he’d never previously been exposed to in either thought or word or deed. “If only you knew him like I did,” I’d briefly contemplated mentioning but just as quickly decided against it lest such a sentiment be interpreted as biased, overly meddlesome, or spitefully ignorant.

“Can you believe he stayed with her?” they probably asked amongst themselves, maybe whispered in her presence.

The moment she willingly accepted would mark the dawn of her public demise. From that day forth, her morality, convictions, and pious character would be called into question. She would have been isolated enough, both raising and being raised by God, without the added stigma of having her selflessness couched within nearly impossible to defy innuendos suggesting Mary was but a slave to her own base desires. “Let it be to me,” she said, ”according to your word,” and the bar was set for all of us who’d dare to swallow the Fire, the passions-searing inferno that is Christ.

“Would you mind if I shared your story?” I asked Elijah, “Because when I think about it, when I remember how agitated I felt as your mother when you were so grossly misunderstood, I can relate just a sliver to the sadness felt most certainly by the Theotokos as she observed helplessly the abuse of her own Son at the hands (and slanderous tongues) of His creation.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “But first let me tell you exactly what happened,” and I listened with rapt attention as before, he’d felt uncomfortable opening up to me. “At recess we’d play tag, boys against girls,” Elijah began. “This one kid, Stephanie (I will call her in this piece for the sake of anonymity) is a really fast runner and we would tease each other about whose team was better, hers or mine. I like Stephanie, she is funny – she is my friend. I should have been paying attention in music class but I got bored and so, to be silly, I doodled on a handout, Destroy Stephanie, and showed it to the person next to me who laughed and then passed it down the row. Stephanie giggled too but then my teacher grabbed the paper and then ran and got another teacher and then they both took me out into the hallway and had me sit in a desk for like an hour waiting to talk to a lady about my threatening behavior. I was so confused, mom. I felt yucky and really embarrassed. I cried, but I don’t think the other kids saw me.”

“Is this Mrs. P?” I asked, all anxious-like and edgy, “I am Molly Sabourin, Elijah’s mom.” And I was ready to defend with a vengeance my tender, squirmy, and verbally precocious child until the counselor cut me off with just a hint of irritation in her otherwise calming demeanor:

“Oh my goodness, Mrs. Sabourin, this whole situation is just nothing but ridiculous. I have three boys of my own and they are forever destroying each other and their fictitious enemies. Yes, we have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to threats against the school, but in this case it was obvious that your son had no intentions of hurting anyone. He was horrified, quite frankly, and I did my best to help him realize that the entire affair was just a huge misunderstanding. I’d advise you not to question Elijah unless he brings it up himself. I promised him that it was over and not worth fretting about.”

But what if she hadn’t, hadn’t promised him or appeased me? What if someday Elijah, or his siblings, or even Troy and I are pegged as a threat to peace and democracy - not for a foolish mistake, for crossing a line inadvertently, but rather for purposefully adhering to our Orthodox Christian beliefs at the expense of evolving American values keeping time with dangerous whims born of self-enlightenment. I worry for my kids; this world is changing rapidly, growing increasingly hostile towards Truth. There will come a day when opportunities are lost, freedoms restricted, reputations tainted by a refusal to compromise or espouse what was once viewed as sin but has now been gussied up and repackaged as open mindedness. It is highly possible that when such a day arrives, justice will elude our “bigoted” family. So, what then?

Imagine. Can you imagine being a witness to the torturing and the murder of both your son and supposed savior? The despair would be immeasurable, unfathomable, unbearable. After all she’d already surrendered to play a part in the restoration of man’s communion with the living God, her burning hope, which had kept her focused on the bigger picture, was inexplicably snuffed out with Jesus’ final declaration of “It is finished.”

“So, what now?’ she must have wondered in misery.

Not too long ago, I’d felt justified keeping Mary in her place as but a shell whose flesh was pre-ordained to house temporarily the incarnate God-man who alone was worthy of all my praise and reverence. As far as I knew, there were only two options: either ignore Mary or commit heresy by exalting her to the same level as Jesus and by doing so, deflect from His salvific work on the Cross. Knowing what I know presently, however, what I’ve been privileged to discover through Orthodoxy concerning a third choice, (one so sound and logical and compelling that every other alternative now seems to me to be lacking in fullness and substance when viewed in light of it) it makes perfect theological sense that the continual remembrance of Mary’s faithfulness to her Lord, throughout trials more straining and demanding then any other human being has ever encountered, is absolutely necessary for a complete experience of the Faith as was originally lived out by the apostles. Archbishop Dmitri of Dallas and the South wrote the following concerning the veneration of Mary:

The Orthodox Church honors and venerates the Virgin Mary as "more honourable than the Cherubim and more glorious without compare than the Seraphim.........." Her name is mentioned in every service, and her intercession before the throne of God is asked. She is given the title of "Theotokos" (Greek for "Birth-giver-of-God), as well as "Mother of God". She has a definite role in Orthodox Christianity, and can in no way be considered an instrument which, once used, was laid aside and forgotten. … The Virgin Mary in the Orthodox view is not regarded as a mediatrix or co-redemptress. She is an intercessor for us, and the content of prayer addressed to her is a request for her intercession. The Orthodox concept of the Church is the basic reason for the invocation of the Theotokos and all the saints. The Militant Church on earth and the Victorious Church in heaven are intimately bound together in love. If it is proper for one sinner to ask another sinner to pray for him, how much more fitting it must be to ask the saints already glorified and near the throne of God to pray for us. Surely, they know something of what goes on here, for else how could there be rejoicing in heaven over the conversion of one sinner? (Luke 15:10) The saints in heaven are equals of the angels (Luke 20:36), who are used by God in the accomplishment of His purpose (Acts 12:7).

There are many lovely hymns in the Orthodox Church; my favorite is sung to Mary during the Paschal Divine Liturgy. For three days she mourned, for the whole of her life she remained obedient in the midst of ridicule, prejudice, and persecution. I get chills when the time comes to travel with the angels to our grieving Theotokos, to share with her the glorious news of our triumph over death through Her Son’s Resurrection:

The Angel cried to the Lady full of grace
Rejoice! Rejoice! O pure Virgin!
Again, I say rejoice!
Thy son is risen from His three days in the tomb!
With Himself He has raised all the dead.
Rejoice, rejoice, O ye people!
Shine! Shine! Shine, O new Jerusalem!
The glory of the Lord has shown on thee.
Exult now, exult and be glad, O Zion.
Be radiant, O pure Theotokos,
In the Resurrection, the Resurrection of thy Son

I am forever on a quest to replace fear with courage, doubt with assuredness, my own agendas, for both myself and for my children, with the exact same pliability and submissiveness the Virgin Mary displayed when stepping up to embrace a role that would open for everyone one of us the door to redemption, eternal life, and freedom from the hell of our own transgressions. I am determined, but awfully impressionable, dependent upon a community of believers both in heaven and on earth to stay the course. As a woman, I am thankful for my newly acquired intimacy with femininity in its purest form, with an example of sacred nobility that in every possible way outshines the dullness inherent in vanity, insecurity, and self-gratification - with the righteous, victorious, and most honorable Mother of Christ Jesus.

O Holy Theotokos, pray to God for us!

Photo Opportunity

2008-08-17T12:04:00.000-07:00

Well, it is time for my quarterly Handmaiden plug as the Summer 2008 issue, focusing on Miracles and Pilgrimages, is due to arrive in the mailboxes of subscribers any day now. Again, I want to encourage you to find out more about this phenonminal publication containing faith inducing, soul strengthening articles designed to address concerns specific to Orthodox Christian women, if you have not already done so. Below you will find my own latest Handmaiden contribution enititled "Photo Opportunity," which can also be heard as a podcast on Ancient Faith Radio beginning sometime on 8/19.

It began with an invitation from a cyber friend of mine to join an online photo-sharing group called “People with Icons,” which was inspired by a lovely set of photographs entitled, “Women with Icons,” created by the photographer Jocelyn Mathews. The idea being we would all take a picture of ourselves with an icon of our patron saint and upload it for others to look at. After viewing some touching contributions from my fellow group members, I was inspired to submit something of my own and so I walked upstairs to our prayer corner to find our image of the holy prophetess Anna. Upon approaching the far wall, however, adorned liberally with heavenly reminders of what truly represents the “one thing needful,” I looked her square in the eyes and then not without shame, retreated. I wasn’t yet ready, I discovered, for such a project.

When we were joining the Orthodox Church, my husband and I were told to choose a saint, a patron saint whose name we would take as our own, whose identity we would try our best to emulate. We felt drawn to Saint Simeon and the Prophetess Anna; I liked that they’d met the Christ child simultaneously and it was special to me to have an icon featuring both of them together. These patron saints would pray for us, a concept that was new to me yet intriguing. I was at a loss, however, as to how to form a more intimate relationship with mine in particular. For the past ten years, I had heard St. Anna’s name when I went forward to receive the Eucharist; I closed my nightly prayers with, “through the intercessions of the prophetess Anna” …and all the other patron saints connected with our various family members. I revered her - I believed wholeheartedly in her dedication to all of us on earth trying to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, but at that moment, standing face to face alone in our second story hallway, the idea of posing with her for a photograph such as I would take with my best of friends, my mother or my Aunt, seemed inappropriate. I was long overdue in putting forth a concerted effort to better understand this most pious individual and through that acquired awareness, become more Christ-like. Thus began my mission to both uncover information and then meditate on its relevance to my life. I began to seek a way that I might soften the formality a bit and close the gap between us I had created through a lack of communication. Who are you, Anna? Which of your traits can I imitate and draw strength from? It would be well worth my time to find out.

The most obvious place to start were the Scriptures. In the book of Saint Luke I found the following summarization of Anna’s life:

And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, and had lived with a husband for seven years from her virginity; and this woman was a widow of about eighty-four years, who did not depart from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day. And coming in at that instant she gave thanks to the Lord, and spoke of Him to all those who looked for redemption in Jerusalem. (Luke 2:36-38).

When I explain to you what struck me immediately upon combing that passage like a detective searching for clues, you will accurately assess that I am, unfortunately, somewhat pessimistic and in need of a faith infused backbone. At a relatively young age, Saint Anna lost her first and only husband to death. This is beyond significant to me as I waste a lot of energy being afraid of that very scenario, at times to the point of emotional paralysis. “What would I do?” “How would I go on?” I wonder, blinking back tears during a bout of insomnia while watching the chest of my own beloved spouse rise and fall steadily with sleep. Anna was once a wife, as I am a wife. It is probable she loved with the same intensity that I do, the partner whose identity had fused together with her own and whose unexpected absence ripped a throbbing and open wound within her heart. Anna grieved, I am sure, she was most likely nervous about the future but notice that the sorrow was not, by any means, the end of her story.

“Oh Holy Prophetess Anna, you endured my greatest of fears, yet through the grace of God were not crushed and beat down ever thereafter. Please pray to Christ that I might take courage in your resilience and trust with all my soul in the wisdom of His plans.”

It is hard for me to imagine, with all the breeziness and comfort I’ve grown accustomed to, being married to the Church, spending every waking moment suppressing the urge to forget that I am called upon to be perfect, just as God Himself is. Anna prayed, we are told, and fasted with fervor unknown to me. Her unrestrained commitment is like a mirror revealing the chasm between what I currently am and what I could be. But rather than taunting our weaknesses the Prophetess Anna provides a respite from mediocrity, beaming like a lighthouse that leads away from the dangers of blindness and into safety.

“St. Anna, I am tired, so very drained from fighting impulses to lie down and rest, to wallow in self-pity. Teach me, by your example, how to weather the tumultuousness of my passions until at last I find the peace achieved through sacrifice.”

My neighbor is depressed about finances, her moody children, and she and her husband’s strained marriage. And what do I have to offer her? A lot more than I actually give, which is usually a nodding head and a sympathetic expression. It’s always sitting there on the tip of my tongue, the conversation about love--Christ’s love specifically--and how it transforms even the grimmest of situations. But what would she think of me if I unleashed that un-neutral bombshell? I suppose it shouldn’t concern me, and in all actuality should probably spill from my lips because my spirit cannot contain it - my gratitude and joy at having found the sacred pearl of great price (Matthew 13:45, 46). How can unashamed convictions and impartiality walk hand-in-hand? Why am I so timid about openly speaking the Truth? The Prophetess Anna, my holy namesake, was defined by her enthusiasm, her message about God and the imperativeness of repentance that never wavered, never fluctuated, never watered itself down to appease the masses.

“I need words and motivation, I want to share with others what I’ve experienced through the Church in terms of clarity, mercy, and a sense of purpose. You, O Prophetess Anna, were a mouthpiece until your last days on earth for what was and still is the very crux of all creation… for God. May your zeal get under my skin like a splinter that persistently irritates the normal goings on of my daily routine. May I never settle for “good enough” when before me shines your tirelessly impeccable standards so bright that anything less than a total commitment to the Faith I am trusting to save me feels only dull, cloudy, and unsatisfying.”

How fortuitous, don’t you think – that I was linked for all eternity to one whose spiritual muscle’s bulge where mine hang soft and limp and in need of some serious weight bearing? Or is nothing coincidental when it comes to salvation? Here’s the honest truth – I need all the help I can get and praise be to God for the tools He’s set before us including Eucharist, confession, and the earnest intercessions of His saints. Can I afford to take for granted any one of these pulsating lifelines through which nourishment is provided like a cord attaching a baby to the sustenance of his mother, before labor and delivery finally free him from the flesh restricting access to his source for all security and satisfaction? Well there’s a no-brainer…I think not. So how do I proceed in my quest for friendship and closeness with someone who’s journeyed onward from out of this life and into another beyond it? I suppose with her Troparion - the hymn sung in Saint Anna’s honor on her day of commemoration, February 3rd:

In the Temple thou didst embrace as an infant God the Word Who became flesh,/ O glorious Elder Symeon, who didst hold God in thine arms./ And also as a Prophetess the august Anna ascribed praise to Him./ We acclaim you as divine servants of Christ.

I should know this, I should recite it on a regular basis; I should anticipate our Name’s Day instead of scratching my head two days after its passing asking, “H-m-m, now when was that again?” I should maintain an ongoing conversation, sharing my thoughts and insecurities along the way. I should remember that she is watching and witnessing my progression from a spineless observer to what I pray will be a bold and obvious beacon for Christ’s glory. I should remember her utter joy at having met her God incarnate and be stimulated to likewise rejoice. Pray unto God for me, O Holy Saint Anna, well-pleasing to God: for I turn unto thee, who art the speedy helper and intercessor for my soul (antiochian .org).

I’ll have my mother come over to give me a hand, to hold the camera while I position myself in such a way that will visually, artistically represent my forging of a connection with a reality that binds heaven to earth, sinners to saintliness, me to an ancestor who has completed her race and now stands at the finish line compelling me to press onward. I will feel within my grasp the painted wood, a very touchable representation of that which blows my mind if I think about it too logically, instead of mystically or innocently like a child. I will use this opportunity, this invitation as a springboard to dive ever more deeply into the mysteries of the Church, into Her bosom of magnificence and righteousness. I’m a slow yet willing learner who admits to a habit of feet dragging but is now quite good and anxious to get started.

Holy Prophetess Anna, I implore you to bring my burdens, all my baggage and my blunders before the exact same of Son of God that you held with such reverence in your aged arms. Please beseech of Him that my vision be enhanced, that the scales on my eyes be lifted, that I might see you, know you, venerate you, and be wiser, braver, more confident because of it.

Forgive me for not asking this of you sooner.

Brightness

2008-08-06T17:48:00.000-07:00

It is difficult to recreate the relationships made in those late teen/early twenties years, when there was plenty of time and opportunity to pour your energy into developing friendships. The bonds I formed in college were tight and sturdy. My friends and I lived together and affirmed one another no matter what the real truths may have been (“He totally still has feelings for you,” “That haircut is perfect for your face shape,” “Your professor is way too demanding!”). We were loyal and invested and aware of every minute detail in each others’ personal dramas. Sure, there were squabbles and painful periods of miscommunication but overall, the permanent impact our indelible connection had on each of us was overwhelmingly positive and fortifying.

After graduation, we physically dispersed into marriages, full-time jobs, and various dingy apartment buildings. We spoke often and got together as much as possible. I longed for the security their comforting presence provided me – me, the new wife insecure in her role as an adult. We laughed mostly, at ourselves and the embarrassing debacles we all seemed prone to stumble into. They were my safety net beneath a tenuous transformation from a silly and self-indulgent girl into a woman with consequential responsibilities. I missed them fiercely when, after having a baby, I was sucked into the timeless abyss of motherhood where phone calls, lunch dates, and rented movies are near constantly interrupted and the attention required for keeping up and staying entwined must be conserved for meeting the needs of husbands and children. Although frightening, a break was necessary if I was ever to take ownership of the very isolation that would draw me into the totality of parenthood. I had to reconfigure a self-appraisal that read, “I am actually just like you, all ambitious and culturally relevant…only with a kid” until it accurately represented my irrefutable reality: I was first and foremost (as unromantic as it sounds) a “mom.”

Eventually, I let go - or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that over time, my restlessness was forcibly pried from out of me by way of countless frustrating scenarios involving trantruming toddlers, long and lonely afternoons, an insurmountable amount of chores, and sibling rivalries, all wearing down skewed expectations. Eventually, I accepted my life for what it was and in doing so found purpose and meaning within it. All was quiet for a while; we drifted off, my friends and I, into unexplored new challenges we could only take on solo. But in the aftermath, when we finally resurfaced after months and years of diving deeper, and deeper still, under shallow preoccupations, we were able to reconnect on a whole new level. We met again, ready to share and encourage, within the context of our strengthened faith, layered and tested. We knew, of course, the answers lay outside of us and so we pointed one another in the direction of Christ Jesus. I, who once reserved all of my public references to God for Sunday mornings, found His name in my mouth during most of my conversations, on random weekdays, and in reference to everyone and everything because everyone and everything I now viewed in light of our salvation.

Last Saturday, Kara flew in from Arkansas and Jen drove up from Indianapolis. My sister-in-law, Paige, walked on over from the down the street and Beth, sweet Beth, her hands and her heart filled with three tiny sons, joined us in spirit. It had been seven years since all of us were last together. We made a pilgrimage to our alma mater where antiseptic hallways, dorm room windows, and the smell of textbooks brought back memories sharp and lucid- unearthed emotions we’d left buried in that urban scholastic hotbed of stress, pie-in-the-sky aspirations, and an intensive sort of camaraderie never again to be duplicated in the bigger world outside. Later that night, we laughed hard like we used to. Time froze on my living room couch. We were nineteen and thirty-four simultaneously, taken aback by the swiftness of a decade-and-a- half passing right under our noses, while we were busy trying to make good on at least a few of the promises we had made to ourselves when we were refreshingly, naively, idealistic. After we hugged and they departed, I began looking critically at my past; feeling pleased with some parts and disappointed by quite a few others. I wrestled with the fragility and temporalness of my existance on this earth. “Why am I so doubtful, so skittish, so pensive? Why did I bypass so many chances to bring hope and encouragement to others? Why had I been vain and selfish and cynical? Why am I still frightened and unnerved by a mysterious future?”

When my priest, known and respected for telling it exactly like it is, started his homily with, “You have to be patient with yourself,” I nearly wept. I had been all bunched up and in a tizzy over my already committed and potential failures and I wanted, oh boy, what I longed for, was rest. I needed to accept for myself what I was more than ready to recognize in my dear and true companions, taking two steps forward, three steps back, then dusting off and starting all over again: that there is grace and redemption to be found in just keeping at it, regardless of our foibles along the way. Return O Lord: How long? And be entreated concerning your servants, wrote Moses in the Psalms. We are filled with Your mercy in the morning, and in all our days we greatly rejoiced and were glad; Gladden us in return for the days You humbled us, For the years we saw evil things. And behold Your servants and Your works, And guide their sons; and let the brightness of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the works of our hands. The notes in my Orthodox Study Bible reveal the following about these verses, so passionate in their entreaty for significance and substance within our transience:

Psalm 89 is a morning prayer designed to keep one focused on the Lord rather than on this temporal life and its hopelessness. For He exists outside of time, and is therefore our only refuge. Every morning is an opportunity to return to Him in repentance, and He is very patient, because a thousand years in His sight are like yesterday, which has passed, and like a watch in the night. He is very patient, because He does not will that anyone should perish. Therefore, when we focus on the Lord every morning, we look for His return at the Second Coming, and for His mercy, joy, enlightenment, and prosperity throughout each day.

You are patient, You are patient, life is fleeting. Be my refuge, my compass, my brightness. Amen.

Seven

2008-07-28T06:28:00.000-07:00

Today you are seven-years-old. I will take you to the mall to get your ears pierced because that is what you asked for - because that is how old I was when I cringed from the heat of an ear piercing gun in the shaking hands of a teenager working the counter at a chain boutique selling lip gloss and cheapy jewelry. I can still feel the burn and exhilaration.

You like it when I tell and re-tell you about the morning when I had cramping, consistent and steady cramping that I ignored because it was early, one month too early for your arrival. You laugh when I explain how five hours later, I was rocking you in our living room while the home birth nurse filled out some paperwork and daddy and I tried to process the shock of your unexpected existence. I was tired but elated. I was perplexed, but relieved that it was over- my gosh, the labor was over before I 'd even had time to dread it or fear for our safety. No one had been prepared; nothing had been organized, and it didn't matter.

When you were tiny, I'd try to imagine what you'd look like when you got older; I wondered if I'd recognize your face with its skin pulled taut against your cheeks once so fleshy and doughy and irresistibly pinchable. I scrutinized your features, your hands, and knees, and toes hoping to find on your pudgy body a physical trait undeniably passed down from me, your beaming mother. Like the roses in our garden, you bloomed in an instant, so seemingly over night I was surprised that I hadn't captured with my very own eyes your pants getting shorter or your toes creeping out over the edge of your summer sandals. You've got your adventurous and ambitious spirit all set on tearing through the next decade knowing freedom and independence lie beyond it - but I'm not nearly ready for that, so please be patient.

I was timid and you are brazen. I was a follower, you're a leader. I had frizzy auburn curls whereas your own locks are tame and smooth and the color of coffee with cream. We are opposites in many ways, you and I, and yet at times I swear I can read your thoughts or predict with perfect accuracy the next words that will exit your mouth. You are the sweetest, most affectionate, most stubborn little girl I've ever adored with all my heart. I know now, finally, contemplating you, just exactly how much my own parents loved me. Because you can't understand, you simply cannot imagine how intense is the connection between a mom and her daughter until you yourself are consumed by the enormity of such a miracle. From now until forever I will swell, deflate, shine, sink, rise on the coattails of your own joys and sorrows. "Will you please come and help me when I'm about to have my own baby?" you inquired of me just a couple of days ago. "Nothing," I assured you, "and I mean absolutely nothing could stop me."

We were talking about heaven, you and your brothers and I, and what we'd do first upon arriving. Elijah thought he'd ask some questions of his fiery patron saint; Ben thought he'd look around for the rest of us. But you sweetheart, cleared your throat and adjusted your facial expression until it represented appropriately the downright seriousness of your intentions. "I," you announced slowly, dramatically,"would find Jesus and wash His feet...with my hair." And we all had to concede that that was officially the best answer. I smiled in my soul but not outwardly lest you mistook my utter enjoyment for disbelief, because I honestly think that that is exactly what you would do and I respect you for it.

I hope, my dear, that you retain your passion and sensitivity, and I pray that adolescence will not rob you of your sprightly unselfconsciousness. May our Lord God override my own desires for a smooth and easy future and lead you, via whatever paths He deems best, toward salvation. In the meantime, let me bask in your creativeness and constant presence. Let me hold you, delight in you, and ask you for forgiveness when I forget to tune out the peripherals and really listen. On this day, seven-years-ago, we were formally introduced and life's been better, rosier, more spectacular ever since. You're a gift to us all, Priscilla.

Happy Birthday!

Boundaries

2008-07-21T11:37:00.000-07:00

I can be good, maybe too good at setting personal boundaries. When things get hectic, I pull inward, zoning in on nothing else but the tasks before me. Being naturally introverted, my default reaction to stress or piling responsibilities is to cut myself off socially - no phone calls, no correspondence, no invitations, no volunteering to bring a meal, host an event, or clean up afterwards. I am not the type of woman who needs to curb for the sake of her household an excessive preoccupation with people, parties, or participating in anything other than in the lives of those living right here, under my roof, sharing my last name.

This would be fine and all, if my sabbatical from the outside world were a temporary solution to a temporary dilemma. The problem is that I'm always busy; I am always overwhelmed because, hello...I have four young children. My circumstances won't be changing anytime soon and I'm pretty sure it isn't healthy to keep burying my head in the sand without ever coming up for air - or reaching out.

A few weeks ago, we arranged a long overdue get together with two families very close to our own. They met at our house for an afternoon of barbecuing, beach frolicking, and uplifting conversation. All in all, we have fourteen children between us. I watched on with awe and fascination as these mothering friends of mine tended to the needs of their many sons and daughters ranging in age from four months to twelve-years-old. There was never a moment when their eyes were not scanning our crowded back yard for preschoolers known to wander. They moved fluidly from diaper changes, to nursing, to snack making to sunscreen applying.

They looked harried, much like I do right now, and stretched to their limits. There was no denying that motherhood has, at times, both suffocated and consumed them, has demanded more from them then they ever imagined possible. They talked honestly about their fears and insecurities, each of which sounded eerily familiar. They had more things and people to manage than I did. I had nothing on them in terms of workload or sleep deprivation. And yet, and yet they were able to step outside of it all and tune in to the quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) concerns of others, myself included.

I studied these women who never waited for a request to "hold my baby for a second,"or fill a plate, or pour lemonade into the cups of little ones not belonging to them. I observed as they asked questions of each other and really concentrated on the answers. I saw them laugh, embrace, and clean my kitchen. That evening, when only one of the families remained - the family with the longest drive home - I reached for a sweater in my closet and felt a gush of running water pouring down on all my clothes from out of a hole I had never noticed before in the ceiling. Without an ounce of hesitation, they decided to stick around and help to solve a potentially disastrous mystery that neither Troy or I felt capable of figuring out ourselves, especially at such a late hour. There was sawing in the garage, Home Depot runs, a toilet removal in our upstairs bathroom. Then at last, there was resolution. Even now I can't get over it, their thoughtfulness and generosity. It was all quite humbling, convicting, and very hopeful.

The other day, Elijah and I were talking on the couch. He had just finished reading to me from the July issue of a children's devotional booklet that several months back, he had ordered a free subscription to. "Shouldn't we be telling everyone in our neighborhood about Jesus?" he asked, and baggage I had buried years ago regarding "open-air" evangelism, scheduled "revivals,"covert operations involving plants with leading questions being placed in an audience gaping at mimes reenacting the crucification, resurfaced in an instant. I had to stop and collect my thoughts before I answered.

I knew that these were personal issues, irrelevant to my idealistic Orthodox Christian son. I know that I still have mixed feelings about "witnessing" and yet as followers of Christ we have been called to share our faith. Immediately I thought of our friends with their sacrificial offerings of time and empathy. I recalled how their natural referrals to prayer and Church were intermingled with the washing of my dishes, listening to my stories, and meaningful compliments about my kids. I remembered how after they left, I felt not guilty about my own shortcomings but rather thankful, thankful for all the goodness in my life; I felt not frightened about the consequences of my own selfishness, but rather inspired, inspired to pass along the kindness that had undeservedly come my own way via a hard working husband and wife. I remembered that our encounter with them had girded my soul.

"Well, Elijah," I finally replied, weighing each sentence carefully before proceeding. "Teaching people about Jesus, I think, should involve not as much telling as showing. If we keep our eyes and hearts open we'll see all kinds of ways to model Christ's unconditional mercy. Words by themselves, without a relationship, without trust that has blossomed within genuine friendship, can sometimes appear empty or inauthentic. An individual who has experienced first-hand the peace and love of God through us, will be much more likely to have a lasting desire to dedicate their whole entire existence to becoming like Him. Of course we should witness to our neighbors and we can start by making ourselves available to be of help to those in need."

He had long ago stopped paying attention - had lost interest approximately two sentences in to my lengthy soliloquy on evangelism. I fully realized that I was talking, talking, talking to myself but it was imperative that I come to terms with a commandment I was in perilous danger of throwing out along with the tacky religious t-shirt and doomsday-ish infused bathwater. There's no time, no room for cynicism; no possible justification for withholding from others the same compassion God bestows upon me daily. Let your light so shine before men, said Jesus in the book of St. Matthew, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.

The whorish woman at the well received forgiveness and lost her shamefulness. She was literally overflowing with a gratitude impossible to reign in or keep to herself. To say there was something different about her since her meeting with the Messiah would be an understatement. She was motivated by joy, undaunted by naysayers; she was on fire.

I am good, maybe too good at protecting my own modest flame from awkwardness, from unpleasantness, from darkness. I'd be wrong to think what I haven't done won't matter.

Photo by MrLomo on flickr.

Resignation

2008-07-15T12:01:00.000-07:00

Dearest loved ones,

I am writing to let you know that I am sorry. I am sorry that I've spent so much, too much time agonizing over my own deficiencies when all you've ever wanted was my attention and for me to be at peace. It started when you were babies and I came home, stayed home all day. My own mother, and her mother before her, had been so very efficient at washing clothes and mending them, making savory and comforting meals from out of leftovers and pantry staples, mopping floors, weeding a garden - keeping house. So I waited, waited for the instincts to kick in that would help to control the chaos which had swallowed our small apartment; I waited and waited and waited but they totally stood me up - they totally stood me up and so I read.

You have no idea, my darlings, how much pressure there is on a young mother to keep everything in order: your behavior, the grocery list, our messes. I borrowed and purchased used manuals on bread baking, clutter clearing, schedule keeping, and discipline. I devoted myself to the process of transformation - to becoming my friend serving homemade granola and flax meal muffins to her toddler, my neighbor with the labeled bins and laminated chore charts, the woman in my Church with the hand sewn nativity calendar, to becoming everyone and yet no one in particular.

I apologize for the ruined laundry, the hundreds of resolutions I could never follow through on, for teaching you nary a handicraft or a foreign language; I apologize for shutting the garage door on our minivan. Somewhere along the way it ceased to be about your welfare and more about my own pride, insecurities, and envy. I wasted hours on treating the symptoms instead of the cause of my discontent. I'm a wreck, children, when I cease to nail my flesh to the fear of Christ- which is different, mind you, than talking about Him or making references to His goodness in conversation. When I reach the point where nothing truly matters but the obtaining of my salvation, when my only motivation for speaking, redirecting, beautifying, entertaining, forgiving, writing, sacrificing, spending, befriending, volunteering, educating, and worshiping is love for Christ, plain and simple, I will lose myself and then rid myself of the pesky expectations so irrelevant to the existence I was created for.

So here's the deal, my sons and daughters, your mother is not gifted in the art of domesticity, she is impulsive and somewhat flighty, quite capable of getting lost in her own neighborhood. Though I may serve the same five basic dinners to you over and over and over again, though your batman suitcase may always be stuffed with mismatched socks whose partners I've misplaced and will most likely never find, though I no longer have any idea what is molding inside the Tupperware containers in the refrigerator, there is still plenty I can offer you as a parent:

I promise that I will stay loyal, stay loyal and devoted and invested in your lives. I promise to own up to my own mistakes. I will talk with you about anything; don't be ashamed or embarrassed to approach me. I will enjoy you. I will try to be more patient. I will focus my energies on becoming less obsessed with the ever rotating, new and grandiose schemes promising to improve my experience as a homemaker and more consistent with our family prayers and my personal prayers and remembering those who are struggling with pain or loneliness. I will do my best to keep all of our daily frustrations in perspective.

I used to think that I just wasn't mom material, which was true I found out if by "mom material" I meant "Stepford Wife," but raising mute and passive offspring without the messiness of free will to make things complicated now sounds awfully morose to me. I am certainly no expert on child rearing but I do believe (finally!) that I am the best mother for you, Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary. I believe that I will one day be held accountable not for how successful I was at getting the poster paint out of your jean shorts, but for how much effort I put forth toward to your spiritual development. I believe you have revealed to me just as much, if not more, than I've passed on to you so far about faith and resilience and mercy - about the second, fifth, millionth chance we are given to get it right. Thank you for that and for everything.

I am here for you...always.

Love,

Mom

Marriage

2008-07-10T14:57:00.000-07:00

My dress was off-white and perfect. Worn only once before, 28 years earlier by my mother, it reflected with its empire waist and flowing train a timeless elegance both simple and stunning. I fantasized about that dress and the sensation of its layered netting scratching my stockinged legs, the swishing sounds of taffeta serenading my every graceful step. I imagined myself as a princess lifted from the pages of a storybook; I imagined myself as a bride.

Just two months shy of my 23rd birthday, I walked arm in arm with my weepy father down the aisle of the church my future husband, Troy, had grown up in. I was thinking that he looked handsome and my bridesmaids beautiful in their coordinating mint green shawls. I was aware of my high-heeled shoes pinching toes more accustomed to flip-flops and of an impossible to reach itch beneath my carefully coiffed up-do, but that was the extent of my pondering. To be honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond this magical day at all. My wedding was the culmination, the happy ending, the grand finale of my inexperienced life. As a little girl, my daydreams had usually stopped here: in this dress and at this moment.

They always tell you (the already married women) that your wedding day will be a blur, and the bride-to-be smiles politely, secretly confidant that her wedding will be different, that she will remember every detail of that glorious occasion in slow, deliberate, motion. Never again, in all likelihood, will she ever plan any other event with the same degree of passion, drama, and intensity. I was no different, and was thus quite surprised when my wedding day was over as soon as it had begun - my memories but a swirl of camera clicks and kisses choreographed to the tune of clinking glasses.

I remember sitting at a restaurant with Troy just hours after our cake and finger food reception earlier that afternoon. With all the hullabaloo of planning and celebrating behind us we were at somewhat of a loss as to what to do next. The conversation felt awkward and forced (“Nice wedding uh?”). I was still in ideal mode, and worried a bit that the warm tingling passion I’d assumed would electrify us both from the moment we said, “I do” had not kicked in as expected. I was confused as to why in these first hours as a wife I still felt insecure, like I could say or do something stupid to make him love me less at any moment.

After a week in the Smokey Mountains, where we spent our honeymoon terrified by pitch-black skies, howling coyotes, and winding roads up to ear popping altitudes, I looked forward to starting life, real life, as a team; I looked forward to reveling in our intimacy. Without realizing it, I shifted all my hopes, my self-esteem, and my longings for contentment onto one imperfect man. A dangerous combination of wanting to please and yet of wanting to be pleased resulted in some initial passive aggressiveness on my part.

“Do you care if I go out with my friends tonight?” Troy asked me once early on in our marriage. I did care. I didn’t want to be alone on a Saturday. I didn’t want Troy to prefer their company to mine.

“That’s fine,” I lied, “…I mean if that’s what you want to do.” Knowing of course that he would read my mind and refuse to leave without me.

“Great! I’ll call them,” He’d said, pecking me on the cheek while reaching for the phone. I, in turn, pouted my way through the next two hours with grunts and one-word answers.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Oh … nothing,” I sighed, and then stood up dramatically and started to wash the dishes.

“Alright, then. See ya later!” Without batting an eye, he took off for his guys’ only evening.

As the door closed behind him, I sobbed in disappointment. I felt completely overwhelmed by loneliness. I had, essentially, put all my eggs in one basket, a basket Troy had dropped because it was altogether much too large for any human being to carry. When he came home to find me crying, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“What happened?” He asked alarmed.

“How could you leave, when you knew I had no plans? Why didn’t you want to spend a quiet night with me, your wife?” I blubbered.

Instead of an apology, Troy pulled back his arms and looked sternly at me. “I asked you if it was o.k. for me to go and you said yes. I asked if anything was wrong and you said ‘no’. It is not fair for you to say one thing and mean another. I need us to be honest with each other!” Ouch. The truth held up in front of you like a big old mirror in unflattering light is never pleasant to look at, but there it was, plain as day; I was wrong to think that Troy should bend over backwards to interpret my emotions. I was naïve to hope that marriage would fill a gap in my soul created for being stuffed to overflowing with adoration for God.

Two people trying to live by breathing in one another will find out soon enough that the oxygen is limited. Their love will inevitably fall victim to suffocation. Every married couple eventually gets to the point where the rose colored glasses, through with each of them had viewed the other, become shattered. It is highly common in this day and age to just assume, then, that the match was a poor one, that someone else is out there capable of saying and doing all the right things to keep you satisfied - all the things your old partner couldn’t. It is at this crucial stage that the difference between marriage as a sacrament of the Church verses marriage as an expression of affection between two individuals becomes most significant. It was at this crossroads within my own marriage that the death of romanticized misconceptions made way for the resurrection of a miraculous and unconditional love rooted in divinity.

There is no relationship between human beings, said St. John Chyrsostom in his homily on marriage, so close as that of husband and wife, if they are united as they ought to be. He goes on to say that:

Paul has precisely described for husband and wife what is fitting behavior for each: she should reverence him as the head and he should love her as his body. But how is this behavior achieved? That it must be is clear; now I will tell you how. It will be achieved if we are detached from money, if we strive above everything for virtue, if we keep the fear of God before our eyes. What Paul says to servants in the next chapter applies to us as well, … knowing that whatever good anyone does he will receive the same again from the Lord (Eph. 6:8). Love her not so much for her own sake but for Christ’s sake. That is why he says, be
subject … as to the Lord. Do everything for the Lord’s sake, in a spirit of obedience to Him.

Between the years of 1997 and 1999, I became a wife, an Orthodox Christian, and a mother; all three of these roles were challenging. My marriage went through several metamorphoses at break neck speed in order to keep up with the changes. By the end of that 24-month period, I was much too tired to be flawless. But in the midst of admitting I had no idea what I was doing, in the process of shedding old skin to make room for the new me growing and evolving with each trial, with the realization that my husband could not save me from the frustration of reaching my own limits, I found the desperation necessary to throw myself at the feet of Christ. I began to internalize the teachings of St. John Chyrsostom, and discovered that when my identity was wrapped up in my role as a Christian, when love for God was the source from which my thoughts and actions originated, I was more apt to support Troy with no strings attached. When I trusted in my own shallow resources, however, my love became possessive, manipulative, and self-serving.

With the onset of parenthood, Troy and I had to reacquaint ourselves all over again with each other, now as “mom” and “dad.” We had different backgrounds and different ideas about discipline and job sharing. I felt it unfair that his life did not change as severely as my own and he felt limited as to what he could give to a baby obsessed with its mother. Our words became poorly aimed arrows, usually missing their mark. I was too emotional to be taken seriously, I figured bitterly, and he was too removed from my existence as a lonely new mother to ever offer the right advice or comfort. Orthodoxy was the one common denominator in our lives. Communing together, fasting together, and standing as a couple before our icons in prayer, fueled our desire to keep trying, to keep giving, to keep sacrificing ourselves for the sake of salvation- to obey Christ by serving one another.

Troy and I each desired respect for the positive elements we were bringing to this marriage and to this family. I had to force myself to inquire about his day and really listen, asking questions that confirmed my care for and pride in his ability to persevere within a stressful job environment. I had to pause and mull over my grievances, determining while calm whether or not they were worth a confrontation. If so, I had to proceed with carefully constructed explanations (rather than loud, impulsively fired assaults on his character- assaults that would surely be regretted by us both) and remain open to the criticism I would receive in the process. I had to pray every morning for wisdom and correct thinking, for divine guidance on when to assert myself and when to hold my tongue. I knew that the natural outcome of a healthy marriage was healthy children who would not compromise for anything less than being treated with loving respect by their own potential partners down the road. I knew I wanted to show my kids that Troy and I were a united team, incapable of being divided.

Troy is a very attentive father; I have fallen in love all over again with this “new” older man beside me, transformed by the hardships and pleasures of providing for his family. I am especially sensitive now to the slow steady drifting due to inadequate communication, pouncing on the widening gap between us and stitching it back together with prayer, apologies, and forthright conversation. We invest ourselves in this marriage, making frequent deposits of affirmation, unprompted kindness, and extemporaneous hugs and kisses. Troy and I make it quite clear there are times when he and I are not to be interrupted. We teach our kids by example that the relationship between moms and dads must be cultivated with time and effort, that giving us space to bond and catch up after a long day apart is beneficial for everyone.

I am proud of Troy and he is proud of me, out of that mutual pride flows courage, stamina and a continuous yearning for improvement. The sacredness of our marrital covenant only deepens as the years pass by and as the obstacles of raising four spirited children test our faith and commitment to one another. Marriage is never static. This miraculous relationship must be nourished or it will wither and die of starvation. It must be watered with sweat and tears in order to bloom and bring beauty to its household. The healing effect of a sincerely offered compliment from Troy never ceases to amaze me, nor does my own power to return the gift of encouragement with reciprocated words of heart-felt appreciation. May we never, when our children are grown and gone, look upon one another as strangers who have lost their one connection, their only adhesive whose absence makes evident two separate hearts beating out of synch and shivering in the frigidness of love grown cold. May the sacrament of marriage purify our souls and always remind us that God is good.

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Lost

2008-07-02T12:19:00.000-07:00

Photo by dani+elle on flickr.com.

I was already pretty sure I couldn’t hack it, even before the impending disaster that would only further verify my incompetence. Nine months earlier, having a second child had seemed like a wonderful idea but that was before, when filtered and distant notions were too far off to affect reality. As my due date loomed closer difficult questions began sprouting like aggressive weeds, strangling buds in my garden of idealism. Two arms, I had counted while taking inventory of my mothering assets, two legs and one body – there wasn’t enough of me, I suddenly realized, to go around. Elijah was a handful at 2 ½ years old, a kind of toddler unimpressed by a furrowed brow or high-pitched warnings. He’d grown accustomed to the life we’d built together, one in which he was the center of my universe. I had just enough patience and stamina to keep one kid away from busy streets, how on earth would I ever leave the house, make a meal, or finish a thought with yet another dependent little one strapped permanently to my person by way of breastfeeding, a sling, or a rocking chair?

Fortunately, upon Priscilla’s arrival, I remembered that adoration, in most cases, overrides our fear of failure. “So this is why we keep reproducing,” I thought to my infatuated self as I stroked the silky curls on my daughter’s head. Thankfully, there was plenty of help available for those first two weeks; I was free to sit and bond with the baby. Eventually, however, husbands return to their jobs and meals stop being delivered to your front door. Sooner than I would have liked, of course, I was alone again with my required domestic tasks and apprehensions. The days stuck at home stretched on almost unbearably as I was nervous to venture out of doors with just the three of us. When a month into my new position as a mother of not one, but two children, I was invited to go to shopping with my parents, I leapt at the opportunity and waited anxiously for the clock hands to turn. It took a ridiculous amount of time to pack a diaper bag with all of the burp cloths, extra clothing, pacifiers, and changing pads, but Priscilla and I were ready when our coach finally arrived in the form of a dark blue Passat. “Goodbye,” I waved to Troy and Elijah, way over excited about commonplace occurrences such as the wearing of jeans, seeing people I wasn’t related to, and escaping the perimeters of our urban neighborhood. It was exactly what I needed: a moderately grand adventure.

Our destination that fateful evening was IKEA, a massive and magnificent Swedish-born shopping arena packed with wall hooks, storage bins, and lingonberries. For weeks I had been drooling over their catalogue, daydreaming about how much better life would be if only my kitchen and bedroom had more jars, tubs, and shelves to keep all of our accumulating junk in order. Having been sequestered for a while within our modest Chicago two-flat, the stimulation of actually ogling and touching in person that innovative (and much coveted) merchandise was somewhat intoxicating. To my great relief, Priscilla was being an angel, sleeping soundly and silently in her car seat since entering the store. Perhaps this is why I didn’t notice at first her absence. For the previous half hour, my mom and I had taken turns pushing my newborn in the cart so when I asked her opinion about a picture frame I was interested in purchasing and noticed, then, that she was alone without my baby, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I said, “Wait, where is Priscilla?” to which she replied, “Honey, I thought you had her!” And the horror that ensued was indescribable.

I didn’t think or calmly retrace my steps, I just ran. I ran and scanned the aisles, growing more and more distraught with each minute that passed us by without me finding her. I was nauseous and inconsolable, irrational and ashamed. “My daughter!” I was yelling with tears streaming down my face, “Please help me! I cannot find my daughter!” An employee listened intently as my father described to him the situation. Immediately there was an announcement over the intercom: “Code 58!” said a disembodied voice, “we are looking for a four week old infant last seen fifteen minutes ago on the third floor.” All of the doors were locked; gaping patrons pointed and whispered, “There she is, the girl who lost her baby.” Either moments or hours later (I can't recall), I came across a crowd guarding protectively my abandoned child. In the exact place I’d started was a still sleeping Priscilla oblivious to the drama she’d been the center of. Had I turned back a few feet after talking to my mom, instead of taking off hysterically in the opposite direction, I would have seen her, I would have avoided that entire humiliating nightmare. But I didn’t pause, I panicked and under the scrutiny of fellow IKEA customers left trembling that night, ready to throw in the towel and let someone else more responsible rear the children I obviously had no business raising myself. It was the first of many times I would seriously doubt my aptitude as a parent.

Evidently I eventually recovered, going on to produce an additional son and daughter. Time and duty numbed the sting of those frightful memories and I stepped up to the plate to take another crack at molding thoughtful, resourceful, and productive members of society from out of the malleable and reliant souls within my care. I've skipped through months laced with pride and satisfaction as my growing children displayed intelligence, compassion, and creativity without my prompting. “It’s working,” I have concluded, “I do have brilliant, obedient, god fearing kids. I guess I am a decent mother after all.” And I offered up to Christ the appropriate prayers of praise and thanksgiving for all the blessings that a family affords until that is, there’s was a shifting within the serenity of our household. Behavior I find appalling from my five or two-year-old, a nine-year-old son’s inexplicable undercurrent of anger and disrespect, a daughter’s loathing of all chores (and her siblings) can instantaneously renew the angst of being powerless to ensure a romantic outcome - can knock me forcibly over the head again with accusations from myself to myself regarding negligence, misaligned priorities, and a general lack of skill. “I stink at this,” I moan while conjuring up numerous outlandish and unpleasant future scenarios involving four selfish, lazy, spiritually ambivalent adults each bearing my last name and fair skinned complexion.

“You can’t possibly know where to begin if you don’t start your morning with a fervent entreaty to God for direction and wisdom,” says my priest after every confession. I am, unfortunately, an agonizingly slow learner. It’s just that sometimes that answer seems so pat and far less palpable than, say, a how-to book on managing your home and the people in it. I should know by this point that Christ abides in the subtleties but I’m a sucker for what is loud and most blatant in the here and now – or more specifically, my needy family and our deficiencies. I’ve over packed, is what I’ve done, I’ve crammed morbid fears, weighty expectations, and popular opinions into my already full heart and now I’m wondering why my stride is so easily broken. We parents are such obvious targets for discouragement and despair because it rarely crosses our minds that when loving, pleasing, and fretting over of our family members takes precedence over the fostering of our faith, we, essentially, are rejecting Christ’s invitation to take His yoke upon us and find rest. Why not just claim the irrefutable truth that I am so unbelievably imperfect and in constant need of divine supervision? Why not spare myself from the exact same cyclical patterns? All this running around in circles feeling lost and scared and aggravated will only keep me from finding the confidence, the joy, the source of astuteness made amply available for those brave enough to slow down, release their baggage, and humbly receive it. Why not stop already with the negative assumptions and start anticipating the grace we've been promised?

Sacred

2008-06-24T12:07:00.000-07:00

When my older brother, Bobby, was fifteen-years-old, he wore a retainer. Upon receiving it, there were lectures from my parents about crooked teeth and the value of a dollar which he heeded for the most part, accept on one occasion; that day the rather expensive little appliance that should have been put back safely in his mouth was discarded along with his lunch bag and forgotten. When my mother picked us up from school that afternoon, she questioned him about it and then, oh no, he remembered. So they walked back to the cafeteria and were told that the trash had already been emptied to which my mother replied, “Where?” and they were lead to the large gray dumpster in the school parking lot.

“Well,” mom said to Bobby matter-of- factly, “let’s get started.” My brother’s face then contorted into an expression of horror, realizing all of a sudden her ingenious plan. “I have to get in there!?” he whined, pointing ahead to the sour smelling pile of refuse containing sights and textures he didn't want to look at, much less wade through. “It was pretty gross,” mom remembers, when asked to tell me the story again from her perspective, “but there was no way we were going to pay for a brand new retainer when I knew that a perfectly good one was hiding somewhere within all that garbage.” Fully understanding he had no leverage with which to bargain, Bobby took a deep breath and joined our mother in foraging through food scraps and brown paper bags for a napkin containing the dental apparatus they’d hoped would be discovered sooner, much sooner, rather than later.

Figuring this was Bobby’s lesson to learn, I’d laid low up until this point on a bench pretending to do my homework. I’d been happily forgotten about until my brother opened a sack inside which was my entire lunch (packed lovingly that morning by my considerate mother) completely uneaten - most likely because I’d scrounged up enough change to buy soda and some French fries instead. It was my turn, then, to feel the frustration of an over worked and under appreciated parent standing knee deep in filth and gazing disappointedly upon her irresponsible son and wasteful daughter. Eventually, believe it or not, they would find that lost retainer and Bobby would manage to hang on to it for another seven years. I, meanwhile, would be schooled on the concept of a "budget” and how purchasing items at a grocery store only to throw them away unconsumed is generally considered "poor stewardship". For kids growing up within a culture infamous around the globe for its flippancy and excess, developing a sense of gratitude for the necessities that nourish and sustain us can be difficult.

Twenty-years later, I am contemplating on my mother’s plight. Our children are at that age where when they ask you for a bomb pop from the ice cream truck and your response is, “I don’t have money for that right now,” they look at you suspiciously because of course you have money – you’re an adult! I can’t blame them, really; it sure does appear like everything is accessible, at least if you want it badly enough. Credit cards, adjustable rate mortgages, and divorce lawyers are great for plowing through all kinds of pesky barriers between the happiness we deserve and our state of discontent; nothing's out of reach in this day and age. This is why, perhaps, the Orthodox Faith, to many Americans, seems especially austere, and dare I say it, even somewhat superstitious what with all those sacramental hoops one must jump through to get to God.

Throughout the early stages of my conversion, during conversations with friends who questioned the appropriateness of a theology endorsing formal confession, fasting before Eucharist, overly scripted services and a whole host of other hocus- pocusy looking practices such as chanting, incense burning, candle lighting and icon kissing, I fumbled through attempted explanations on the balance between wanting to earn God’s approval and presumptuously assuming that no efforts are required. I was still in analytical mode, trying to win over my well- intentioned skeptics with the perfect combination of Scriptural and historical facts, but a deep-seated appreciation for the resurgence of holiness within our spiritually lackadaisical society is best understood by way of first-hand experience. Until your own soul has transcended the innate limitations of time, casualness, and rationality, it is hard to comprehend how respect for Christ in the form of an adherence to ancient traditions and asceticism can actually magnify God’s grace and goodness.

This past week, my son, Benjamin, unearthed a bright red egg from within the ominous recesses of our refrigerator.

“Cool, mom,” he said, “Look at this! Can I eat it?”

“That’s probably not a good idea,” I answered, before going on to explain how dairy products are susceptible to spoilage if not consumed in a timely manner. The question that we then had to ask ourselves was what to do with something that had been part of a basket full of treats, all blessed by our priest after the Paschal Divine Liturgy. I’ll tell you, it was a privilege – an honor to pass on to my family our Orthodox conviction that there certainly remains in this world plenty of things to take very seriously. “We believe,” I told them, “as Orthodox Christians, that because this egg was set aside and sprinkled with holy water for the purpose of celebrating Jesus’ Resurrection, it would be better to bury or burn it than to let it sit and mingle with old and stinky trash in a garbage dump. This made perfect sense to my children, whose hearts have not yet become tainted by more "mature" tendencies toward the embracing of cynicism - toward a lack of admiration for ceremonious displays of reverence.

The kids and I grabbed a shovel from the garage and loosened a patch of soil next to our strawberry plants. Priscilla carefully laid the egg in the space we had created for it; it’s brilliant shade of crimson contrasting dramatically with those subdued tones in the surrounding rocks and grass. I’d been impatient that morning, more flustered than usual by the bickering, and accumulating chores hindering substantially my ability to rejoice in God’s provisions. Having to pause in the middle of my busyness in order to dispose deferentially of a Paschal leftover, a symbol of our victory over death, was like a calming yet firm hand being placed upon my shoulder directing my attention away from the draining weariness of motherhood and onto the goal of Salvation. Rather than deflecting from His redemptive work on the cross, I promise you that the richness I see, smell, hear, taste, and touch within the Orthodox Church, throughout this journey toward the Kingdom of Heaven, makes me all the more aware of my dependence upon Christ's compassion - makes me that much more grateful for these tangible and sacred opportunities to be reminded of His mercy.

Expression

2008-06-15T22:37:00.000-07:00

Priscilla, singing with her grandfather in our Church choir.

I knew when I was pregnant for the very first time that in all likelihood, I would be horrible at remembering to update a baby book. Considering my track record of forgetfulness, and general lack of follow-through, I resigned myself to the reality that by child number two, I'd become hazy on the dates of first steps, emerging teeth, and newly formed sentences. So I decided upfront not to mess with any of it and while this pre-emptive act of rescuing myself from the guilt of blank pages and unorganized photos was somewhat freeing, it also presented the challenge of finding an alternative way for making each of my future children feel precious, unique, and wanted. Which of my many, endearing solely to those who bore me, quirks could I draw from to communicate my undying appreciation for the sons and daughters who would eventually fill our home with happiness, laughter, and unfathomable amounts of clutter? After vetoing several inane possibilities having to do with my propensity for impulsiveness, for example (I’ve got it! I’ll tattoo their names on my back alongside my other …uh, never mind), I zeroed in on a lifelong obsession with words and lyrics. A song, a musical ode composed by me, would be my gift - would be my un-tarnishable, un-breakable, un-losable offering to Elijah first, then Priscilla, followed shortly thereafter by Benjamin and Mary.

Though fairly untraditional, for me the song choice was a perfect one. I’ve sung each of them over and over and over again into sleepy ears, cheerful ears, and sad ones. They are still requested often with the specific command that they all be sung together and in order of when they were written. Every one of them reveal something a little different about my emotional state of being at various times throughout a six-year-period of adjustment and metamorphosis. Elijah’s is a lullaby that captures accurately my awe of motherhood and desire to bond with the infant I would rock for hours at a time while he cried and I cried from tiredness and hunger:

Dear baby boy, Elijah, you mean the world to me.
You are my star, my pride and joy,
now through eternity.
My cares get lost in your sweet, sweet smile,
when your sad my heart breaks too.
Who am I, Elijah, to be given a gift so great as you?

Now close your eyes, Elijah;
now rest your sleepy head.
Jesus is watching over you;
angels surround your bed.
Sweet dreams, my star, my pride and joy;
sleep tight, your day is through.
I’ll never be far from where you are,
I’ll always forever love you.

Priscilla arrived a month before her due date. Her birth was my quickest and least complicated. I was beyond thrilled that she was a girl, a whimsical looking creature with a mess of brown curls too thick and voluminous for a newborn. Her song is a silly and fanciful little ditty that would foretell of an adventurous and independent spirit that she would develop, and I would marvel at, over time:

Princess Priscilla went up to the moon.
She took Elijah in her hot air balloon.
Princess Priscilla, please come back to me
and we’ll have some donuts and raspberry tea.

I think I heard her laughing swinging from a star,
my precious little angel singing from afar.

Princess Priscilla, the morning has come.
Slide down to me on the rays of the sun.
Princess Priscilla, wherever you roam,
I’ll always be waiting to welcome you home.

Six months after becoming a mother of two, I would be shocked to discover that I once again was pregnant. It was a challenging time for my husband and I, fraught with overwhelming uncertainty. Troy was starting a graduate school program; I was already exhausted from caring for a two-year-old and an infant. Benjamin’s birth would be more of a spiritual experience, creating within myself a fierce dependence upon God for energy, patience, and courage. Oddly enough, Benjamin’s song turned out to be a country ballad, a twangy love letter to my 9lb, 6 oz bombshell:

Who knew my arms were simply aching for a little boy they could hold?
Who knew a new unwritten chapter of my life would soon unfold?
Who knew the heavens were smiling on me, that an angel they would send?
Who knew the joy that was awaiting in you, my gentle Ben?

Well I’ve seen heartache, I've seen sorrow,
I’ve seen a world that’s cold and numb.
But in your eyes, I see salvation -
a promise of the light to come.

O gentle Ben, my sweet surprise,
I hope you one day realize,
The gift you are, the hope you bring,
the song you’ve made my heart to sing.

Nearly three years later, came Mary Catherine. Her siblings, by then, were old enough to dote lavishly upon their diminutive, button-faced sister with the beady eyes and pointed chin. Her song, I clearly understood, would have to be from all of us. It can best be described as a head-swaying, finger-snapping, toe-tapping jingle, one that sticks in my brain stubbornly like the “Show me that smile again” theme song from the sitcom, Growing Pains, only much more meaningful:

Just when I thought I’d seen it all; just when I thought my heart was full;
just when I thought my arms had held as much as they could carry,
I felt stronger than I knew I’d ever been; I had room in my heart to love again;
I found joy that could never end, because along came Mary.

Oh Mary you’re a dream come true.
Oh Mary we’ve been waiting for you.
If you ever start to feel a little blue,
Just stop…and think of Mary.

I’ve got a smile from ear to ear;I’m gonna shout it loud and clear,
“A sweet little angel named Mary is here, and she’s ours forever!”
I feel stronger than I know I’ve ever been;I have room in my heart to love again;
I’ve found joy that will never end, because along came Mary.

I take great delight in finding scrap paper containing six-year-old Priscilla’s phonetical attempts at composing her own original odes to God or friends or ballet dancing. I listen attentively and with fascination as nine-year-old Elijah performs for me his first crack at a rock-n-roll single he aptly titled, “Shark Attack.” Daily, I am mystified by Benjamin’s unusual proficiency at whistling and tacking on an impressive tenor vibrato to the end of any song line he is currently belting out with "Pavarotti style" gusto. Just recently, I was touched to hear my daughter, Mary, following along in our recitation of the Paschal Troparian, asserting monumental Truths she will grow to understand through the grace of the Holy Spirit and sheer absorption. Nothing calms my soul like the Psalms.

A song can, in an instant, take you ten years back in time or resurrect tears you’d thought permanently dried out and evaporated. Songs can help one memorize what might otherwise elude us; they can break our hearts or mend the jagged pieces back together again. Music is a gift, a proof of a Good and Divine Creator who reveals Himself not so much through intelligence, as beauty. We are blessed, in the Orthodox Church, to be sustained by such rich and abundant hymnography. Every Great Lent, I am nothing short of blown away and overcome with a desire to repent upon listening to the Canon of St. Andrew. Each Divine Liturgy, I’m guided back to the path towards the Kingdom of Heaven (after a week of inevitable drifting) via congregational singing of the Antiphons, the Cherubic Hymn, the Nicene Creed, and the Lord’s Prayer. I chant my morning intercessions, borrowing words from ancient forefathers of our faith:

Arising from sleep I thank thee, 0 holy Trinity, because of the abundance of thy goodness and long-suffering thou wast not wroth with me, slothful and sinful as I am; neither hast thou destroyed me in my transgressions: but in thy compassion raised me up, as I lay in despair; that at dawn I might sing the glories of thy Majesty. Do thou now enlighten the eyes of my understanding, open my mouth to receive thy words, teach me thy commandments. help me to do thy will, and confessing Thee from my heart, singing and praising thine All-holy Name: of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit: now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.

and I am thankful for the rightness of the content, and how the inspired supplications of our righteous ancestors take root in my life and then blossom, not with transparent emotion but an opaque and seizable understanding that produces fruit. My son, Elijah, serves behind the altar and I so enjoy watching him mouth the words to a service that I, over the years, have put to memory and cherish deeply. Now that my daughter, Priscilla, is able to read she spends a good deal of time, under the guidance of patient choir members, on a stool in front of a music stand soaking in unwavering doctrines that spell out clearly and aesthetically the story of our deliverance from sin and death. Benjamin and Mary stay with Troy and I. Even at two and five-years-old they are beginning to comprehend the structure of our Church calendar based upon the seasonal and festal songs that we repeat as a family, both at St. Elizabeth’s and at home. We are learning together, maturing together, and forgiving one another, always, through the raising of our collective voice to Christ Jesus, to the God whose compassionate consideration of our humanity is made evident by the timeless expressions of his saints, now ours for the singing and clinging on to.

Click HERE to listen to this post (and to hear the melodies of the songs written for my children) starting sometime on 6/16. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Healing

2008-05-31T20:47:00.000-07:00

For weeks I avoided picking it up, even as her lovely face stared me down from its cover, from the spot on my nightstand I had placed it as a reminder that I should read this book and be amazed by the courage of its heroine. But I was scared to; there was part of me that was convinced if I examined and related to her story my own fate would mirror hers and I would die an early death just like she did. It is foolish and irrational to think this way; one can certainly miss out on an abundance of spiritual treasures by avoiding what is difficult or unpleasant. It was due to my respect for her family, her friends, her legacy, that I was finally able to get over myself and meet intimately, through her journal entries and website postings, an extraordinary and humble and beautiful and wise individual who met Christ as He is (rather than how we assume He should be) through suffering.

Lynette’s Hope is the title. It was edited and compiled by her dear friend, Father Luke Veronis, and published by Conciliar Press. This memoir of sorts is like a window into a soul being purified by fire. Lynette Hoppe, a mom to two young children, a devoted wife, and a missionary to Albania was not above us in her capacity to feel fear, pain, or disappointment and because of that her emotions and inner wrestlings cut straight to the core of my being in a way that hypothetical ponderings can never quite. If any scenario has the ability to shake up my beliefs, it is that of a mother being taken from her still very dependent loved ones. While reading in first person the thoughts of a woman living out and coming to terms with my greatest of worries, I was touched profoundly and even permanently altered by the words and sentiments she eloquently left behind as a gift to all of us who want so badly to be convinced that Christ is really and truly able to carry us through the roughest of storms and into the quiet of calmness and everlasting safety.

I know it is tempting, wrote Lynette in the Fall of 2005, for people to think that their prayers are not being answered because I have not been healed of cancer. But the truth is that prayers are being answered in the most miraculous of ways – perhaps not for healing of body, but certainly for healing of soul. I know that it is tempting for myself to think only in terms of physical and material prosperity when it comes to deliverance and wellness - that being blessed means being happy and comfortable. Oh the sadness and the guilt that I encounter when faced with news of someone in the throes of a wearisome situation. That could be me! I selfishly internalize, Why wasn’t it me? I can’t imagine being struck by such sorrow! Lord have mercy, make it stop; that is too much of a burden for me, I mean for anyone, to carry!

What I learned through Lynette’s experience, however, is that within the intensity of such pain and utter dependence upon God there is unearthly clarity for those who are willing to view their trials as a means to salvation, as opposed to a form of punishment or grotesque unfairness. As the peripherals in Lynette’s life were made obsolete by her increasing lack of energy and spiritual awareness, her revelations became ever more momentous and remarkable. After months of serenity and an illogical type of joy, Lynette fell prey to despair and my own spirit sank as she recounted her anxiousness at hearing nothing but the echo of her desperate prayers against the hollowness of newly acquired doubts. An existential angst, she wrote, gripped me, something foreign to me, as I have never struggled with God’s existence. God has always been real to me, and so to face the question of his existence now seemed to me a kind of failure, a sign that here, at the end, I would fall from faith. Why, I wondered, would God appear to distance Himself after all of her efforts to stay loyal, to remain a witness to His mercy in the midst of a monumental struggle? I wanted to be assured that in such a state of torment Heaven would override the horror of having to leave behind a sweet and wanted life and forcibly dull the sharpness of a soul being sheared of its body. Lynette fasted; she stopped trying and began waiting on Christ. During this time, Lynette remembered, I started to feel that it wasn’t right for me to pray for my own healing, but at the time I so desperately wanted to be healed. I felt that all my prayers were motivated strictly by the desire to gain favor in the sight of God so that he would heal me. My sincerity in prayer sputtered like a wet candle wick.

Eventually, Lynette would understand that the darkness gripping her so tightly was an outward attack and not a collapse from within. Father Veronis would bring to light for her the “Blessed are the Poor in Spirit” beatitude and she would be comforted. The image that came to my own mind when reading this passage about an already crippled yet godly individual becoming still more broken and then refined, was that of a house that when one first enters appears neat and tidy and perfect, especially when compared to a neighbor’s trashed bungalow with the clutter and the junk and the rusted out cars in the driveway; how simple it is to look around town for a bigger mess than your own and be satisfied. Yet the inherent isolation of dying removed completely from Lynette the option of escaping the dust and debris in her own life through busyness and voyeurism. The all-encompassing magnitude of her cancer became a spotlight uncovering grime and soot she never knew existed within the previously unexplored crevices of her character. Oh my, I suddenly realized, God was not letting Lynette down, He was allowing her to be cleansed out of love; He was preparing her for her entrance into His Kingdom.

Most of us believe, I would venture to guess, that on our own we could never be faultless enough or holy enough or disciplined enough to wriggle our way out of sinfulness and into our Savior’s good graces. But if you’re anything like me, there are moments when that charitable act of kindness or an episode of self-restraint will have you breathing a little easier about your prospects for being saved in the end from hell. That smugness that can turn instantly into fright when our sincerity turns on or off depending on our mood or present circumstances seems the hardest thing to be extricated from on this journey toward Christ and eternal life. Lynette, by the end, would be emancipated from the ups and downs of confidence giving way to despondency. Just thirteen days before her passing, she put the following statement on her website, one I’ve yet to read without awe or tears of hopefulness:

When I first got the news of my pending departure, I was frantic, thinking I needed to do some kind of “ministry,” but I soon realized that there was no value in ministry at this point. What I have done until now is what I have done. What I have become is what I am. To try to have some kind of dramatically different prayer life is simply an attempt to “win his favor” and would actually be rather artificial. I am allowing myself to simply relax in the love of Jesus, to enjoy him in a new way, to think about joining him soon. I have so much peace in thinking there is nothing I can do to win over Christ. All I can do is throw myself into his arms and know that it is only through the work of Christ that I can be saved. I feel that I am ready to die a “painless, blameless, and peaceful death” even as we pray every liturgy. I may have a lot of physical pain, but in spirit I feel no pain, other than leaving those I love.

How fortunate we are to have access to such precious and honest reflections from a warrior, a marathon runner for Christ. May her refusal to give up on either herself or her Creator continue to affect my everyday choices and personal meditations. Dear Lynette, I want to thank you for sharing your voyage with those of us still longing to make sense of it all. I pray for the continued mending of those who were closest to you and that your memory will indeed be eternal!

Assumptions

2008-05-21T06:34:00.001-07:00

Twice a week, now, I throw four children, a blanket, cleats, and two small gloves in our mini-van and drive a couple of miles to Dogwood Park for a ninety-minute T-ball game. In April, this seemed like a great idea. Six-year-old Priscilla and five-year-old Benjamin could play on the same team together. The warming weather with all of its out of doors potential was practically begging to host bike rides, long leisurely strolls, and sporting events. But a “next month” adventure seems a whole lot more feasible without the reality of today’s logistics to exhaust you and make you ultimately second-guess a seemingly super decision. Thus is my thinking every Wednesday and Friday afternoon while I am single-handedly rallying my troops to get out of the house in a timely manner, while searching desperately through clothes hampers and cluttered closets for a missing green tube sock, or while trying to pep talk my two-year-old into whining a little bit less once we get to the field and lay out our gear for an hour-and-half of confinement. And that’s nothing compared to the nerve fraying aspects of the six-inning, non-score keeping, showdown between our team and the their team, itself.

“Stand–up Ben!” I yell again and again and again, “Keep your glove on, buddy!” But he does neither, choosing rather to make “dirt angels” by lying flat on his back in the outfield while flapping all four of his limbs simultaneously. His coach is exceedingly patient, lifting him gently by the shoulders and then placing him in the proper fielding position – legs bent, hands on knees, eyes on the batter. For less than a minute Ben stays focused before playfully nudging his younger teammate who in turn nudges him back until both of them are laughing and then full-on wrestling while the ball passes by unnoticed and I burn with embarrassment. The two other moms I sit with are sweet and empathetic, “He’s adorable,” they assure me as the three of us watch their own sons strike the fiercest of batting stances and not pick up gravel to sprinkle over their heads, which is the activity Benjamin has moved onto since I pulled him aside to firmly remind him about keeping his hands to himself.

Priscilla, in the meantime, is soaking up praises for being a surprisingly sufficient ball handler. “Way to hustle Prissy!” yells coach and she beams. “That a girl!” I echo, “Good catch!” I don’t mean to wish that only she was representing our family on the Fox Photography Little League team but ashamedly that is exactly what I pine for as time drags on unmercifully and Ben becomes ever more sidetracked by his instinctively silly impulses. I assume by now he cares little about this game or the opinions of anyone watching it and so I turn my attention to his sister who cares obviously a great deal about both. After the final inning’s conclusion, Priscilla makes a beeline toward my lap; she’d like to hear in more detail about how proud I am to be the mother of such a t-ball aficionado. It is then I notice Benjamin and the telltale quivering of his lower lip. “What happened?” I ask alarmed. “Are you hurt?” And I find out then that he is, that he is heart-broken by my silence. Because I had nothing, not one single positive thing to say about his own outlandish performance my distinctively vibrant wildflower was wilting. Assumptions, I discovered, can be deceiving.

I found the following quote by Philo of Alexandria on Father Stephen Freeman’s excellent and thought provoking Glory to God For All Things blogsite: Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. Meaning, of course, that your curt and surly neighbor may be suffering through a divorce, an illness, or a stubborn wave of depression. We all have hidden baggage that can weigh down the best of intentions – we all disappoint at one time or another. And yet my memory is often shortsighted when it comes to the raising of children who lose their tempers, their manners, their library books. How quickly I forget my own deficiencies. “Be still!” I demand of a wired little boy whose veins pump electricity through his sparkly squirmy body. “You are kidding me!” I mutter disdainfully within earshot of his daydreaming older brother who has misplaced the pair of sandals I intended for him to wear all through the summer, which is spiteful of me, really, since I was much less hard on myself when I broke my cell phone, then replaced it, only to promptly leave the new one somewhere secret and mysterious. “Where do you think it is?” asks my obviously confused husband. “I’ll come across it,” I assure him unconvincingly.

She doesn’t want to wear that big old puffy coat because later in the day, she’ll get all sweaty but this morning it seems chilly and I insist she put it on; I don’t budge because …well, heck, I couldn’t even tell you. There are hordes of other sweatshirts and jackets available but the problem is I usually speak first and think later. The word “no” has set up its permanent and unyielding residence on the tip of my tongue. After my daughter leaves our house in a huff of tears and anger, I step outside forlornly to stare at an empty bus stop where things could have started differently had I put myself in her shoes for a moment. “It’s starts here,” I pray silently, “doesn’t it? In this home with these precious sons and daughters I am to cherish and honor and try my best to not take for granted. Please forgive me; I’ve been awfully self-absorbed.” Then wouldn’t you know it, the clouds turn sparse and gauzy allowing sunlight to penetrate an overcast beginning. “She’s right,” I concede as I remove my outer layer, a black down vest too thick and constrictive for springtime, “it’s not that cold out after all.”

Still

2008-05-14T10:32:00.000-07:00

I was greeted yesterday morning by three different news stories on my e-mail homepage: there was the hot off the presses report of a buxom, racily clad pop singer who had secretly wed an R& B musician and now they are still insanely rich, like before, but also married; a little further down was a piece about the passing of 98-year-old Irene Sendler, a former Polish social worker who had risked her life in the early 1940’s, enduring torture and arrest, to save 2,500 Jewish children from Nazi death camps by sneaking them out of a Warsaw ghetto and giving them false identities; finally, next to recently emerging photos and statistics, was an update on the earthquake in China that buried thousands of adults and children under the twisted steel and crumbled concrete of collapsed buildings. Within just a few seconds, as my eyes scanned spastically from one account to the next, I felt annoyed, inspired, and horrified. I heard loudly and simultaneously three opposing messages impossible to either separate or make sense of as a whole: Be distracted. Be motivated. Be anxious.

I’ll tell you the truth, I am miserable when segmented, when I jolt through my days in a series of whiplash-like stops and starts – now materially ambitious, resentfully claustrophobic, or steely with determination to exude love then whoosh in a heartbeat, dumbfounded by the potential of sorrow and shivering with a sense of foreboding. When my trust rises and falls with the tide of current events, I lose joy and my Orthodox perspective. Comfortable. Bored. Optimistic. Jealous. Empathetic. Insecure. Remorseful. Like a roller coaster ride is my identity if I choose subtly, by way of unconscious knee jerk reactions, to forget God.

I am thankful for where I came from and I am humbled by the dedication of those within my former faith community who serve with graciousness and selflessness their enemies and neighbors, but the issues prompting my exodus were not so inconsequential as, or limited to, the simple need for a change of scenery. What I traded in everything for was a broader and less culturally relevant worldview, a get out from behind the microscope and marvel at the hugeness of it all, kind of difference. Please forgive me for politely disagreeing with the assumption that assurance, devotion, and understanding can be conjured forth from out biased and imperfect minds. I nearly rendered my faith impotent by trying to neatly stitch together a sort of logical and consistent pattern out of suffering, grace, and difficult scriptural passages that defied being pinned down or summarized, at least not without changing the rules a bit (Too abstract for your taste? Try switching your tune from literal to symbolic). I wrestled with loose ends and became tongue-tied making excuses for what seemed to be faulty and even sometimes cruel craftsmanship. I got all knotted up in my own and what appeared to be, at least from a human standpoint, God’s inconsistencies. Weekly lectures and worship songs were not enough to override a belief that ebbed and flowed with my fears and ability, or lack thereof, to stay focused on feel good ponderings. It was the sacraments in the Orthodox Church, with their Christ instigated power to transcend my fickle reasoning that finally permeated my skittish spirit with indefinable confidence.

Founded on spiritual experience and not being a part of rationalism and scholasticism, wrote Hieromonk Hilarion Alfeyev in “The Mystery of Faith: An Introduction to Orthodox Dogma and Spirituality," Orthodox theology is a living entity in our day no less than hundreds of years ago. The same questions have always confronted the human person: What is truth? What is the meaning of life? How can one find joy and peace of heart? What is the way to salvation? Christianity does not aim to dot all the ‘i’s by answering all the questions the human spirit has to ask. But it does open up another reality which transcends all that surrounds us in this earthly life. Once this reality is encountered, the human person leaves behind all his questions and bewilderment, because his soul has come into contact with the Divinity and falls silent in the presence of the Mystery which no human word can convey. Yes, yes, yes and Amen.

He’d been picking at his food and not sleeping. I had never before seen this side of my usually stoic husband and it unnerved me. Troy was fighting a personal battle, one I couldn’t solve with hugs or good advice. There was a time when he and I both would have speculated on what exactly had gone wrong or what steps we could take to more speedily gain freedom from this trial. But now our default reaction was just to be, to accept this challenge in front us knowing only that God is good and that every encounter with disappointment and injustice is a chance to be purified of our stubborn and egocentric passions. Troy’s endurance and courageous choice to use this opportunity as a means for growth had a rippling effect, arousing in me, a mere bystander to his pain, a resolve to pare down the many distractions that keep me anchored to a limited field of vision. Stillness and patience are at serious risk of extinction in a world that chooses to remain ignorant by way of busyness and theorizing. It is instinctive to become flustered by the side effects of mortality, to start to panic and lose our hope in the face of tragedy. But in a crisis, our feelings and preferences are mere hotbeds for rash decision making and so we cry, as Orthodox Christians, only “Lord have mercy!” We sob with those who are grieving just as Jesus wept and mourned at the tomb of Lazarus, acknowledging loss and sadness within the context of the Resurrection - offering not explanations but calmness and a firm foundation of peace amidst uncertainty.

Liberation

2008-05-08T13:27:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 2002, I co-hosted a shower for one of my very dearest friends in the whole wide world. I wanted, of course, for the party to be perfect and packed to the gills with the fondest of memories, memories I would capture through the magic of film and then display in a scrapbook-y kind of album, gluing photos on to rattle patterned cardstock and writing something adorable like “Mommy-to-be” or “Waiting for the Stork to Arrive” with curly cue letters in the space beneath them.

Those were the old days, when picture taking was a dicey affair -when you aimed, shot, and then hoped for the best, crossing your fingers all the way to Walgreens, CVS, or wherever it was that you dropped off your undeveloped memoirs from a time or place of great personal significance. Surely, then, you can imagine my disappointment upon paying the fifteen dollars for larger 4x6 prints, and doubles, only to sort through image after image of folded arms, laps cradling pastel blue paper plates, crossed legs, sandaled feet and a dozen or so completely noggin-less torsos. “Say ‘baby’ (instead of “cheese” because I’m clever like that), I had instructed all of the guests obediently posing, not realizing that with each and every click I was lowering my neck and the camera with it, offing heads like the Queen of Hearts, herself. Not a one was worth salvaging and I was forced to concede that I would most likely never become a noted photographer.

It's slim pickins around here in the picture department due to those subsequent years of depending on the kindness of friends and family members to provide us with their extra set of photos. “Please,” long-distance relatives would beg of me, “do you have anything recent you could send?” And I’d promise that I would try to be more reliable – like I promised myself I would exercise and stop eating sugar. It’s a great idea in theory, for those who know how to stay on task, but …hmmm…wait a minute…what was I talking about?

Fast forward to just a couple of weeks ago when I borrowed my parent’s digital camera to take portraits of our sleepy-faced family before the midnight Pascha service, and by borrow I mean fell completely in love with, so much so that they haven’t had the heart to ask for it back. I was beyond pleased with the results. For the very first time EVER we got a picture of the six of us looking simultaneously pleasant – no tears, no half closed eyes, no wagging tongues. This mercifully foolproof technological wonder automatically focuses, let’s you know when you to need use flash, allows you see the shots you’ve just taken and then to either delete them or store them or print them out on an impossibly tiny printer that conveniently attaches to the battery charger. If you’re in nature, press the flower button for close-ups of petals or of rain drops hanging precariously from wispy branches. At t-ball games, choose the symbol of a man sprinting to catch clearly the expression on your son's face as he rounds the bases. There is even an option for novices like myself to be used for taking “action photos of children in bright light” which I gratefully took advantage of while the kids were swimming. By relying on established settings put in place by seasoned experts, I am free to stop sweating the details (too much shade? not enough?) and get down to the business of immortalizing the ages and stages of our lives that might otherwise pass me by near impercetibly.

I realized in my late twenties, once the novelty of unchecked independence had become tiring, overwhelming, and tainted by anxiety, that I function better - much, much better inside the safety net and comfort zone of set boundaries. At first I felt resistant to what I assumed were stifling barriers within full-time employment, and then stay-at-home motherhood, and even within the Church, the Orthodox Church for which I had abandoned an un-liturgical and less demanding Christ-centered tradition to become a part of. I thought it was better, more all-American, to decide for myself when to come, when to go, how to pass the time, and the best, most personally fulfilling way to live out the Faith. But the erraticism of my frequent mind and taste changing proved to be a stumbling block. Instead of feasting on the goodness of love and productivity, I was starving. In all the busyness of ransacking books, trends, and popular opinions for some kind of direction - for the most perfect ever recipe for contentment, I had failed to pause and nourish myself with something solid, healthy, and consistent.

I pray the ancient prayers of the Church and attend the scheduled services; I read the Scriptures assigned in a lectionary - the same Scriptures that were interpreted over a thousand years ago by Church Fathers whose Holy Spirit infused wisdom formed the rock solid, non-negotiables of Christian theology. I clean the exact same mess in my kitchen at least five times a day. I am governed by the sacraments, mundane responsibilities, and the needs of others dependent upon me for warmth and sustenance and unconditional support. I have willingly traded enslavement to my finicky whims and desires for the freedom that comes with submitting to the already established guidelines for salvation, guidelines defended valiantly throughout history by saints and martyrs. Outside of myself lies the key to authentic liberation, the mysterious solution to a pandemic of despair plaguing the rich and the poor, the old and the young, the sick and the seemingly strong and healthy. "If anyone would come after me, says Jesus in of the book of St. Matthew, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it." How simple. How dangerous. How maddeningly accurate!

“Will someone, anyone, please take that thing from my mother!” Elijah pleaded with his friends at the bus stop, while I stalked him paparazzi style with my zoom lens. But I simply can't help myself, it's literally everywhere - the gorgeousness of spring blooming fragrantly on Dogwood trees, cheerily in the singing of whippoorwills, nostalgically in the youthfulness of my two sons and two daughters whose days I am now chronicling with renewed zeal. By intentionally searching for beauty in places often overlooked I’ve been rewarded with the gratification of regularly beholding its presence, of devouring the holiness right in front of me.

Feast

2008-04-30T19:28:00.000-07:00

Under normal circumstances, I would drive ten miles out of my way to avoid the store nearest our home, which happens to provide mammoth sized shopping carts resembling racecars to its shorter, more demanding clientele. But this day was different, these circumstances were anything but normal, I had a grocery list burning a hole in my purse, or more accurately my purple Care Bear back pack, filled with dairy heavy ingredients for making meat laden recipes. I was jubilant, I was drooling, I was unusually permissive, declaring “Yes Ben! Yes Mary! We will stay here in town and I will awkwardly wield any obnoxious racing car cart of your choosing! It was time, really time, to begin celebrating.

In the wee hours of this past Saturday evening with Sunday poised to explode with heavenly brilliance, our choir at St. Elizabeth’s sang slowly and liltingly these words of anticipation:

Do not lament Me, O Mother, seeing Me in the tomb, the Son conceived in the womb without seed; and then, with voices swelling, they, we, declared Christ’s unbreakable promise, for I shall arise, and be glorified; and, as God, I shall unceasingly exalt all who extol Thee in faith and in love.

“Why is it so dark?” asked five-year-old Benjamin who had forgotten from a year ago the order of this sacred service, “When will they turn on the lights?”

“Watch,” I instructed as our priest and deacon came forward from behind the altar with candles lit, passing those two flames on to wicks being held by parishioners until the tiny glow doubled, quadrupled, covering the room like a warm and spreading blanket. “Get your coat on, sweetheart, we are heading outside; when we come back in, it will all look different. Just follow me and you’ll see what I mean.” Hand in hand we merged quickly into the newly formed procession circling our small parish once, twice, three different times before stopping outside the front door. And then officially we affirmed as a congregation, including men, women, and the smallest of children, that the ultimate victory had been procured, that Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death and upon those in the tombs bestowing life! Feeling the heat off our excitement, Benjamin and his four-year-old cousin, Isabelle, roared this Truth loudly and boldly, absorbing wide-eyed and with fascination the significance of an empty tomb. We re-entered, as I said we would, to white, to light, to shouts of exhilaration and assurance bouncing off of walls with reverberation.

What strikes me every Pascha is the purity of my joy - elation totally free from inhibitions. For when you think about it most good things in our lives come dragging along with them certain morbid possibilities, potentially grave outcomes outside of our control. The giddiness of a pregnancy is linked inexorably with worry over missing limbs, genetic defects, or a complicated delivery. Better paying jobs can mean an increase in responsibilities, stress, or working hours. The titillation of a budding relationship gives way all too soon to anxiety about the other person’s level of commitment. Our mortality has a tendency to poke holes through dreams and plans, deflating blown-up and idealistic notions of what will make us happy and invincible.

They don’t witness it as much as I know they should, the “no strings attached” type of bliss and tranquility I confidently displayed all through the weekend. Our home was filled with fellowship, festivity, and laughter which they ravenously and enthusiastically devoured, my four sweet kids. It makes me second-guess my reactive decision to hold all of my many, many blessings at an arms length lest their unforeseen removal cause me pain- pain I would feel regardless if I'd enjoyed them to the fullest or not. “Oh, I get it,” said nine-year-old Elijah, in reference to the Paschal Troparion, just last week, “by being crucified, Jesus destroyed death.” H-m-m, let’s be honest now, do I understand that in a way that alters noticeably how I function?

As I've often said before, I take courage in the fact we are saved as a body, that presently you might also be questioning that third piece of pizza, finally feeling caught up on all your lost sleep, or humming “The Angel Cried” while going about your business. We fasted, we prepared, we despaired of our unworthiness, and then we stood outside at midnight in front of various Orthodox Churches all over this nation, all over this ever shrinking world, announcing with a mixture of gratitude and relief that Christ lives, forgives, and loves us. It wasn’t just me who heard it, saw it, tasted and believed, every one of us present were witnesses of that miracle. In my periods of spiritual famine, your robust faith fills my growling and persistent hunger; when mine overflows like a rain soaked riverbed, God willing, it will help to quench your own thirst for something solid, perfect, and unfailing. We are tongues and grooves made whole and complete by our Trinitarian inspired cohesion to one another. We are individual sparks pulling together our resources to illumine and revive what is dim and cold and dead.

“What did he say?” mouthed the kindly cashier when Benji went on and on about all the special food we were buying for Pascha. So I explained the best I could that we were Orthodox and this was our Easter while she nodded her head approvingly before responding with, “well, now, isn’t that interesting.” But to me, to you, to us who were shopping on that exact same day for many of the exact same items, who were Feasting because hell no longer has dominion over those who cling expectantly to the Cross, the word “interesting” was as appropriate as wearing flannel to a lavish ball. Come now; let us clothe ourselves in the opulence of our Savior’s Resurrection and live it, rejoice in it, proclaim it like we mean it:

Christ is Risen!

The photo above is of my daughter, Mary, and my niece, Jane, "feasting" on cheesecake during our family's celebration of Pascha.

Click HERE to listen to this post. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Pascha 2008

2008-04-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

Christ is Risen!

May His Resurrection bring you joy, peace, and courage.

Love,

The Sabourins

Delusion

2008-04-17T06:12:00.000-07:00

Now I’ll be the first to confess, that I am a card carrying “Lord I believe, help my unbelief-er.” It takes a great deal of concentration for me to thread my spiritual convictions in and out through the patchwork of my assurances and doubts, joys and sorrows, disgust and fascination with our culture. “What if none of it's real?” asked my nine-year-old son, breaking through the watery surface of his cool and muffled innocence into the heat and blinding clarity of reason, intellect, and political correctness; The exact same “in the know” environment I, myself, have been steeped in for decades. “We can’t see God,” he went on. “We can’t hear him. What if we die and then nothing happens. What if we end up nowhere?” Quickly I rigged up some sort of confident expression in order to quell his disturbing reservations. “I know, babe” I said honestly, “that it is difficult to comprehend.”

Sometimes, when the earthly addiction of seeking one soothing pleasure after another becomes too thick of a buffer between the awesomeness of a Final Judgment and my own pacifying expediency, I worry that my devotion to a cross and a Savior is but a habit, a hobby, or an inherited gene. Yet I show up, regardless, in front of icons bearing faces, bearing lives whose unashamed commitment to radical repentance prick uncomfortably at the halfhearted existence I’ve grown accustomed to. Yet I pray, trying my best to ignore the seasons of dryness and the sometimes overwhelming suspicion that the teachings of a sandal clad, wood-working God-Man may not be apply, at least in a literal sense, to a less extreme modernity. Every Sunday morning I arrive hungry at the Divine Liturgy, anticipating the moment when my undeserving spirit and aging physical body will receive through holy Eucharist a supernatural link to the unfathomable Kingdom of Heaven without which I would surely yield completely to the persuasions of a society I can touch, taste, feel, inhale and gawk at. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease,” isn’t that what they say about those who are paid attention to by being louder and more obnoxious than their softer spoken counterparts?

If they told us that we couldn’t, without severe and frightening consequences, worship any old way that we desired, we’d have no other choice than to become all for or against something. But as it stands, there’s an awful lot of wiggle room right here smack dab in the middle. With Reverend Oprah as our guide promoting god(s), morality, and personal fulfillment, as more and more individuals settle down contentedly with their borderless and genial religiosity, as some well intentioned proponents of Christianity attempt to broaden its awfully limiting definition, we end up with a message sounding hauntingly familiar in a slithering and deceitful sort of way: “Eat it up kids! This won’t kill you. You’ll find nothing but enlightenment if you follow wholeheartedly your own agenda.”

Faith, said Flannery O’Connor, is what someone knows to be true, whether they believe it or not. So while admittedly, I’m no poster child for sacrificial piety and though I may continually struggle to absorb the foreign tenets of a Tradition based on losing your life in order to gain it, as a prodigal daughter who has experienced too many times the inexplicable satisfaction of being cherished and known and forgiven by Christ…that’s right, you heard me say it – Jesus Christ, the Son of God, Immanuel, the Prince of Peace, I know deep down in my soul that Truth exists. I cannot shake, even in the midst of uncertainty, the unpopular notion that only one Trinitarian path can lead to my Salvation if I cooperate with the plan God has provided.

I heard this week a half hour interview with a prize-winning novelist and literary scholar who had recently been honored by a prestigious University on the occasion of his 75th birthday. “I know,” said the host, “that you have never been religious, but now that you are older and that much closer to death, do you ever wish you had it in you to believe in eternity?”

“No,” he answered hurriedly with just a hint of exasperation. “I have absolutely no desire to be delusional.”

And for a moment my foreground reality consisting primarily of instantly gratifying distractions fell impotently by the wayside revealing a surety that I didn’t have to fight for. The ridiculous and grim assertion that we are here for nothing, that we live for nothing, that our affection for one another is of no lasting significance actually solidified my previously soft resolve to proceed otherwise. There are two kinds of people: said C.S. Lewis, those who say to God, "Thy will be done," and those to whom God says, "All right, then, have it your way." With independence comes the burden of our choices. Will I move forward as the foolish girl I am, participating despite my weaknesses, or lose my relevance as a Christian by watching, waiting, critiquing from the sidelines? No one, nothing, will force either option upon me for what is love without the freedom to refuse it? “He was in the world, we read in the Gospel of St. John, and the world was made through Him, yet the world knew Him not. He came to His own home, and His own people received Him not.” What if the sum of all my days adds up only to a lifetime of wasted opportunities? It is possible, way too possible of a scenario to take lightly.

Act first, surrendering a dependence upon logic, then feel the shifting of your priorities confirm that God, as He revealed Himself through the Church, is indeed with us. Come cynical, come starving, come weary and disappointed, come trusting just a little and you’ll understand why there is more, thank goodness so much more than what is force fed down our throats as acceptable, as preferable to the rigors of self-denial, by a civilization living solely for the present. Hope in Christ instead of fluctuating emotions and find meaning and purpose and peace in the midst of chaos.

Click HERE to listen to this post. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Despair

2008-04-10T11:27:00.000-07:00

It used to be, in the not so distant past (as in yesterday), that when my eldest boy, Elijah, was chastised for a series of questionable decisions, such as employing his selective listening skills or hiding uneaten carrots in his desk drawer, he would respond with a most frustratingly pathetic grimace and a phrase guaranteed to push my buttons:

“I’m just stupid I guess,” he would grumble. “You probably don’t even want me as your son.”

“Oh, Elijah, not this again,” I’d beg of him.

You’d think that I’d prefer this type of penitential narcissism to five-year-old Benji’s technique of adamantly denying the indisputable evidence of a crime smeared generously across his face or shoved deeply into his front pant’s pocket truly believing, while being punished for his deceitfulness, that the wrong guy was nabbed and now he is unjustly paying the price for it. Yet as maddening and irrational as such blatant defiance can be, it points back to a sturdy constitution and a rugged, youthfully dauntless sense of worthiness that will keep dear Ben, God willing, from being crushed and irreparably damaged by future heartaches. I can work with a strong foundation, chiseling away at those knee-jerk, self-protective habits, inspiring all sorts of various takes on cheating, tattling, and slothfulness, through prayers for wisdom and discipline. But what I cannot sculpt or create with is material that crumbles to pieces the moment that pressure is applied to it; this world does not cater to fragility.

As the first-born, Elijah knows exactly how to get to me- that swollen eyes and a pained expression can slice clean through my often shaky resolve like a razor blade swiped effortlessly through Jello. If the day is getting away from us and I’m stretched too thin to be logical, his emotional degradation can double masterfully as a cover-up keeping Elijah and me both overly focused on rescuing his wounded spirit rather than nipping inappropriate behaviors in the bud. But when I am prepared, when my morning has been offered up to Christ instead of dumped haphazardly on my shoulders, I can separate myself from the drama and explain clearly, calmly, why his despondency is unacceptable, even offensive to this adoring mother. “I carried you in my body,” I tell him. “You were fearfully and wonderfully knit together with a purpose and placed precisely in my womb, in my life. To give up on your ability to grow and mature spiritually is to negate our Lord’s benevolence and compassion. To insult yourself, is to insult the one who bore you and that, sweetheart, happens to be me – the mom who sees potential oozing limitlessly from every fiber of your passionate being.”

“What I hear in confession during Lent,” said our priest last Sunday, “is that ‘Father, its not working! I am behaving worse than ever!’” And once again I was uncomfortably caught off guard by his insightful candor. Because lately it’s been one bad decision after another, a vicious cycle of impulsive and unintentional reactions gaining speed and momentum like tumbleweeds in a windstorm, revealing loads about my character and lack of restraint. “Can you ever just not stand yourself?” I asked my husband on the phone when the ugliness of my sinful nature became too obvious to ignore. “I’m just stupid, I guess” I grumbled pitifully to the Holy Trinity, “You probably don’t even want me as a disciple, as a follower, as a daughter.”

“But it is working,” my priest continued, “bringing to light our hidden transgressions.” Which is true, of course, because mine have gone on to ignite themselves like fireworks, exploding violently against the all too placid backdrop of my own self-confidence. If I hang around long enough, allowing the oppressiveness of residual smoke to fill my lungs, burn my eyes, and cloud the heavens, I too, like darling Elijah, will stay anchored in place and all choked up by my failures, which is far easier, I daresay, than the arduousness of a repentance requiring the dusting off of oneself, the changing of directions, and the faith to start over from scratch.

Beware of despair, said St. Isaac the Syrian. You do not serve a tyrant, but your service is to a kind Lord, Who, taking nothing from you, he has given you all. And when you did not exist at all, He fashioned you so that you would be in that [state] in which you now are. Who is sufficient to render Him thanks for the fact that He has brought us into existence? O the immeasurable grace! Who can sufficiently honor Him with hymns? For He has given us knowledge of all things. And not only of those which are manifest, but also of hidden things. For we know that if there is anything we do not know, it is necessary for us only to ask this [knowledge] from Him.

But do I want to be informed? That, my friends, is the million-dollar question. Do I want to come to terms with my own helplessness not for the purpose of excusing myself from trying but to honestly assess my position, accepting my utter dependence on grace and realizing that in order to be used by Christ, I must release both puffed up and disparaging opinions about myself. We are loved, every single one of us without exception. Forgive me for doubting even momentarily that Truth, the Truth for which You willingly suffered.

Parents mess up too, you know - every day, just like their children. Look at me, Elijah. We need to quit wasting time on regret and journey forward, secure in the promises of our Savior. We must mourn our sins and then depart from them instead of wallowing in their filth, and tepid stagnancy. With Christ as our core, we can endure the pruning necessary for bearing fruit, without wilting into dry and comatose nothingness. With contrition should come action and determination to be better, more obedient, less selfish than we were an hour, a minute, or a second ago. As long as we are breathing and capable of thought, we are expected to confidently seek out righteousness. Keep moving son, keep hoping, keep believing in the goodness of our God.

True Belief

2008-04-04T11:07:00.000-07:00

Last fall I had the privilege of joining the editorial staff of The Handmaiden, a quarterly journal for Orthodox Christian women published by Conciliar Media Ministries. This week for my Close to Home Podcast on Ancient Faith Radio. I will be reading the following article which I wrote for the latest issue (Vol. 12, No.1) focusing on the topic of True Belief. If you are unfamiliar with with this outstanding resource providing interviews, articles, reflections, poetry, etc., all geared toward the strengthening of our faith and the building up of our Orthodox community, I encourage you to visit the Conciliar website and give yourself or someone you the love the gift of a subscription.

An Impracticality Reconsidered

by Molly Sabourin

After graduating from college, many of my friends held on to their favorite textbooks, kept their research papers in a binder, and filed away their notes to mull over later. I admired this about them even while actively trying to sell every gently used memento I could gather from my own scholastic experience to underclassman for a little bit of pocket money. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful for being pushed and pulled, challenged and humbled, enlightened and indoctrinated throughout my four years of higher education; I was just so darn ready to spread my wings, still damp and fragile, and fly away into the sunset without any extra baggage, without a mind all strained and muddled, without kinking up my neck by looking back.

I’m a “deal with it and move on” kind of girl. A “let’s get this show on the road” type of student, mother, shopper, cook, etc. This explains why I get a good start on a recipe (one I didn’t take the time to read all the way through, of course) before realizing that I am out of baking soda, vanilla, or garlic powder. This is why I usually leave the grocery store having purchased all but three of the items on my list (“double-check?” What a drag!). This is why I make overly ambitious plans, like organizing the entire kitchen in 20 minutes flat, only to end up with a counter full of spices, cereal boxes, and canned goods impossible to put away again before my time runs out. And this is why after immersing myself for a solid year in Orthodox Christian literature, theology, and Tradition, in preparation for my imminent conversion, I took a ten-year study break to just live out the Faith by applying it to my every day circumstances, to grow accustomed to the rhythm of the Church.

Staying ever true to my character, I compiled throughout that time all kinds of uplifting books from various parishes, conferences, and catalogues, only to precariously stack the bulk of them on my nightstand, like a makeshift leaning tower of good intentions. Dog eared pages in the first or second chapters of each, reveal my impatience, my unproductive habit of getting easily sidetracked by new resolutions, by an “easy read” novel, or by sleep. I am genuinely appreciative of the Church’s teachings, but …how should I put this? My interest in creeds, counsels, and Orthodox catechism has been trumped by a desire for something more practical at this stage of my life - like instructions on meal planning, home organization, and discipline.

For example, you will rarely find me at coffee hour in the throes of a good-natured debate with seminarians, because jumping up every three minutes to head off an impeding toddler disaster is not exactly conducive for participation in intensive dialogue. So I stick with the “mom” table, where my fellow female parishioners pop in and out of light hearted conversation like fishing bobbers coming up for air when their line is free, before the weighty demands of their hungry children can pull them quickly out of sight again. This is the “hunker down and take care of the business at hand” routine to which I became accustomed - and which God had no qualms about shaking up a little.

This past July, my husband, Troy, and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary. All that day I counted down the minutes until I could break out a dress impossible to nurse in, and dust off my high-heeled shoes for an evening of good food (i.e. something with visible vegetables) and romance. We were giddy as we dropped the kids off at my parents for this was indeed a rare occasion – a chance to share, communicate, and confide in one another without interruption. It became quickly obvious, however, that we could not jump into such earnest discussion willy-nilly, without unwinding, warming up or switching gears. We both needed a bit of time to let our zooming thoughts settle, to slow down our breathing, to remember how to relate to one another outside the context of parenthood.

“Do you want to listen to something?” asked Troy pulling out the iPod he depends on for maintaining sanity throughout the daily, hour-long, commute he makes to the city.

“Sure,” I said, we had at least an hour to kill ourselves, a built-in pocket of rest before painting the town red, “what do you got?”

We decided on a podcast from Ancient Faith Radio, Clark Carlton’s three part series on Hell and Hades. Admittedly, I was fuzzy on the Orthodox Church’s view of the afterlife. It was one of those topics I had meant to look into but, unfortunately, had let all curiosity about fall to the wayside due to other, more pressing, concerns. “This should be interesting,” I thought to myself, closing my eyes to the tacky highway billboards promoting gambling, fireworks and strip clubs. And for the next 45 minutes I was riveted, I tell you, I was floored by the “abstract” Truths, Dr. Carlton expertly and methodically spelled out for his listeners. I became permanently altered by the “unnecessary” information drawing tears of thanksgiving from my overworked and underfed mind.

Let’s face it, the main reason I joined the Church (Her rock solid stance on what constitutes the “fullness of the Faith”) is the same reason why I got …let’s see, how shall I put this? Lazy. It felt so great not to have to carve out my own, shaky, position on the essential tenets of Christianity, to surrender to this Christ-sanctioned authority, that I stopped honing in on the foundational details altogether. I, eventually, would take for granted what the martyrs had given their lives for: dogmas that protected our “Ark of Salvation” from heresy, dilution, and erosion. It is feasible, I suppose, that too much head knowledge (acquired for purposes of pride) could be one’s downfall but that was hardly a possibility in my case. It is pretty safe to say that of all the ways I could potentially shoot myself in the foot, developing an unhealthy obsession with the history and minutiae of Church doctrine is not one of them. I am on the opposite end of that spectrum, filling my brain with, albeit seemingly innocuous, still secular information. It is hard for me to choose “Church books” over “mothering” ones. It is a stretch to seek out the answers to the spiritual questions hovering subtly amidst the everyday cares and concerns that eat up my time and energy. And yet a “God-send” of a car ride would reveal how acquiring an Orthodox understanding of death, for instance, (as a curtain behind which lies an extension of our relationship with Christ Jesus - one capable of continued growth and communion with the saints, those still on earth, and the Holy Trinity) could transform how I prayed for those who have already passed on, could instill hope, courage, and determination not previously known to me.

True belief is an organic whole in which faith, acts of selflessness, and understanding are woven throughout, like strands of yarn knitted and purled to form a sweater. To remove but one is, essentially, to unravel all of it. The more I know about what exactly it is I believe, the more likely I’ll become to put those convictions into action. It is a catch-22 worth getting caught in for any of us longing to sprout some wings and soar away into the joy of eternity without earthly baggage, without a heart all convoluted, without a soul too weighed down by irrelevant stimuli to take flight. There is no “one-size-fits-all” prescription for best rounding out our experience as followers of Jesus Christ. But I trust that opportunities for strengthening our individual weaknesses are made plentifully available to those who ask for them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I myself have an architectural wonder near the bed to whittle down. It is growing late and there’s much I’ve yet to discover. I pray I’ll change my tomorrow through the knowledge garnered today; I pray today I’ll love enough to learn tomorrow.

Forgetful

2008-03-26T16:10:00.000-07:00

It takes approximately two hours to get home from my in-laws, and of course we left late wanting to squeeze in as much visiting as possible. After a last minute search for random socks, action figures, and princess themed underwear (items which should have made it into the hastily repacked suitcase but most likely didn’t) we buckled ourselves into the van and waved goodbye.

It took approximately two weeks into Lent for me to hit with blunt force an unforeseen brick wall, the likes of which was bigger, stronger, taller than my current character could scale using ordinary amounts of perseverance, meditation, and dairy-free garbanzo beans. Take my money? Fine. Eat up my time? Well, alright then. Close the door on opportunities I had hoped would come to fruition? Actually, I expect that sort of thing when the seasonal Prayer of St. Ephraim is echoing in my head like a warning bell alerting me to dangers I might otherwise stumble into unawares. But please, c’mon now, I’ve got active sons and daughters, a mountain of tasks to be managed, a household to run and a personality that thrives on order (ironic, isn’t it?) – I cannot afford, I mean I really can’t afford to surrender to You my health and productivity.

In hindsight, I know shouldn’t have pushed it. I shoved all of us into plans that nobody wanted to miss out on and because of that rash decision, I am feeling the unpalatable side effects of a sickness disregarded. Days earlier I was feverish and cotton mouthed from several unpleasant episodes of retching and cramping and reassuring two-year-old Mary that mommy was fine despite the fact that she lay all hunched over and grimacing on the bathroom rug. I thought surely it was over when my stomach ceased convulsing but the exhaustion, migraine headaches and lingering queasiness that stubbornly stuck with me throughout the weekend, proved otherwise. And now, as we pull onto the highway, my mind begins to wander into dangerous and forbidden territory, into chasms every mother should most certainly avoid exploring. I begin to play a numbers game I know at the outset will be unsolvable.

What is one of me – well, two thirds of me if you factor in my illness, divided by:

Four kids at home on spring break,

Three floors of a dusty old house that were torn apart to get ready for a trip I couldn’t fully enjoy,

One spouse working extra long hours,

Twelve unanswered e-mails and/or phone calls,

A few unfinished projects I am falling way behind on,

And a head full of important dates and details as of yet unrecorded on a calendar?

Let’s see here…no matter which way you look at it, that certainly seems to leave me with a whole lot of negative.

It is silent, save for the thump, thu-thump, thu-thump sound of our tires turning 70 mph on the open road. The under thirty crowd is sleeping while us mature folks sit reflectively up front, arms linked in a makeshift gesture of something between romance and camaraderie. “I miss you,” I think to myself, but I don’t say it, opting rather to daydream about a car ride with my husband that goes on and on indefinitely past flu bugs, appointments, stress, responsibility. “Poor old mom,” I sigh inwardly, with the lack of free time, the lack of me time, the demands that never pause for a woman to catch her breath. Down I go, slow and low, to the recesses of self-pity where I am the focus, I am the victim, where I have forgotten why, exactly, we are munching on almonds instead of string cheese. Presently, a radio program has been added to the background noise offering weather reports, commercial breaks, and news stories. “Iranian Christians,” says the man with the mellow voice, “are being tortured and killed with regularity.” Thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. To my right I see a billboard with a bald and fragile sweetheart of a girl smiling bravely atop a single convicting sentiment: “Be thankful,” it reminds us, “for all of the healthy children in your life.”

Sometimes, like Saint John of Chicago, I am aflame with love for God. But other times, like Jonah, I sit grumbling under the shade of His provision. I wish that it were possible to tattoo authentic piety on my spirit, on my soul, on my heart, but it slips and slithers away from me like a bar of soap at bath time and too often, the sweat, grime, and filth remain uncleansed. It takes work to remember – never ending, all consuming effort. One mindless detour has within itself the potential to burst a swelling faith and send me groveling on my knees before the Savior who never budges, who stays as radiant and bright as the sunshine while I bask in His warmth and then hide from it, while I revel in His love and then resent it if it burns, if it sears, if it blisters my craved for comfort.

At 9:30 pm, we back into the garage. I am desperate to collapse immediately but there are a few things yet to get done. “Let’s go guys,” I nudge, “grab your backpacks and jackets.” Like a spent row of ducks we waddle groggily in formation toward the screen door. Clothes are scattered, teeth go unbrushed; there are kisses, covers, then lights out. I, too, lie down, with yearnings for peace, with prayers that the Lord will sustain me until tomorrow when I’ll rise to greet the day and do my best to grasp the Truths that lead away from my own ideas of happiness and onward, upward, forward to salvation.

Click HERE to listen to this post (beginning 3/28). This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Faithful

2008-03-17T20:52:00.000-07:00

I know exactly which floorboards creak and how to avoid them. I can get dressed in complete darkness. I tiptoe and hold my breath when sneaking past the children’s bedrooms but just when I think I’ve made it safely to the haven of my quiet kitchen, I hear two-year-old Mary yelling, “Mama, I hungry!” and I cringe. Whereas some might long for wealth or fame, I daydream obsessively about privacy. Throughout the last decade I’ve been touched, pushed, and pulled at least as much, if not more, than a turnstile at the entrance of Walt Disney World. All day long I go about my business while toting a toddler, grasping squirmy fingers belonging to bodies that want to cross the street all on their own, kissing scrapes, wiping noses, being yanked on and inundated with questions and outlandish observations. Locked doors are no deterrent for my determined bunch, “Where are the markers?” “Can I have a snack?” “Benji is bothering is me!” they yell every two minutes into the wood that separates us.

“Find your dad!” I shout back from the bubble bath I crawled into for relief from the physical, mental and emotional exhaustion of being needed twenty hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days of the year.

It’s amazing that I still fall for it, the delusion that during Lent I will spend plenty of time reflecting and reading scripture on my own. I am always half hoping that the intrinsic stillness of a Lenten fast will permeate my household like a mood altering narcotic- instantly taming tempers, quieting outbursts, changing sleep patterns too light and anticipatory of a brand new morning to allow for the indulgences of a mother seeking spiritual enlightenment on her own terms. “If only I could hole up in isolation with a Bible and an icon,” I mumble to myself after scolding one of my kids for sneaking out of quiet time, again, and interrupting my attempts at noonday prayers, “then I could prepare myself appropriately for the death and Resurrection of Christ.”

I am always on guard this time of year for big and blatant temptations that if succumbed to, would absolutely put a cramp in my Lenten style. Let’s see, there’s envy, greed, gossip, gluttony, despondency …no wonder I’m frustrated! How am I supposed to find the wherewithal to overcome these ungodly vices if I continually have to make meals, clear the dishes, wash dirty clothes, and settle arguments? When on earth am I supposed to get out there and feed the poor, visit those in prison, and give aid to widows and orphans? I don’t want to be a goat, separated and cast out on the Day of Judgment for not tending to those in need. What a sneaky and devilish sucker punch: keeping me overly fixated on the letter and not the spirit of the law.

"And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to me (Matthew 25:40).” While searching “out there” for ways to purify my soul, to make a positive difference in the life of another, I somehow lost sight of the salvific responsibilities right here in my lap, draped affectionately around my shoulders, filling my time, testing my forbearance with their enormity. I got sucked into the idea that a mother of young children must retain her own identity, to separate herself, at least intellectually, from the subservience of her role as both a helpmate and a nurturer. “But where are my accolades? Where is the fulfillment that comes only from being recognized for my skills and artistic achievements?” If I’m honest, I’ll admit that that is exactly what I ponder when the weight of domesticity threatens to suffocate my individuality, when repetition starts to heighten my desire for some kind, any kind, of a distraction.

“Oh Lord and Master of my life take from me the spirit of sloth, despair, lust of power and idle talk.”
For procrastinating and avoiding the tediousness of housework at the expense of my husband and children, for the aching to be admired and my displeasure with anonymity, for the shameful habit of trying to dominate my kids instead of lead them by example, please forgive me.

“But grant unto me, Thy servant, a spirit of chastity, humility, patience, and love."
Oh how could I be so foolish, looking everywhere else for my purpose, for an offering that would please You and, let’s face it, myself simultaneously? Where outside of my own home could so many opportunities exist for being stretched and for serving God by serving others? For the moments I feel ready to snap and have no choice but to beg for Your mercy, for the hundredth spilled cup of juice that I am able to wipe up without feeling tense and angry because the annoyance has finally been drained out of me, for the sickening sensation in my gut that comes from talking too long on the telephone or typing too often on the computer when I know I should be cuddling, reading to, or more consistently reprimanding my children, I thank You. For the reassuring peace that comes from unselfish acts of submission, I am eternally grateful.

“Yea, O Lord and King, grant me to see my own faults and not to judge my brothers and sisters. For blessed art Thou unto ages of ages. Amen.”
This Lent I am a mother to four little ones and a wife to a man working long and hard for our benefit. This Lent my prayers will be active and sticky with jam, syrup, and kisses. This Lent I will be held accountable for how effective I was at helping each member of my family to feel loved, honored and supported. This Lent I have my mercifully specific, Christ assigned work cut out for me. I beg of you most Holy Theotokos, our most perfect prototype of obedience, whose response to the Angel Gabriel was “Be it unto me according to thy word,” who emptied herself to be filled quite literally with Jesus, her son and savior, please assist me in staying true to my calling and in taking full advantage of the chances at my disposal to be faithful.

Click HERE to listen to this post. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Cultivation

2008-03-11T05:05:00.000-07:00

The term I would prefer is “accommodating” but my husband would most likely use “pushover” when describing my parenting style. I always mean to be consistent, a “what I say goes!” type of mother but then come the tears, the excuses, the dramatics in response to the word “no” in which my kid’s faces contort into a desperate, most distressing sort of expression, similar to that of the ghost-like figure in Edvard Munch’s Scream painting. Next thing you know I am compromising, extending deadlines, way over explaining a “final” decision. It is a “come back to bite you in the end” sort of habit where short-term appeasement becomes a long-term headache, where getting what one wants becomes frantically addictive.

When they were younger, it was easier (though I never would have thought so at the time). Reactions to disappointment were fiery and immediate, yet distractible – tempers oft forsaken with a change of scenery. Now days it’s a lot more complicated, a lot less black and white. There’s little running into the street or sucking on Lego blocks but plenty of sibling rivalry, longings for: stuff, a later bedtime, independence, and suspicions that my husband, Troy, and I bred our four lovely sons and daughters for the sole purpose of having them help with the housework. There’s an awful lot of scowling, under the breath mumbling, and eye rolling around here. I try not to let it hurt my feelings, to stay stoic in my calling to be a parent first and a friend second, but sometimes I forget that being unconditionally devoted means I occasionally have put my foot down, that the lessons I most need to teach them like patience, frugality, self-control will inevitably be resented because, “dogonit!” we're so darn used to making a fuss when our plans or our agendas get derailed. I am speaking from experience, here, as a creature that’s no stranger to complaining.

What must this look like to the world - our Lent, so demanding, so unspontaneous? Unnecessary, maybe? A tad too formal for a caring and compassionate Christ? “What’s the deal?” I’ve heard asked by those unfamiliar with all the “tricks and trappings” of liturgy and Tradition. “Why all the prostrating, and begging for mercy from a good and approachable God?” I used to see their point, before I dove in myself and got a first-hand taste of the Orthodox view of repentance. Once upon a time, I too, would have dismissed the disciplines required for Great Lent on the basis that believing was enough. But here I am, on the outset of a 40 day Fast, grateful as all get out for a chance to get over my foolish self and closer still to the glory, the peace, the hope, the kindness, the power and perfection of Jesus.

You see I’m not just accommodating to my children; I have a natural and stubborn inclination to please myself. If there is something I get my heart set on, be it as big as a house or as small as a cookie, as important as health or as inconsequential as a pair of summer sandals, be it praiseworthy or vain, I’ll stop at little to make it a reality. Presuming I know what is best for myself, I focus all my thoughts and actions on the close-minded process of transforming my desires into necessities. By listening to my assumptions, I cease to hear the whispering of the Holy Spirit offering continual opportunities to lay aside my will, the same will that barricades my soul from total access to the treasures of Heaven, and accept an unknown future by embracing His holy wisdom, in faith.

“Fasting is wonderful,” said St. John Chrysostom, “because it tramples our sins like a dirty weed, while it cultivates and raises truth like a flower.” Great Lent is neither penance nor a punishment but a gift born of Love unfathomable. By dying to our passions, those self-protective impulses that so easily stop up our ears and blind our eyes, we have a chance to be resurrected with the living Christ. “No,” says the Father to our obsession with intemperance. “Not now,” says the Son to our affection for food, drink and merriment. “Use this sacred period to exchange short-term pleasures for rewards eternal,” says the Church with incredible insight, understanding all too well our fallen nature. I am stuck, held fast by a culture quite conniving, and it smarts a bit to be pried from that grip with such force. But I’d do it for my own kids, endure their tears to procure their freedom, I would provide them with the tools necessary for getting back on the right course.

There is a slumber party I’m not sure about but my growing son is anxious to attend. It kills me to do it, to watch his countenance turn gloomy, thinking me cruel and harsh and strict when I offer to drop him off and pick him up later but, no, he can't sleep over for the night. It is appropriate and merciful to set limits, to curb cravings for that which fill him only with sugary sweetness, which will ultimately leave him empty and unsatisfied. He may not understand this or appreciate my line of reasoning but I must learn to persist, nonetheless, trusting one day he and I both will recognize the foils and frustrations as a saving grace. May each of us through prayer, fasting, and almsgiving - asceticism appropriate for every follower of Christ, develop an undercurrent of tranquility unflustered by let downs and earthly cares.

“The end is drawing near, my soul,” we cry aloud with Saint Andrew in the Great Canon, “ is drawing near! But you neither care nor prepare. The time is growing short. Rise! The Judge is near at the very doors. Like a dream, like a flower, the time of this life passes. Why do we bustle about in vain? (Matthew 24:33; Psalm 38:7)” Thank you, most Holy Trinity, for loving us enough to bring to light that which is easily clouded by our fascination with all things superfluous. Please strengthen me with the resolve to stay attentive.

Click HERE to listen to this post (beginning 3/13). This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Forgiveness Vespers

2008-03-02T13:50:00.000-08:00

After twenty or so prostrations, I begin panting. “God forgives,” I whisper into the ear of my fellow parishioners, whose lips brush my right cheek and then my left. The nave is completely dark, lit only by flames of candles casting shadows on expressions sweetly somber. My breathless petitions for forgiveness join the steady hum of voices murmuring softly in the twilight of this very last Sunday before Lent. We are men, women, and children, bowing, and embracing, and experiencing first hand the mercy and restoration of Christian fellowship.

In 1999, I was eight months pregnant and a very new Orthodox Christian. That winter, I attended my first Forgiveness Vespers having no idea what to expect or how moved I would be by the experience. Earlier in the day, I had braced myself for a marathon of litanies, hymns and Gospel readings, assuming by that point anything remotely related to Lent would quite naturally require an extra 45 minutes of standing time, but to my surprise the vespers service lasted only for half an hour. Rather than grabbing coats after its conclusion, however, everyone remained respectfully quiet and in place while our priest explained the significance and order of what was to follow. Before embarking on an intense period of repentance and preparation, we would be given the incredible opportunity to rid our souls of bitterness, arrogance, and envy by looking each of our spiritual brothers and sisters in the eye and asking for forgiveness for any hurt we may have caused them.

With curiosity, I watched a line begin to form, hanging back apprehensively as the deacon in front of it stood face-to-face before our priest. Both men bowed, knees bent and heads touching the floor. Upon rising they clasped hands and kissed each other. “Forgive me,” they said in turn. “God forgives,” was the mutual reply. The deacon then stood beside our priest while the next person approached him, following the same protocol. One after another, those in attendance bowed, kissed, and asked for forgiveness from the person across from them, forming a circle as each cycle was completed. Visually, it was stunning; the synchronization of bended knees, bobbing heads, and shuffling feet, seemed gracefully choreographed in that incense-scented ambiance of holy grandeur.

Much of the spiritual impact was buried, initially, by my fear of bowing when I should stand or of asking for forgiveness when I should be assuring that God forgives. I waddled nervously, lowering my neck, unable to maneuver my gigantic belly into any semblance of a prostration, and looked warmly at members of my parish I had never previously thought about or remembered noticing. Drops of sweat were beginning to bead on foreheads, and I could feel the breath of virtual strangers hot upon my neck. I did not yet understand how apologizing to those I had never had personal contact with could be so healing and meaningful, but I was moved to tears regardless by the intimacy of our shared contrition.

Every year since then, I have been adamant about attending this service. Entering Lent without participating in Forgiveness Vespers, is like to trying to run a race without warming up limbs, cold, taut and stiff from inactivity. The process of gathering as a body in humility, lightening the burden of guilt and resentment through a communal offering of leniency, prepares us for the Fast ahead. It reminds us that we are not alone in our efforts to tune out this world and tune in to the Kingdom of Heaven. It is both with anxiousness and anticipation that I ponder upon the Lenten season of restraint that is, literally, just around the corner. Clinging to the authority of the Church, I will trust Her to lead me through the highs and lows of grieving my human depravity and rejoicing in the sustenance of God’s compassion. It is tricky, difficult, to navigate through the dangerous waters of self-examination. Only through the guidance of my spiritual father, the attendance of Lenten services, and the support of my Church family, will I successfully walk that thin line between pride and despair or find the courage to stand back up and try again after falling.

In 2007, I attended my first Forgiveness Vespers at our current parish, St. Elizabeth’s. Having not yet established roots within our community, I looked forward to weaving my family into their established tapestry of faith, rich in the colors and textures of all the personalities that are threaded throughout. Some faces I kissed having little familiarity with the hidden joys and sorrows veiled discreetly behind courteous smiles. To them I apologized for wasting the gifts and blessings generously bestowed upon me, for letting others in the body of Christ carry more than their share of earthly burdens while I sat by in idleness, for falling short of my potential over and over and over again. I gazed upon God’s creation and prostrated before His handiwork, acknowledging with a heavy heart that I had failed Him.

I kissed others, however, like my husband, my children, and my parents, - faces as familiar to me as my own, with a profound awareness of the wrongs I had inflicted out of selfishness, pride and impatience. To them I apologized for being a less than a stellar example and for making my needs and wants a priority above their own. The intentional reminder that “God forgives,” reiterated profusely the evening before, was ingrained in my heart the next morning when I took my first steps toward extracting the vices barricading my will from total obedience. That assurance was the light at the end of the tunnel, always burning with the promise of Christ’s ultimate victory, and illuminating my darkened spirit with the grace-covered confidence that even I can be saved.

So now, my friends, I ask for your forgiveness, not because I deserve it, not because I won’t mess up again but because Christ is good – gracious and forbearing. I pray that every one of us will find the bravery to believe in (and to emulate) a Love that knows no limits, a life not bound by egotism, and the miracle of resurrection after death. May we all have a sacred, a productive, a very blessed Lent.

Homeschool

2008-02-27T13:42:00.001-08:00

So I have decided that what the internet, heck...let's just say it, what the world really needs is one more blogsite. Wouldn't you agree? In order to do my part I have created a sister blog to Close to Home called The Hesitant Homeschooler which is, as you probably surmised, a blog dedicated fully to my decision to keep my kids at home in the fall and educate them myself. The ramblings you will find within it will be interesting only...I repeat, only if you have, are, or are going to Homeschool and find that task to be both wonderful and nauseatingly scary at the same time. If that does not describe your situation, please stick with the blog you are currently reading. I am in need, here, of much prayer, encouragement, and advice. If you have any of these to offer then hop on over - I truly would appreciate it.

Sidetracked

2008-02-25T13:05:00.000-08:00

I was the kid with her knees pressed firmly against the back of the booth, resting my chin on crossed arms while staring unflinchingly at the couple behind us as they ate their Bob Evans breakfast and pretended not to notice, until that is my mother shoved me downward by the shoulders, whispering, “Honestly, Molly, that is rude!” I was a sidetracked kind of child who too many times to count looked up in terror at the unrecognizable face belonging to the pant’s leg I mistakenly thought was my father’s. I was easily lost in shopping malls and grocery stores, left lingering in toy aisles as the rest of my family moved on to the check out line assuming I was there right beside them. Now here I am, twenty-five years later, a mother with a drifter of her own. “Look me in the eyes,” I tell him, positioning myself directly within his field of vision. “We are leaving in five minutes, please stop what you are doing and get ready to go.” It’s all hypocrisy for the most part, my telling him to pay attention when I am always living life with my head in the clouds, or in the murky puddles of mud pooling here and there and everywhere around me.

Left to my own devices, it is probable that I would float indefinitely from to whim-to-whim, losing time, confidence, and distance to the numerous stops and starts of my shifting ideologies and preoccupations. I’m not disciplined enough nor was I created to stay focused on salvation all by my lonesome. I am saved, being saved, aboard the Ark of the Orthodox Church within a body of Christians past and present sailing onward in unison toward the Kingdom of Heaven. What may appear to be repetitious and overly restrictive such as centuries old litanies, reoccurring fasts and feasts, and an ancient Liturgy unmodified, in reality caters mystically to our longing for stability in a world of rapid change and conflicting morals. What may seem to some like cold outdated Traditions are really, truly, miraculously, a most relevant source of enlightenment and spiritual healing.

It’s a sensible Faith as well as one of mystery. The thrice everything in Orthodoxy, for example, serves a very practical purpose for one such as myself whose thoughts start bucking like a bronco at the mere notion of being contained. By that last “Amen” or “Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal,” I am usually able to reign in my mind and return to the work at hand of giving thanks to the Holy Trinity for the hope and untaintable purity of God’s perfect goodness. Just recently I was struck all over again by the usefulness of reiteration when I started joining my husband in his nightly rule of prayer. At first I didn’t understand what could possibly be so beneficial about forty recitations of “The Jesus Prayer” (Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, Have mercy upon me a sinner) in front of icons of Christ and the Theotokos prior to going to bed; I was right to assume I didn’t naturally have the patience for it. For the first ten, I fidgeted; by the second ten, I was desperate to be anywhere besides standing in that skin crawling chasm of quiet. But during those last intercessions, by quite obviously the grace of God, I was able finally to make it through to other side of restlessness, finding peace in a moment of not doing, not telling, not asking, not trying but just being in the presence of Jesus.

On Friday, I was teary, overwhelmed and exhausted from attempting to be all things to all people. On Saturday, I was hyper: cleaning house, making more plans than I had energy, time, or skills for, and baking cupcakes for my eldest son’s birthday. On Sunday I was standing with my family for the Gospel reading when the parable of the Prodigal Son, a passage I know from experience (and our Church calendar) is but two short weeks from the beginning of Great Lent, mercifully grabbed hold of my antsy spirit with its vivid and poignant message of repentance. Left to my own devices, it is certain that I would flounder in the noise and rush of my fears and secular ambitions. Without a prescribed Fast, fleshed out generously by Lenten services and the fellowship of my brothers and sisters in Christ, it would be awfully, so very awfully difficult to carve out a period of time fully dedicated to the reordering of my priorities and the tidying of my dusty, cluttered soul. “Stop what you are doing,” says our Lord though His Church, “and start preparing yourself for my Resurrection.”

“Get in the car, please, get in the car, get in the car, get in the car,” I told five-year-old Benjamin just this afternoon.

“What did you say?” he asked me.

I got close to him, bent down on one knee and cupped his chin in the palm of my mittened hand. I repeated myself for the fifth time in the matter of a minute or two, and then he got it. As his mother I do my best to show love not by giving up on his ability to mature, not by revving up the minivan and leaving without him, but by recognizing his limitations, going to where he is and communicating with absolute clarity, “It is time now, sweetheart, to head home.”

Click HERE to listen to this post (beginning 2/28). This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Birthday

2008-02-22T12:56:00.001-08:00

I thought that my maternal intuitions would just show up upon your arrival, like the breast milk and out of town visitors. I thought you’d look familiar but I saw nothing of myself in your mass of black hair and ruddy skin. I thought that I was ready to settle down and be a mother but I fought my restless spirit tooth and nail as we sat in the rocking chair for hours at a time while you cried, and I cried, while we cried together. I thought it would be easier, raising children.

I remember when you started reaching for me from the arms of distant relatives and strangers, many of whom were older, wiser, more comfortable with babies. That you preferred my inexperience to the clucks and coos of others was surprising to me though it shouldn’t have been, as you were formed inside my belly, being nourished off my body, as your attachment had nothing to do with my qualifications. It felt good… no, amazing to be wanted over anything or anyone else.

It’s a wonder to me now that all first-born children don’t end up skittish, indecisive and with a permanent nervous twitch in their eye. With all the worrying…no, obsessing that I did over developmental stages, dietary habits, and any behavior other than sitting quietly with a smile, one would think, my dear Elijah, that you were well on your way toward a lifetime of pull-ups and playground squabbles. I erroneously believed that by reaching our emotional limits we were proving ourselves defective, rather than human. I did that just today, doused your adolescent smoldering with excessive measures more appropriate for a raging fire. I overreacted and I shouldn’t have…I am sorry.

I adore your imagination, and the way you soften your voice when talking with your two-your-old sister. I delight in your ability to read aloud from any text with inflection, making proper use of commas and exclamation points. I am challenged by your ever more complicated inquiries about relationships and faith and evil. I am abundantly thankful that you trust me enough to share your secrets with. I am amazed everyday that you are just like me and nothing like me simultaneously. When I pause to really stare at you as an individual, instead of as a duty, I see muscles in your calves, the sharpening of your facial features, impending signs of manhood that nearly take my breath away. Last week, I swear, you were joined to me at the hip and now you're pining for your freedom, off and running in hot pursuit of independence.

I used to assume that only other people had nine-year-olds, more mature moms and dads with steely will power and an unlimited supply of patience. My existance, I figured, would be one continuous saga of toilet training, nursing, night waking, and Sesame Street. That you grew up this much without my noticing makes me determined to slow down, to stop over evaluating, to just enjoy you. Elijah, you are an incredible young man, whether because of me or in spite of me, I couldn’t say. I hope you know that everything in my life is more significant because you’re in it. You are a gift, my path to Christ, my motivation to quit messing around with trivialities and start tending to the things that truly matter. I love you! I love you! I love you!

Happy Birthday!

Expectations

2008-02-19T21:05:00.000-08:00

“Um, excuse me,” said the woman next to us, “your son just bowled in our lane.” While trying to help six-year-old Priscilla garner at least enough momentum to shove her own magenta bowling ball toward the neat rows of pins without it stopping short of its target and rolling back to her, five-year-old Benji had gone ahead and started his own game wherever the heck he wanted. Two-year-old Mary, meanwhile, had found a Skittle to eat in an ashtray. It went on like that for an hour and a half – congratulatory high-fives for each turn played out in surreal-like slow motion interspersed with clenched-teeth orders to stop army crawling under chairs and reaching hands into the 30 year-old vending machine advertising yellowed with age Shasta cans for a dollar. I think we had fun …I mean, I certainly hope so.

I wonder every once in a while what my kids will remember about me, about the quality of their childhood overall. I have visions of them as teenagers grumbling amongst their friends about curfews, after school jobs and overly rigid restrictions. I try to assure myself that this is normal and most certainly to be expected, but next thing you know I am laboring over pancakes poured strategically to look like Mickey Mouse, I am intentionally padding my resume. “But what can we do all together that is really special - and free,” I’ll ask my husband, imagining sing-a-longs, daisy chains and six delectable pairs of matching denim overalls. “What I can provide them with, as their mother, to keep them happy?”

“Don’t you think being with your kids is more important than getting exercise?” grumbled Priscilla under her breath when told she couldn’t practice reading to me at that moment. Ugh, the weight of guilt made each leg lift, squat, and lunge feel painfully self-centered and shameful, but I finished the workout anyway because…well, to be honest if it’s not this thing, or that thing, it’s another. I am always making choices I can’t be sure about - trying to separate love from perfection.

“Babydoll, this world’s not going to cater to your preferences and you and I both need to accept that. I want for you patience, thankfulness, and fortitude more, much more than immediate gratification. Someday, (gulp) you may despise me for this; making faces of disgust that will tear me to pieces and I will second-guess a stern and seemingly unfair decision. I pray now for the strength, for the faith to think eternally, to stay open for Christ to pour through me and quench your thirst like pure water gushing forth from a rusted out spigot."

Elijah’s birthday is on Saturday and we can’t afford the twelve guest pizza party he was wishing for. I wanted to, of course, I tried to stretch and strain our budget but then it hit me that sometimes its okay to say no. We will gather as a family and joyfully celebrate his nine years on this earth as our son, sharing memories that have grown sweeter over time. We will cultivate a conviction that life itself is a gift to be treasured and offered back as a first fruit to Him that granted it. I will probably bake the cake a tad too long; there will certainly be squabbles over who gets the icing laden corner piece. I will reprimand for rowdiness and cheer enthusiastically over blown out candles. And he will know without a doubt that he is cherished…

I mean, I certainly, certainly hope so.

Metamorphosis

2008-02-18T07:02:00.000-08:00

All that was missing to complete my metamorphosis into Jane Fonda was a pair of leg warmers, and coordination. Having been under the impression that most workout facilities had long since abandoned traditional step aerobics for salsa dancing, circuit training, and kickboxing, I was surprised to see that my local YMCA had chosen to stay faithful to its early 90’s roots by offering a 9:00 am old school step aerobics class that included free babysitting.

Now I am the antithesis of adventuresome, a keep your seatbelt buckled and feet on the ground type of girl. The circumstances that justified my donning of spandex and willingness to make a complete fool out of myself were obviously dire indeed. I was sluggish, melancholy, out of shape, and claustrophobic due to an Indiana winter that is lasting way too long and the walls of my house shifting inward.

“Can I join your group?" I asked the perky instructor when she waltzed all smiles and waves through the doorway.

“Well, I’d be so disappointed if you didn’t!” She chirped breezily, looking past me to her regulars already stretching and chatting and uninterested in my presence. I was twenty years younger than all of them. “Grab your steps from the closet!” she yelled out, and so I did, placing mine down in the furthest back, least conspicuous corner. And then BOOM, BOOM, BOOM the music started pumping, we all began marching, our instructor reviewed the basics which I heard but couldn’t process, couldn’t mimic with any consistency if my life depended on it. When she mamboed, I straddled, when she singled, I doubled, when the whole class pivoted, I was mortified to see myself reflected in the mirror, up front and fully outed as a novice. The pressure to perform better made me worse of course, how predictable. “Oops!” called our instructor when I missed the step entirely and nearly fell to my knees on the floor, “Be careful!”

But here’s the thing, despite my clumsiness I had been moving nevertheless for close to an hour. Sweat was streaming down my face, muscles loosened, extended, and flexed; I had energy whereas earlier I was dragging. The most difficult part of all it was following through on my desire for better health, for crawling out of a fruitless rut, straightening a cyclical pattern one hopelessly awkward knee lift at a time. Grumbling, I’ve learned, can shelter me from the inconvenience of evaluating my life on a long-term scale, but when the novelty of self-pity begins to lose its sticky sweetness turning bitter as the months and years pass by, I start forgetting what contentment tastes like, feasting rather on mediocrity; I settle down with lethargy and malnourishment. But oh the possibilities if I exchange habitual laziness for determination.

Twelve years ago, I sat regularly on my backside with a list of spiritual grievances and a fine toothcomb. I picked apart the pastor’s sermon, turned my nose up at schmaltzy choruses, and ridiculed trite consumerism that profited off an oft-disturbing mix of Christ and culture. I was cynical, vain, and stalemated, heading nowhere in a hurry. And then a well-intentioned professor gave advice that got me thinking: “Don't jump ship!" she urged me. "Stick around and do your best to help fix what you feel is broken.” I realized, then, so very clearly that it was I who was falling to pieces, it was my choices I’d eventually be held accountable for. The environment in which I found myself had provided me too much freedom to gorge frequently and heartily on my own self-righteousness. What I needed was a diet based primarily upon the premise that one’s spirit functions better on less talk and a lot more action. What I found in the Orthodox Church was a frighteningly mysterious, fad resistant, saint endorsed prescription that had the Christ empowered wherewithal to heal me.

At first I felt foolish, confused, and nervous about the movements I was positive I could never master. It was too different, too demanding of my pride, my intellect, my personal interpretations of Scripture, redemption, and eternity. There was incense and icons and priests and fasting, there were regulars - parishioners who took all this in stride. Then there was me - overwhelmed, sometimes in tears, but nevertheless becoming stretched, breaking through the hardened barriers I had built around Christianity with westernized bricks manufactured in the age of Reformation. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, was the sound of my resistance being shattered with each Truth revealed within the context of the Traditions established at Pentecost, of not an off shoot, not one of a thousand denominations but of the original Church, protected from heresy by the Holy Spirit and the blood of Her martyrs.

I’m still fumbling like a novice but my instructor, my priest, is there to guide me. “Be careful,” he’ll say in confession when I’ve missed the mark. I keep my eyes on the “Great cloud of Witnesses” who have walked this path before me, whose example of steadfast devotion to self-denial and sacrificial cross-bearing is a gift to all of us who are weary and in need of the inspiration to stay focused on the prize of our salvation. This Church is like the mirror that made so obvious my many missteps, in Her reflection I see myself for what I am: a hollowed out vessel made of skin and flesh and bones, incapable of selflessness, or of love, or of wisdom, or of peace without Christ’s presence filling every square of inch of my being. The most difficult part of all of it is following through on your desire for something more than the grumbling, the trendiness and disenchantment. “But that’s crazy,” you argue, “I could never,” you protest, “or could I – oh, how do I proceed?” As a friend and fellow traveler, who was lost but found her Home, I urge you only my brothers and sisters to “Come and See.”

Saved

2008-02-11T18:26:00.000-08:00

Looking back, I am sure it had more to do with grammar than with an overall lack of interest and believability, but at the time I was perplexed about how in the world one could manage to receive a “just average” C grade on their written testimony. I was eighteen-years-old, a freshman in a conservative Bible college and the assignment had seemed odd to me from the start. Within seven to ten pages we were to document the details of our personal conversion, to narrate the story of our salvation. Not being a recovering drug addict, formally promiscuous or atheistic, I was clearly at a disadvantage from the start. It would be tricky, I knew, to contrive some sort of compelling chronicle out of, “Once when I was four, I invited Jesus into my heart. The end.” The truth of the matter was, I had no “before” and “after” just a perpetually seamless habit of belief. So I went on and on about countless rededications at Church camp and emotionally charged altar calls. I did my best to convince myself, and the intimidating professor who would evaluate my ability to articulate just when exactly I had crossed that line from “hell- bound” into “saved,” that I was chosen by God for eternal security, for guaranteed citizenship in His Kingdom.

By the time I was my kids’ age I was convicted most wholeheartedly that the process of my salvation was complete. Parents looked on adoringly as my fellow Sunday school classmates and I recited with the stutters and stammers our scriptural promise:

"For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.” John 3:16

Our roles now were that of "evangelizers", telling others how to obtain what we, the believers, had already secured: a “get out of hell free” pass thanks to the sacrificial mercy of God and His only son. “My sins were pardoned and yours can be to, just repeat this simple prayer after me.” One’s testimony, I learned, became paramount, a most vital tool for witnessing. It stunk that mine was lame and poorly drafted. The dirty little secret that I carried into adulthood was that I had never lead someone to Christ. I used to feel a lot of pressure to, upon every new introduction at school, at work, and at play. I could hardly absorb what a lost sinner was saying, so utterly and devotedly one tracked was my mind. How could I coolly, blithely, slip in a compelling reference to my savior? At first I was just nervous, eventually I became embarrassed, and finally I lost a taste for it completely. During that last phase a girl at the park struck up a conversation with me. Five minutes into it she pulled out this technique:

“If you died tonight, are you positive you’d go to Heaven?”

Good grief, was I? I felt sick to my stomach, turned off by the notion that she had approached me on a mission, just as I had unskillfully zeroed in upon others to fulfill my own Christian duty. What does one do when they are aching for more of Christ, yet their soul has been saved for good and now all they feel that is left is to procure the most relevant and effective means for outreach? What if you suspected that your “once saved, always saved” confidence was keeping you at arms length from the fullness of His presence?

Every once in awhile it will suddenly strike me as significant that my children are quite clueless about pinpointed conversions. Their ignorance of what once defined my faith is very telling. I traveled centuries back in time to find the richness I’d hoped existed; I traded certainty for awe and perseverance. Salvation became as beginingless as God, Himself, as endless as infinity, as unlimited as His glory and as unownable as the firmament; I went from being finished to starting over.

If I did have a chance to redeem myself, to re-write my paper only this time using spell check and a totally revamped definition of what exactly it means to be saved, according to the ancient Traditions of my current home, the Orthodox Christian Church, I believe it would go something like this:

I was originally saved over two thousand years ago when God the Son took on human flesh and offered Himself as a perfect sacrifice for all of mankind, defeating the power of sin by suffering on the Cross and destroying death through His miraculous Resurrection. I am being saved daily through my intentional decisions to follow Jesus’ example within each situation that I find myself, viewing paradise not as just a someday destination but as the everyday experience of self-denial, of being filled, through the Eucharist, obedience, and love for others, with Christ. I will, (Lord have mercy), be saved at the Great and final Judgement when I give an account for a lifetime of actions, when it becomes clear whether or not I cooperated with the grace so generously bestowed upon me. Who of us, having been blessed beyond all comprehension, should feel the need to insure that regardless of our choices a reward will be ours free and clear? Who of us dare to sit idle with our assurances, interpreting the conditions of the Bridegroom’s invitation while our lamps for illumining the darkness run out of oil?

My individual salvation is being worked out with fear and trembling through the unique responsibilities God deemed best to set before me. Based upon the model of the publican who beat his breast and begged for leniency, I am careful to not assume I have a handle on the spiritual state of others. I would do best, rather, to stay focused on my own flagrant shortcomings, reverencing both friends and enemies, all of whom were created in God’s image, as living icons of Christ Jesus. I share my faith, yes, but not out of obligation; a soul that’s found its meaning cannot help but be a witness to such joy. My ongoing testimony is presented through acts of service, in accordance with Christ’s commandment to love God by loving your neighbor. I pray ceaselessly for the courage to fight the good fight, staying faithful until my very last breath upon this earth.

I’ m not sure how I’d fare with that version. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea to have to allow for a bit of mystery within theology. But since my transcripts won’t be affected I’ll go ahead and bend the rules, bucking a neat and tidy ending for the vigorous endorsement of a “get your hands dirty” type of absolute participation in the sacramental plan God compassionately engineered to continuously draw us closer to Himself throughout eternity.

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Opportunity

2008-02-04T17:39:00.000-08:00

You remember the haircut, right (see my last post for a thorough explanation)? Well there’s an addendum to that story I’d both like and not like to share with you. It involves the explicit instructions from my daughter’s stylist not to remove the rubber band holding together nine inches of hair being donated to Locks of Love, an organization (I was corrected by a friend of mine) that makes wigs not for cancer patients but rather for individuals afflicted by alopecia areata, a mysterious medical condition involving sudden hair loss. We promised to be careful while carrying home the correctly bound ponytail I had placed in a freezer bag for protection. Being somewhat predisposed to screw these kinds of things up I was unusually determined to be responsible, even pre-addressing the manila envelope that was to be mailed off that week containing Priscilla’s contribution; I was proud of myself for following through on all of the details.

So later on when my little girl innocently opened the bag to look again at the long silky waves now intended for another child, when the rubber band holding everything together somehow loosened and the strands of hair fell free, when she and I tried to gather them back up but they wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t stay together, I chastised her severely for an unintentional error. I felt myself bumping up against the line dividing “appropriateness” from “overkill” but I plowed it through it anyway in obedience to the insatiable appetite of my own irritation. When I looked up she was gone, I stood alone with my recklessness while a fistful of useless curls slipped through my fingers.

Three months ago, I watched on dumbfounded as a grim faced doctor told my sister-in-law that the stinging sensation in her abdomen was not an ulcer but a freakishly large growth that could possibly be malignant. It was all quite surreal, like an act in a play; I kept waiting to hear "Cut! Let's do that scene over!" “Don't cry, don't cry” I begged of myself, “Hold it together for Paige.” But over the weeks that would follow, throughout episodes of excruciating pain, a trip to the Mayo clinic and a stint in intensive care, it was Paige who comforted me; it was her faith, her courage that uplifted all of us. Eventually, there’d be a diagnoses: sclerosing mesenteritis, a rare disease of the mesentery tissue that can thankfully be treated with steroids; eventually, there'd be healing and hope. "You were amazing," I told her, "I could never have been that calm."

“I am good in a crisis,” she honestly explained, "its everyday life that is difficult.”

When my husband, Troy, says on any given month that things will be tight, I stoically rise to the challenge, spending money on nothing but food, bills, and gas. When nausea keeps the feverish head of one of my sons or daughters buried in a grocery bag-lined mop bucket, I will empty it repeatedly, rub his or her heaving back, and not complain although sleep will be scarce for both of us. I would die for the sake of the Cross, I work endlessly to tune out the empty promises of materialism, but don’t you dare infringe on my quiet time or take for yourself the last chocolate chip cookie. Yes, Paige, I know exactly what you mean - its not tragedy or sacrifice but rather banal annoyances that have the greatest potential to destroy me.

“Priscilla, where are you?” I searched through each room; she was hiding and rightly so, I had hurt her deeply. Then a sniffle from under my bed led me finally to her hand, outstretched where I could see it, open wide so I could grasp it and pull her toward me. “I’m a dumb girl,” she quivered, through a heart breaking jumble of whimpering, snot and tears. “I ruined everything,” she went on and I ached as she made obvious the shame she was wrestling with because of me. “Shhh, shhh,” was all I could initially muster. “Lord have mercy,” I silently pleaded. And then I wrapped myself around her, kissed her cheeks to calm her down. “I’m so sorry, baby. It was an accident, a complete and total accident. Mama’s very sorry that she was harsh with you. I apologize, Priscilla, can you forgive me?” And of course she did because she’s resilient like that, but woe to me if I test that elasticity too often.

“You know,” I said, that evening, “while Priscilla and I were washing dishes, after a cherished red goblet had inexplicably shattered just seconds earlier, “it seems like your mom has a lot to learn. What do you think God’s been teaching me today?” She examined my face before stating her answer. Could she really talk to a parent about their weaknesses?

“W-e-l-l,” she began timidly, contemplating all of her many options “maybe patience?”

“You are absolutely right, sweetheart,” I assured her. “Help us not forget that all things are sent by You. Have you heard mom pray that before?” Thus began a conversation about frustrations that have a purpose, that when examined in light of salvation can lead one straight to Christ. And I honestly think their working because with each spilled box of beads, dropped gallon of brand new apple juice emptying its sticky contents all over my kitchen floor, I become less exasperated, more likely to grab a broom or hand out some paper towels then lose my temper. Longsuffering, I need to remind myself daily, is an earned discipline. I must bear some weight before I gain the strength to follow Jesus’ example, to stand back up and walk again after being struck by wickedness or affliction. I’ve got my “count to ten” rule, a spray bottle of disinfectant, and several icons hanging within my view. Please prepare me, most Holy Trinity, for what is coming around the corner. Out of love for my family and for the furtherance of Your glory, may I exchange my impulsivity for restraint. There is never an empty moment when your sights are set on Heaven, no lack of opportunities to save one’s soul.

Dead Ends

2008-01-29T11:28:00.000-08:00

Six-year-old Priscilla, bless her heart, has an unusually difficult time recalling the proper name of just about anything. I mean, it’s always close, so close, but just off enough to make you nearly spit your coffee out when you hear the alternative version she’s been mulling around in her brain for a while finally being unleashed over breakfast.

“Mom,” she has asked for example, “can we borrow that Disney movie again from the library?”

“Which one, honey?”

“You know, with the guy that’s all bent over…oh, wait… I remember! The Hunchback of Never Done. Can we get it?”

Then there’s “cretzels”, her favorite salty snack, “with” in lieu of “if” (as in “With you give me a bite of yours, I’ll give you some of mine”) and her own unique take on a certain obnoxious underwater sponge creature, “Scrunch Bob Short Pants”. So three months ago when she approached me about participating in the “Flocks of Love” program, I just briefly imagined needy barnyard animals before figuring out that what she meant to say was “Locks of Love” and oh no, that involved the cutting of her silky, shiny, youthfully perfect hair. I hadn’t realized that she overheard our neighbor, who had recently shorn her own flowing locks for charity, describing to me the process. Apparently, if you have at least nine or so inches to offer, this organization will turn donated hair into wigs for cancer patients. Now what kind of a mom would say no to that?! Not me, certainly, it was much easier to just change the subject and hope she’d forget about it.

Then last weekend, I was summoned upstairs by my husband, Troy, who was speed bathing our kids before tucking them into bed. “Molly!” he yelled, “Could you help me with this?” Mary had fallen and bumped her nose, the boys were getting rowdy and Priscilla was still soaking in the bathtub waiting for someone, now me I guess, to wash her. I drizzled on the normal amount of shampoo but it seemed to disappear into what I quickly discovered was a matted mess, the likes of which I had never before encountered. “What in the world?!” I marveled, while trying to scrub and disentangle what felt like one humongous dreadlock. Hidden inside that monstrosity, I found lollipop bits, lint balls, and a band-aid. It took me a full forty minutes to work my way through it and between Priscilla’s sobs we revisited the "Locks of Love" suggestion both coming to the same conclusion that maybe it was a great idea after all.

The night before her scheduled salon appointment, I only got a little teary. You see it’s a novelty to have a daughter whose hair is nothing like mine. While I was a bright shining star in 1987, when bigger was better and Aqua Net induced volume was fashionable, the following decades proved to be a humbling challenge what with “tame and controlled” back in style. Priscilla got the ideal mix of my wild mane and Troy’s fine, stick-straightness. When she wanted to look like Rapunzel, I stashed away the scissors watching with fascination her hair grow downward instead of up and out and everywhere. I became quite attached to the brushing and braiding and ribbons, but it was time now to move on and allow her to grow up a little. It was time to exchange the sentimentalism for practicality; letting go would bring freedom to both of us.

Being as overly reflective as I am, this fairly momentous event triggered a gloves off type scrutiny of some other personal attachments which may in fact be more of a hindrance than a boon to my quality of life. I am referring to those guilty pleasure behaviors that over time become deeply rooted, impossible to yank free from the fertile core of my being without the proper tools and some good old-fashioned elbow grease. These include but are not limited to: grudges, envy, Internet surfing, self-pity, curiosity, and anxiousness. These detract from, not encourage, my ability to act intentionally throughout the day, wringing out of it every sacred opportunity that I can to grow in faith. Yes, I could use a decent trim; dead ends are pretty tacky, quite unbecoming for a gal so adorned with Grace. Then the upkeep, oh my goodness, what a colossal waste of my energy like trying to climb mountains while dragging a boulder. “Well, of course you have to pray,” says my priest in confession, and there it is: the most straight forward, most obvious, most challenging of solutions.

There were no tears this morning, no foul moods due to stubborn snarls, otherwise known in Priscilla’s language as “hair nits”. We both found within ourselves the courage to simplify and are now reaping the rewards of that decision. We had a few extra minutes thanks to the removal of those excess inches to stand in front of our icons before school started and offer up a hymn of praise to Christ. “O Heavenly King, the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, Who art everywhere present and fillest all things,” my children and I sang in unison, their tender voices filling me with determination to release what doesn’t edify, what doesn’t matter, to exchange the superfluous for the “one thing needful”. Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honorable, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things, says St. Paul in Philippians 4:8.

Do I want to thrive, really, or am I far too contented with mere survival? Snip, snip, snip what I choose to cut will make obvious the answer to that question. Old habits die hard, get your game face on, every moment carries with it new temptations. But the experience of a load being ever more lightened by each obedient submission of your time, your thoughts, your resources reassures one this is right, this is hopeful, this is good, life has meaning, I’m not lost; there is joy in shedding burdens and sprinting Home.

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Satisfaction

2008-01-23T07:24:00.000-08:00

When its freezing outside and money is scarce, we hit the library. The three of us: my sister-in-law, Paige, our friend Kris and I, huddled around a child sized table piled messily with stickers, crayons, and paper. It was unusually crowded, unusually noisy; static haired kids ran largely unsupervised while their moms flipped through magazines and occasionally tossed out verbal reprimands for particularly aggressive behavior. “Share, please, Ethan. No running, Lucy.” Admittedly, I too, kept a distant eye on my own rowdy charges so interesting to me was the conversation at hand. Kris had been reading a book about a woman who claimed she had “found herself” by way of a divorce and some global traveling. Depression had been oppressing her, making more and more obvious her discontentment with marriage and the overall life she was immersed in. Courageously, she cut the ties that were binding her to an unsatisfactory existence and became proactive in achieving her own sense of worth and fulfillment.

Her story has inspired women everywhere to step up and reclaim their dreams- desires too often smothered by busyness and responsibility. I understand why the author of this very popular memoir has been embraced with open arms by the overworked and under appreciated masses because I, too, tend to burn with motivation when self-help cheerleaders spread their “the sky is the limit” mantra. “I am more than this!” I begin thinking to myself, which is accurate but also tricky. How I interpret that statement is of utmost importance, lest I sprint around in circles chasing hopes that pop like bubbles once you touch them.

Every morning I awake to very visible, audible, un-ignorable boundaries. My role as a stay-at-home mother limits quite severely any opportunities for being recognized as something other than an enforcer of rules, a provider of meals, a stereotype of societal irrelevance. For the most part I am fine with this, I can take it all in stride: the demands, repetition, lack of praise, until, that is, a longing to be referred to by my given name (as opposed to “Mommy, can I…?”) swells so suddenly within me I fear I’ll crack in two from all the strain. I spare myself the guilt of treating such a reflexive impulse as sinful, ungrateful, or selfish; I have no more control over these periodic flare-ups than I do over hunger or exhaustion. It is the crucial minutes following, when I decide what to do or where to go with the restlessness that reveals everything.

If there were a way to live effectively for Christ and your own happiness I for sure would have found it by now. The amount of man-hours I’ve spent testing that possibility make me pretty much an expert in the field of wishy-washyness so please, just trust me on this one. What never works, upon reaching the end of oneself, is stoking outlandish “what-ifs” until the fantasy of a better job, a better spouse, a better income, etc becomes in your mind the only viable option for relief from the constriction of your current circumstances. What I’ve been known to do is mix a little bit of faith with a whole lot of assumptions about what would be best for me at any given moment. I’d toss out a prayer for guidance boomerang style, letting go of my will for just a second before reaching right out to grab it back again. “Here’s what I propose, please make it happen. Amen.” From there I would force a change in the name of God, or question His goodness when my best-laid plans fell through. Either way, I lost the point entirely; I lost my sense of direction by running both to Jesus and from Him simultaneously.

It was through Orthodoxy that I learned to be still, and that is no small statement considering my propensity to wander. In this apostolic Church where Sacraments and Liturgy can through real, non-symbolic miracles, tame a girl’s obsession with herself, as in unraveling completely the surprisingly ineffectual theory that being catered to, entertained, released from trials, brings satiety. It turns out that the receiving of holy chrism at one’s baptism or chrismation, the regular partaking of the actual body and blood of Christ, absolution through Confession, joining with martyrs and saints in the worship of the Holy Trinity can transform an individual from within. Such established Traditions take into account that I am human and weak and foolish. These enduring and consecrated gifts have overridden my faulty preferences and after ten years time finally penetrated my thick soul with the only Truth that matters: I am more than this in that I, we, were created to serve, praise, be filled with Christ Jesus.

“O Lord,” we plead with Metropolitan Philaret, “I do not know what to ask of you. You alone know what are my true needs. You love me more than I myself know how to love. Help me to see my real needs which are concealed from me. I dare not ask for either a cross or consolation. I can only wait on You. My heart is open to You. Visit and help me, for the sake of your great mercy. Strike me and heal me; cast me down and raise me up. I worship in silence Your holy will and Your unsearchable ways. I offer myself as a sacrifice to you. I have no other desire than to fulfill your will. Teach me to pray. Pray You Yourself in me.

Its nuts around here – I’ve had four hours of sleep, the children are bickering, no one is pleased about my dinner plans and there is a fork in the road, two paths to choose from: resentment or the illogical thankfulness found only in relation to the Kingdom of Heaven. Spiritually, emotionally, physically I stay in the thick of it, and find Christ – custom designing the daily ups and downs that will most effectively strip me of the longing to be anywhere but in His presence. It’s not always pretty but today I’ll take authentic purpose over fleeting glamour and pray tomorrow for the strength to do the same.

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Participation

2008-01-16T05:48:00.000-08:00

In the early 1980’s, I considered myself to be quite the thespian. My brother, Bobby, and I were regulars at the Park District Community Theatre where we performed in such classic plays as, You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown and Alice in Wonderland, the only difference between the two of us being that he always scored one of the leads whereas I was consistently relegated to a chorus/prop-mover position, otherwise known as an “extra.” This identity warranted many a trite pep talk from the director and my parents on the importance of embracing an optimistic spirit - “There are no small parts, only small actors...” they’d predictably reassure me. So in the interest of those friends and grandparents dedicated to adolescent dominated, sub-par entertainment, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and decided to make the most of it.

In “frozen” sketches, for example, like when Charlie Brown mentally stepped away from a baseball scene for an intimate monologue (sung as a solo) while those of us in the outfield paused mid-action until the song was over, I prided myself on staying insanely still. “Is that little girl in the red cap even real?” I imagined the twenty plus audience members murmuring amongst themselves. “I didn’t see her blink once the entire time.” Later on, in a classroom setting for a musical number called “Book Report”, I vowed to wow them by pouring all of my energy into the craft of faux conversation. “Watermelon, watermelon, watermelon” we were told to say to one another, looking interested, laughing casually, while the big guns (i.e. Lucy, Schroeder, Peppermint Patty) were delivering real lines, scripted lines, in the foreground. I had made peace with the very valid possibility that I would never be a star, but I refused to be held back by the intrinsic limits of my given character; I would make sure that each show shined brighter because of me.

Frizzy hair, a cross-country move, and a hormone heightened, debilitating sense of self-awareness, all worked together to melt my “can do” attitude into an unassuming puddle of insecurity. I reasoned, most self-protectedly, that I certainly couldn’t fail what I never tried; lack of ambition was the quickest and surest cure for disappointment. Thus I permanently quieted the naggings for fame and fortune, learned to live within my social, intellectual, and financial means. I named and claimed an inconspicuous persona, staying contentedly under the radar, blending into my current generation like one muted voice in a choir. I made peace with the very valid possibility that I was called to pursue a life of anonymity. I was obedient to a fault, overly submissive to a skewed amalgamation of God, my fears, and good manners.

For all of those for whom an effective spiritual prescription is keeping quiet, letting go, and being taken down a notch or two, there are the just as many more who are super duper comfortable with their timidity, and we all know how well comfortableness and faith mix together - like oil and water, Packers and Bears fans, blue Play-do and white shag carpeting. We are the group with a million excuses: “I’m just a mom…and a flighty one at that. I’m a convert, a guest in this historic Church. I am flighty mom convert who would do best to leave the evangelizing to the experts, the seminarians, the clergy with their answers and photographic memories for dates, rubrics, and Scripture.” The story of a tongue-tied Moses being called to give an unwanted speech to the wicked Pharaoh makes us tremble in our boots. “But being asked to do something I totally stink at,” we try to convince ourselves, “would be disastrous. It would take a miracle for that to work out…oh, I get it. That’s the point.”

“Perfect humility dispenses with modesty,” said C.S. Lewis in The Weight of Glory. There’s a very fine line between arrogance and doubt. Biting off more than one can chew can both choke the overly zealous and increase the spiritual appetite of the undernourished. Taking great leaps with conviction can promote pride in those addicted to the limelight yet also form a much-needed backbone in the anxious. The trick, I’d imagine, is staying open, keeping prayerful, being willing to do whatever it takes (like either asserting or restraining oneself) to make sure the Kingdom of God shines brighter than the gaudy, neon glow of worldly passions. To let others do all the participating is to bury a borrowed talon, and we all know how well that went over – like a lead balloon, a wine-less wedding reception, a spotless doorframe amongst those marked and bloodied by trust and sacrifice.

We all, every brave and fearful one of us, have an essential part to play in the attainment of salvation, for ourselves, for our neighbors, for our enemies. God is offering me another chance to rise above the intrinsic limits of my given character. I can, most gracious Savior, if You lead me. I will, if You ask, regardless of the dreaded consequences and upheaval of my placidity. I accept that such a radical departure from my comfort zone would only highlight Your power and mercy. I believe I’d find my voice, if You so desired. So where from here? I’m ready and waiting, but please take over quick before I lose my nerve. Faith of a mustard seed, right? That’s all that I need to get started? Well, curtains up then on this role of a lifetime; may I portray Your love with genuineness and precision. And for now, perhaps, my mean impersonation of a mannequin might come in handy – no flinching, no distractedness, just a sustained and ardent longing for opportunities to come alive and sing my heart out.

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