Boredom

The novelty of summer is wearing thin. For two glorious weeks my children frolicked in the freedom they had to sleep in, lounge around the inflatable pool, and cruise bikes back and forth across our sidewalk. But then suddenly, and without warning, I felt eight, glazed-over eyeballs peering into my back as I cleared the kitchen table of breakfast dishes. “Can I help you?” I asked, squeezing myself between the wall of kids blocking access to the sink.

“May we watch T.V.?” they begged.

“No, it’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you play outside?” I suggested.

“There’s nothing to do!” they whined. And then I cringed, knowing exactly what was coming up next. “We’re bored!”

Already? I couldn’t believe it. There was an attic full of toys, a garage packed out with scooters, wagons, and sidewalk chalk, there were baskets of crayons, glitter glue, and construction paper all at their disposal. Interestingly, however, my gut reaction was to speedily “fix” the horrific situation of my family not feeling entertained. I offered all kinds of warm weather solutions, from a sprinkler run to inviting over friends that lived nearby.

“Everybody is out of town,” Elijah argued, “and it stinks playing all by ourselves.” Halfway through wondering what fantastic vacation our entire neighborhood had ventured on without us, I finally came to my senses. Looking down at the jean shorts and t-shirt I hurriedly threw on that morning, rather than a crisp white uniform with anchor patches on the sleeves, I remembered that I was not, in fact, a cruise director. And that planning round-the-clock, fun filled activities was, thankfully, not part of my job description. Instinctively, my own mother’s voice cleared this cluttered head with rationality before exiting out my lips with the famous,

“If you really need something to do, just let me know! I’ll go grab you a broom.”

Why is it that boredom is frightening to a caregiver? Why is it so easy to get caught up in the fast paced, spoon-fed methods used to educate, and lure our children into begging us for more stuff and stimulation? It's tempting, for this adoring and anxious mother, to buy into the commonly held belief that down time, unscheduled time, will ultimately put my child at a disadvantage. This paranoia, I admit, has managed to leak into the very Orthodox Liturgy that I find so fulfilling, but that my children … well, let’s just say, view as an acquired taste. Growing up, I learned about God through flannel graph Bible stories and catchy choruses while my parents, sitting without me in the sanctuary, took bullet pointed notes on the sermon. I think of that often as my kids squirm and fidget their way through an hour-and-a-half of Scripture reading, litanies, and hymns. I think of it as an acquaintance tells me about her own church with a rock band and puppet theatre just for the kids, leaving adults free to listen to the pastor uninterrupted. But just as I’m ready to wish this Christian tinted, youth focused, extravaganza upon my own antsy children, I recall how in early adulthood, I was floored to discover that hyped up, feel good,” me” centered convictions, can fall to pieces when rubber hits the road.

At eight-years-old, few things were as delectable to me as a pink and airy cloud of cotton candy. Pulling off thick, sticky handfuls with delight, I would stuff them into my mouth letting my tongue dissolve the sugar into nothing. The energy boost hit quickly and satisfaction was immediate, but when my belly began to rumble, the cotton candy with its complete lack of nutritive substance was unable to relieve the pangs of hunger. For that, I needed something solid and savory I could sink my young teeth into. In college, I experienced what could best be described as a “let down.” Sugar driven highs can drop as suddenly as the downward slope of a roller coaster. In the same way, emotionally driven, spiritual highs can plummet when the pangs of real life, unsweetened life, begin to rumble in one’s gut. Without sacraments in which to sink my restless spirit, I worked constantly on conjuring up consistant warm fuzzys that would validate my God was love. I confessed my sins in private, but they continued to weigh me down; I was never quite convinced that forgiveness had been granted. I wandered from denomination to denomination, dismayed and discontented with services I would stuff into my heart only to have them dissolve hours later, leaving me starving for something more concrete, less informal, and beyond the banality of my everyday existence.

What I pray for Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary is that they would pace themselves steadily throughout the natural ups and downs of life. I desire for them a faith deeply rooted in Traditions uninfluenced by the trends of modern culture. Dissatisfaction will find these kids soon enough despite the efforts of this generation’s moms and dads led to believe that bigger, louder, and more amusing is better, and that immediate gratification is most certainly in their children’s best interest. By candy coating the reality that sin and death are enemies to be fought with vigilant prayer, endurance, and self-sacrifice, I send unequipped soldiers, my sweet sons and daughters, into a battle they will be ill prepared for. By fearing their boredom, I unwittingly take sides with an adversary intent on distracting them from the soul demanding, comfort resistant, and uncompromising Truth. It might sound cruel to deny them a jazzier version of worship; it may seem excessive to make my kids stand with respect for the Gospel and the Lord’s Prayer. But to raise them with an understanding of how losing yourself, and how submitting yourself to the same Church passed down from the apostles, can bring peace that transcends all logical understanding, and can transform a worn out, worn thin, human being into a unconquerable warrior for Christ, well…let’s just say, that would be a gift worth the effort put forth throughout a few hectic years of Sunday mornings.

Remind me of this, when I’m biting my cheek while restraining our youngest son from impromptu karate kicks before communion. And I will smile encouragingly back at you, as you swoop up your screaming toddler with strong and loving arms, whispering into her tiny ear teachings on the icons, candles, and incense - guiding her, from infancy, toward salvation.

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Persecution

My son, Elijah, has a heart as big as the moon, and he wears it on his sleeve for anyone to delight in or to carelessly crack in two. In Chicago we had neighbor boys who made sport of his innocence, luring Elijah out to play a game of hide and seek only to leave him counting and then searching for the playmates who had snickered and scattered away with no intention of returning. Needless to say, their cruelty was infuriating, and I warned Elijah not to go out when they called him. “But why, mom? I don’t care if they only play for a little bit.” And his pleading eyes, lonely eyes, begged me to give the boys another chance.

Elijah and Priscilla were out riding bikes on the sidewalk one afternoon, while I nursed the baby, keeping my eagle eye on their every move from the front steps. Immediately, upon hearing the sound of laughter, adolescent boy laughter as ominous as dark clouds before a storm, I tensed up. My son’s trusting face brightened at the possibility of playing with anyone besides his own sister, and as the boys neared our house Elijah ran to meet them, talking incessantly I assumed about Star Wars, his current obsession. From my post I glared at them, daring these kids to cross me by teasing my son. As they all came closer, I was surprised to hear the actual one-way conversation, differing vastly from six-year-old musings on Darth Vadar. “Do you guys know Jesus?” Elijah was asking. “You should know Him! He loves you. Jesus is your Savior.” I just couldn’t take it, them rolling their eyes and exchanging knowing glances. “That’s enough Elijah,” I called out sternly, “Come on inside.”

It is said that the Emperor Nero tied Christians to a stake, and burned them like torches for the amusement of his party guests. I wish I could say that such accounts brought me courage, but truth be told, these violent depictions tend to leave me nauseous and sad. What is worse is that the tears welling up as I read about Saints enduring brutality and torture for the sake of their faith are, quite honestly, tears of despair. They are tears for myself, tears of fear, tears of weakness and shame. I try to picture it: me in front of a ruthless ruler who is demanding an answer to the simple question, “To whom do you pledge your allegiance?” And I look around me, greedily, at all of the accumulated things and plans competing for that prestigious honor. With so much at stake, with so much to lose, no wonder I am very afraid.

My full belly, warm bed, and opportunities for success are jewels I wear guiltily, feeling garish in front of those so unadorned. I assume of course, with pity, that these gaudy gems are everyone’s desire - like a child relishing a lollipop might feel sorry for his poor parents who must dine on only wine and roasted lamb. But those who have lost everything have nothing left to lose, so they run, sprint, and race for the finish line unencumbered by fear or the weights of this world, pulling and luring and dividing allegiances between earth and heaven. I, on the other hand, must move slowly and cautiously so as not to misplace or have stolen even one of my precious gems, so heavily and precariously fastened around my neck. Here, in my utopia of an existence, it is my intellect, my possessions, and my reputation on the line rather than my flesh, so pale and tender. What I haven’t lost, as of yet, keeps me paralyzed with trepidation.

I am scared to put my dollars in the candle box at Church because I might want them later for coffee. I am scared to approach my lonely neighbor because she may need more from me than I feel up to giving. I am scared to abandon our efforts toward attaining a comfortable lifestyle because I really, really like to be comfortable. I am scared to love boldly, or to support with zeal the tenets of my faith that have become irrelevant and unenlightened in a culture where the word “no” is synonymous with stupidity. I am scared of the rolling eyes and exchanging glances. But mostly, I am afraid of standing side-by-side with faithful martyrs in front of God and His heavenly hosts, stuttering my way through a lame explanation while weeping and groaning with regret.

“Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness sake for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.” Blessed are they who untangle themselves from time-wasting, self-protecting, soul-crushing fear, and run and run with freedom. Blessed are they who could never be confused for anything or anyone but a follower of Jesus Christ. Blessed are they who impress upon their children the importance of being uncompromising witnesses to the Gospel. Blessed am I for not being denied despite hiding my offering money, ignoring my needy neighbor, and chastising my evangelizing son. May I be so fortunate for the opportunity to express my gratitude through sacrifice, to carry my cross with conviction.

This previously published blog is being featured this week on Ancient Faith Radio.

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Entangled

“What in the world are you doing?” My father seemed genuinely perplexed, and I had no logical explanation for why my hands were completely covered with sticky strings of chewed up gum. For the previous half-hour I’d been bored out of my nine-year-old mind in the bleachers of a junior high gymnasium, where my brother, sporting tube socks and a red uniform, was playing basketball. Halfway through the game, I attempted to entertain myself by seeing how far I could stretch a flavorless wad of Big Red before it separated into two distinct pieces.

If I had just pulled it once, I probably could have safely returned the gum back to my mouth without too much mess, or better yet could have tossed it into a garbage can. But I didn’t pull it once, or even twice, it was more like three or four times that I swirled and twisted the pink, shiny, elasticized delicacy around my fingers. And by that time…oh boy, the damage was beyond repair. Frantically, I picked at the strands trying to free myself from their tacky web, stubbornly conjoining all ten digits. The next great plan of rubbing my palms together, accomplished nothing but pressing sweat and dirt into an already disgusting mixture of sugar, spit, and skin. I dreaded the moment when my dad would look down and discover my embarrassing predicament. I vowed to never again become entangled.

A couple of years ago, I had a health scare that, thanks be to God, was resolved on its own. I’ve thought little of it since, once relief swept through scattering gut knotting apprehension like dust balls sent packing by one lucid enough to maintain tidiness. But recently, while going about my busy existence, I was randomly assaulted by a grievous suggestion, “What if it comes back again?” That single, arbitrary, unsubstantiated thought would eventually spread like gangrene through my subconscious, decomposing a once healthy mindset, and deadening my rationality. If I had just entertained the notion once, I probably could have safely returned it to the uttermost recesses of my brain without too much mess, or better yet could have tossed it out completely. But I didn’t entertain it once, or even twice, it more like twenty or thirty times that I wrestled with the tentacled assumption foretelling my imminent demise. And by that time…oh boy, the damage was irrefutable.

“I am a failure.”

“I am untalented.”

“I am evil.”

“I am dissatisfied with the life I wake up to each morning.”

It isn’t the loud temptations, I daresay, that lure most of us away from our faith, but rather these silently hurled implications distorting convictions, and contaminating our beliefs. It is highly unlikely that I will ever rob a bank, betray my spouse, or commit murder; I am acutely aware of the sinfulness surrounding all such acts of passion. Having a strong sense of morality, however, makes me a relatively easy target, for I often become lazy and self-assured. When my prayers turn flippant, and my mind becomes distracted by everyday concerns and responsibilities, I float further and further from the security of God’s will until … BAM! I am blindsided by an idea so frightening, so disturbing, and so persuasive it becomes impossible to extricate myself from the tacky web of lies, stubbornly conjoining all my faculties. The pouting, the anxiety, the depression that then ensues is like hell on earth as joy, hope, and love become elusive.

Observe your thoughts, and beware of what you have in your heart and your spirit, knowing that the demons put ideas into you so as to corrupt your soul by making it think of that which is not right, in order to turn your spirit from the consideration of your sins and of God, said St. Gregory of Nyssa. I can’t afford to step away, even briefly, from the edifying presence of my Savior. I can’t assume I have the strength to conquer morbid ponderings on my own. Don’t touch! Don’t taste! Don’t listen! I mustn’t dare to avert my gaze from Christ. He who prays often will escape temptation; instructed the Abba Evagrius, but thoughts will trouble the heart of the careless. I’ve come crawling home, dreading the shame of surrendering my humiliating predicament. “I fell for it again, Lord please have mercy! Disentangle me from these fleshly preoccupations! Forgive me like the father who embraced his prodigal son, dirty and disappointed from assuaging his own desires. Fill my soul with what is holy, and what is peaceful.”

So what in the world am I doing, wasting time all curled up and fruitless? The power of the cross stands firm to uphold me, if only I’d lean my full weight upon it. If only I’d reprioritize every single thing in my life till it pointed to, sang of, and rejoiced in the Resurrection. If only I’d trash the junk before it spoils all that it touches, and kept my motives clean with fervent prayer. “Finally, brethren, says Paul in Phillipians, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy – medidate on these things.

If only I’d chew on that for a change.


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Family

What started out as just a snag had been pulled at, one small tug at a time, until the whole situation became hopelessly unraveled. I couldn’t tell you what the argument was about or how it had escalated to such dramatic proportions, but I can describe in detail the look of malice on his face, and the sickening sensation of failure that left me nauseous.

Mothering an oldest child is like riding a roller coaster for the very first time; the unknown intensifies your entire experience. That stomach dropping rush of barreling through the highs and the lows, euphoria mixed with terror, can never quite be duplicated again. No one in this world can tear at my heart like Elijah.

On that particular Friday morning two enormous hazel eyes stared me down with contempt. The boundary between mother and son had been smudged by the hurt we were each heaping upon the other with every word exchanged. All of us have limits, and buttons to be pushed. None are more qualified to find them both, than those who know us best. My son has a fierce sense of justice. If he feels he's been judged unfairly, he will not back down — even in the face of stern consequences. “You do not understand!” he repeated, over and over again, drowning out my attempted explanations. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I should cut it off right then and there, that we should separate and regroup. But I wanted respect, and an acknowledgment of wrongdoing. I was obsessed with dominating his defiant spirit.

When he ran to his bedroom and started up with the slamming of his dresser drawers, I knew exactly what he was doing, and to my shame I didn’t care. Emerging seconds later with a fully loaded backpack, he announced to me his plans of running away. “I’m leaving this place, and I’m never coming back!” My six-year-old, my baby boy, stood trembling before me, cheeks red and wet from fury mixed with sadness. A part of me was tempted to let him go, but as he reached for the doorknob I lowered my voice and the boom on this out of control situation. “Elijah, you will go to your room, put down that backpack and sit with me on this couch, do you understand?” Too tired to resist, he followed my orders, and now I started sniffling with emotion.

“We are a family,” I finally managed to mutter once both of us were seated, eye-to-eye. “For better or worse God put us together. We can feel angry, annoyed, and disheartened, but leaving is never an option! Love means sticking together, even when we don’t feel like it. Love is hard work and requires an awful lot of ‘I’m sorrys’ and forgiveness. You can be mad at me and I can be mad at you but we never give up, you got it?” As I held Elijah, I apologized for my part in the argument, for exasperating him instead of maintaining my composure. We agreed that threats of abandonment would not be tolerated. Two years later, that moment on our couch in Chicago remains significant to both of us. “Remember mom,” Elijah will ask out of nowhere, “when I wanted to run away?”

“I certainly do sweetheart. I certainly do.”

Sometimes I can’t quite grasp the miracle of God concerned with me. How is it possible that He has not permanently been turned off by my stupid behavior? But if I search no further than even two feet away, I can find hope in my love for Troy, Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary. My pack, united for better or worse, was brought together for the purpose of salvation. For here, right before me, are unlimited opportunities to experience the nonsensical fulfillment of giving without expecting anything in return. I learn, in the most practical of ways, that true love, divine love, does not leave, does not give up, and does not give in. Family keeps us humble, keeps us praying, and keeps us from drifting into the soul-numbing abyss of self-indulgence.

More than once, I have stared dumbfounded into the positive end of a pregnancy test. “I really don’t think I have the strength to do this again,” I said to Troy, to God, and to anyone else who made eye contact. Yet even in that, I found Love, providing just enough daily bread to keep me from dying of hunger, to keep me in remembrance of His presence in my life. On a daily basis I am overwhelmed by the eternal responsibility of raising children, but when they are sleeping, all curled in their beds as still as the night itself, I kiss each in turn, from youngest to oldest, thankful to tears for such beauty.

This blog, originally posted several months ago, will be aired this week of Ancient Faith Radio.


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Wisdom

"Look mom!” Two inches from my eyeball was an open hand belonging to a triumphant Elijah. Peering into my eight-year-old son’s outstretched palm, I struggled to identify the ridiculously tiny object worthy of such exuberance.

“What is it?” I asked.

“My tooth! I finally lost my first tooth!” Sure enough, I glanced up to see the gap in his smile we had all been waiting for.

“Congratulations!” I said, relieved.

“I’m going to need $7.99 for it from the tooth fairy,” he let me know casually.

“Whoa,” I said, “that’s pretty steep.”

“How about $4.00?” He asked instead, knowing full well that I was the one who would tip toe in and pull out his tooth from behind the pillow, replacing it with a monetary reward.

“I think the going rate is $1.00, and that is for the first tooth only.”

Disappointed, he cut through our round about dialogue to state his case directly. “It’s just that there’s this really cool book I want from the book club (darn those school fundraisers!). “Ryan got to place an order, practically my whole class did! Can I get one mom, please?”

“We simply can’t afford it, Elijah, I’m sorry.” It’s true, and I feel stretched even more as the kids get older. We, as a family, will never keep up with elaborate birthday parties, extra-curricular activities, or the styles from this current season. My children will never have the toys, gadgets, and gizmos, taunting them from the backpacks and bedrooms of classmates with their super coolness.

“Are we poor?” Five-year-old Priscilla, who’d been watching, listening, and evaluating our conversation, tried to wade through the subtleties and get to the bottom line.

“We’re rich in happiness,” I responded predictably, annoying the two of them with my optimistic answer that was not really an answer at all. “Look,” I said, “we have enough to eat, we have clothes to wear, we have a house to live in, and that is a lot to be grateful for. Besides, the more stuff we have the harder it is to stay dependent on Christ.”

“Oh-h,” said Elijah knowingly, “Rich people aren’t Christians.”

“NO! No, that’s not what I mean at all!” I could tell immediately I had opened a door that should have stayed closed, at least until my husband got home from work to rescue me from my fumbling attempts at tacking on a moral to this verbal exchange. I tripped over myself to explain that these were just our circumstances, and we can be thankful for them because they keep us in prayer. But of course, my long-winded speech had fallen upon ears with an attention span of 45 seconds. “Oh great,” I thought, ”wait till he spreads this new revelation to his friends and teachers. Rich people can be Christians!” I called after them one more time as Elijah and Priscilla exited the living room with heads full of ideas about life, God, and money.

This past Sunday, Elijah had another big “first.” After howling in the bathroom that his hair was sticking up, he and his dad left early to get to Church. The girls and I arrived twenty minutes later to find my eldest son dressed in gold vestments and standing ever so seriously by the priest’s censer. When I walked in he lit up, and then remembering his place stiffened and stared straight ahead. After countless past liturgies of crying in frustration because Elijah as a toddler and preschooler could not stay put or quiet, I was elated and proud to see him participating behind the altar. And not just on any Sunday, this was Pentecost. For a little over two hours he stood without fidgeting (not too much, anyway), glad I think for the kneeling prayers when he could bend down and stretch his back. Watching Elijah take in the service from his new, up close, vantage point, I was reminded again of how inept I feel to clarify all of this, the theology, the mystery, the miracle that is life in Christ, when the Troparion we were singing repeatedly finally penetrated my thick skull, and comforted me with its message of hopefulness.

Blessed art Thou, O Christ our God, Who hast revealed the fishermen as most wise by sending down upon them the Holy Spirit - through them Thou didst draw the world into Thy net. O Lover of Man, glory to Thee!

How do any of us figure it out, we with heads full of our own ideas about life, God, and fulfillment? When I agonize over developing reasonable explanations for heaven, the Trinity, and salvation, I am essentially overstepping my bounds. The disciples were not wise because someone had finally presented them with a well-written definition of Christianity. Pentecost celebrates the gift of wisdom found only in the receiving of the Holy Spirit. My job as a parent is not to make our faith concise enough to fit into imperfect minds, but rather to open hearts by living, breathing, and offering love – Christ centered love through which the Holy Spirit can work His wonders. My job is to talk less and to show more.

Love God. Love others. That my dear children, is the very best I can offer. Through obedience comes revelation. And now that I think of it, there is quite a bit I need to forget in order to remember this myself. There is even more I need to be emptied of, to be filled with the Holy Spirit. Wisdom is like spotless glass behind which Truth is visible. Intelligence that claims to understand through self-interpretation is like fingerprints smudging, clouding, and obstructing one’s view. Keep your vision clear, keep your thoughts unencumbered, keep your souls open wide in humility. I will try, really try, to lead by example, and to not run up and tie your shoe when the laces fall loose, down beneath your glittering robe as you soak in the incense spiraling beside you, as you grow with lightening speed into a man.

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Hero

Sitting in the corner, I unleash these unearned tears. Despite my lack of Swedish blood, my “in-law” status, and my need to imagine the faces and places in memories preceding my entrance into this family that are now being shared, I allow emotion to overflow onto cheeks and down my neck like I was a mother, a brother, or a father of this hero. Everyone offers gifts suitable for the occasion: batteries, granola bars, powdered drink mixes, an iPod case from grandma. “Thank you,” he says, with genuineness before the weight of why we have gathered starts to press upon us like an elephant sucking oxygen from the room. Words begin to form on tongues now loosed by the gravity of the situation, words too rare and precious to pull out on just any old day but that here, among empty gift bags and pounds of trail mix, are more than appropriate with their unfiltered sentiments of affection, appreciation, and pride.

“I am terrified,” someone finally admits because not saying it is like trying to write a sentence without a verb, or attempting to paint a picture without a canvas. The entertaining of possibilities, as haunting as they are, remains integral to the process of handing over a loved one in faith. The fear of loss gives context from which emanate the long embraces, and the stabs of anxiety piercing hearts all linked by this one soldier, sibling, nephew, cousin, and son. When his parents begin to speak, I am mesmerized. Their conviction that no place or circumstance is outside the hand of God radiates from faces moistened but not anguished, from spirits fragile but not broken, from wishes hopeful but realistic for a future no more certain than an unmapped road leading who knows where from here. Their belief that a soul can float through open spaces within the tightly clenched fists of evil, to freedom, to goodness, to light, is infectious with that hopefulness and determination. The same determination that lines the eyes of this boy turned man who’s stepped up and grabbed his chance to serve our country.

This battle has crossed an ocean, and landed in the kitchen of an old and creaky house in Indiana. The abstract troops enduring heat, death, hatred, and loneliness have separated into individuals with friends, wives, and children, straddling two diverse existences while trying not to rip from the tension between the opportunities and the sense of foreboding in each new day. Updates in my morning paper soak through me like a sponge instead of sliding down distracted thoughts more concerned about the weather than the fate of lives so far from their reality. The prayers once forced become outright reflexive when a face, a name, a voice that you recognize is thrown into the danger that is war. “Does he have to go?” whispered my five-year-old daughter, alarmed by adults who had let down their guards to claim a fleeting moment of significance, who wept openly while clinging to one of their own. “Yes,” I answered. “But he is brave and ready. We will miss him, and it is good to let him see how much we care.”

“Of course, it would be easier,” said the Elder Anthony of Optina, “to get to paradise with a full stomach, all snuggled up in a soft feather bed, but what is required is to carry one’s cross along the way, for the kingdom of God is not attained by enduring one or two troubles, but many!” It seems altogether backwards to garner strength from disappointment, a diagnosis, an encounter with violence, or from saying good-bye. It is excruciatingly difficult to think beyond the grave. But if earthly comfort is like cotton balls stuffed into ears, than trials are the megaphone grabbing our attention by force. For this family, my family, life has been clarified by deployment. One member’s departure is like an ice cold shower, waking us from a spiritual stupor and invigorating our senses with an awareness of heaven. For this family, and for every family who loves, who worries, and who wants more than anything to rest in the promises of Christ, trials are the glue that unites us one to another, and to our original calling so easily muffled by coziness and satiety. “Lord,” we call out, like the father of the suffering child desperate for the intervention of Jesus, “I believe. Help my unbelief!”

And to all of the men and women, sacrificing much more than I can even comprehend, may the Lord God bless you, and keep you in His perfect peace. May we all wake up more aware of your presence, more in awe of your courage, and more inclined to intercede on your behalf. May those you have left behind be granted serenity that defies explanation, and may the crosses that you carry, hazy, sweltering, and grueling as they are, keep foremost in your thoughts the unconquerable Resurrection. “For I am convinced,” says Paul in Romans, “that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

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Redeeming the Day

I have a lot of great ideas between 6:20 and 6:30 am. In those ten minutes, before the children leap from their beds starving for breakfast, I imagine how today will be different. With staunch determination, I list my nonnegotiable priorities:
Clean out refrigerator
Two loads of laundry
Make grocery list
Assign age appropriate chores
Make chart for keeping track of those chores
Read books with five-year-old Priscilla
Cut letter “B’s” out of magazines with four-year-old-Ben

Sometime after 7:00am it is obvious that there are ominous forces working against me, and my surefire plans for becoming a super-mother. 20-month-old Mary has the sniffles and would prefer not to unwrap her scrawny legs from around my waist. “O.K,” I think, “I can still do this. I’ve been productive with only one free arm before.” And I start removing mysterious Tupperware containers hidden behind the milk, trying not to dwell on their moldy contents. Fifteen minutes later, heavy sighing interrupts me.
“I don’t feel good, mommy,” says Priscilla, coughing into her elbow like she has been trained to do by her kindergarten teacher.
“Oh …all right then, why don’t you lie on the couch with a blanket,” I suggest to her, “I’ll come check on you in a second.” By now the countertops are completely covered with empty salad dressing bottles, expired yogurt, and inedible leftovers.
“But mommy,” Priscilla whimpers, “I n-e-e-ed you!”
With that, my throat begins to tighten. “You go on, I’ll be right there,” I smile, masking my growing irritation.

Mary and I leave the rapidly evolving kitchen clutter, and walk into the living room where Benjamin has had free reign for the last half hour. Glitter glue caps littering our hard wood floors start my heart rate soaring. “Oh good grief,” I say to no one in particular, “where is he?”
That is when I notice the rainbow of sparkling, sticky, mounds circling my coffee table like a painter’s palette. Someone (who is certainly old enough to know better) had been making glitter glue portraits of himself, sans the paper.
“BENJAMIN LEONARD SABOURIN!” I scream impulsively. “GET DOWN HERE RIGHT NOW AND CLEAN-UP THIS MESS!”
Thus ensues the downward spiral, high jacking my good intentions, and stripping my resolve to stay calm, cool, and collected. By 3:00 pm, after two refused naps, four temper tantrums (three of them by my children), and a checklist of unchecked tasks, I am drowning in failure and exhaustion. By 3:10 pm, I am quite certain that this day, this horrible, non-productive, anger tainted afternoon, is going to last FOREVER.

In perilous circumstances such as these, I have learned that I must act quickly lest I go under completely, unable to retrieve even a single positive moment from this once in a lifetime, 24-hour-period with my family. On the brink of total hopelessness, I take an enormous breath, close my eyes to the chaos, and devote all my dwindling strength to the truly nonnegotiable priority of redeeming the day. Redeeming the day is like boarding the lifeboat on a sinking cruise ship. When all looks lost, your only thought is to save the ones you love; everything else becomes irrelevant. When those waves of frustration threaten to sabotage your peace of mind, it is essential to ignore the peripherals and salvage the relationships most at risk. If it is all my children who have fallen victim to my overtired wrath, redeeming the day can involve lots of M&M’s, a bowl of popcorn, and a family movie, with the six of us snuggled on the couch. If just one of my sons or daughters has pushed my buttons, and I theirs, I find a book and a quiet corner for us to share and reconnect.

Sometimes, however, it is my relationship with me that is most out of whack, and when this is the case no one escapes unscathed. It is easy to self-chastise to the point of despair, but allowing your “emotional tank” to get that close to empty can do all kinds of damage to the overall sense of well being in your home. If your kids are tiptoeing around you, averting their gaze from your gloomy demeanor, it is time to redeem the day for yourself.

It doesn’t take much to refuel, I have learned. A bath, a new library book, a walk, a closed door and good long cry, are all examples of emergency procedures to help you stay afloat. The key here is not letting the sun go down on your discouragement. To not forgive oneself is to deny God’s mercy; accepting His grace takes a lot of discipline. “I am sorry,” I pray every night in bed, “I really screwed up this time.” And then I rest, trusting in the heavenly compassion spurring me on to another morning, where fresh opportunities for earning new patience are available in abundance, and where the great ideas still lurking behind sleepy eyelids are anxiously awaiting their second chance. “Look out tomorrow, this humbled super-mother may appear a little frazzled, but she knows how to weather a storm, and she will survive this rainy season out of love and devotion for her riotous, rambunctious, and irresistible crew!”

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Stillness

There was a poem I loved in college, most of which escapes me now except for the first line: I am the keeper of unusually small spaces. The meaning I originally assigned to that phrase was probably wrapped in allegory, but now I find the literal interpretation to be understatedly beautiful. My entire world is encompassed within 2000 sq ft. The borders of my kingdom are invisible on a map, or on the pulse of current cultural trends declaring what is relevant and worthwhile. But the unusually small spaces that I keep, as anonymous and unglamorous as they are, I guard with ferocity. These spaces provide the soil in which my children will develop roots and blossom, according to the nutrients provided. As their keeper, it is up to me to tend to my tiny slice of earth with diligence, and a firm conviction that no other profession in the world is of greater importance.

I will never forget the claustrophobia I felt when the walls initially began to close up around me. My husband, Troy, was heading back to work for the first time since Elijah was born. He kissed me on the forehead, and walked through the door to join the human race. I watched him out the window from the rocking chair motherhood had nailed my backside to, and fought back tears of loneliness. During my last few weeks at work I had daydreamed about that moment (me in a peaceful, quiet house with my newborn baby). In my softly lit imagination, I was completely tranquil for the first time in my life. I hadn’t realized that the stress of going, going, going, had come to define me, had become the context out of which I most naturally functioned. Up until that point, stillness was something I had enjoyed immensely doled out in small pieces at a time. I splashed around in it for refreshment, and then headed back to the quicker pace I was accustomed to. But this kind of stillness, one without borders, was like being dropped in the middle of an ocean with no view of land in sight. My only choice was to start treading water or to drown.

I always loved the mornings. Freshly brewed coffee and daylight signaled new beginnings as Elijah and I snuggled close and listened to the radio. In the morning, my head was swimming with ideas and hopefulness. It was later in the day, when the sun’s rays felt stale and stifling, and when the hours till evening stretched on for miles, that the panic would set in. My ambitious plans for organizing, getting in shape, and baking from scratch crumbled under the stop and go pace of bouncing, washing, and changing the baby. How was it possible that absolutely nothing was getting done, that one tiny child could take up so much of my time and energy? I would dream of getting out, of wearing jeans and make-up. The night before a scheduled excursion, I could hardly sleep from excitement. But when I stepped back into my old world, I felt like the girl who went on vacation and came home to find her best friend had replaced her. I was a third wheel now, struggling to maneuver my stroller through aisles designed for pedestrians only, and folding my arms over the circles of leaky milk saturating my carefully chosen sweater. Things had sure changed since I’d been gone.

No matter how much you thought you hated your job (of course, it's worse if you loved it), there are aspects of being in the workplace surrounded by people that make staying at home a real adjustment. Getting up at the same time each day, taking a shower, putting on clothes with zippers and buttons, leaving the site of an unmade bed behind, occupying your mind with projects, deadlines, and phone calls: all of these things became as familiar as a well-worn glove, and their absence makes life feel strangely bare. By removing conversation from my daily routine, that which prevented my thoughts from turning inward, I suddenly became aware of previously hidden aspects in my character. This experience was very disorienting.

The stillness surrounding stay-at-home motherhood represents in this day and age a “road less traveled.” Our modern society encourages speed and constant busyness. By occupying our minds, bodies, and senses with outside stimulants, it is possible to avoid for a lifetime thinking even once about the state of our souls. For instance, I would have never listed impatience as one of my many character flaws until I discovered how easily unglued I could become over spilled juice, a distracted three-year-old, or a needy infant. Every responsibility we have as mothers is a priority. Whether it be cleaning the house, making meals, nursing the baby, reading to a preschooler, doing laundry or yard work, or keeping up with friendships. Wanting to accomplish all these tasks in a single day is commendable but hopelessly impossible.

When your six-month-old has a cold or fever and needs the security of her mother’s arms, you sit with that stillness for hours on end comforting your child, an act of love for which you will never be publicly commended. Quieting those voices in your head, berating you for getting nothing else done, takes great courage and mental tenacity. Most stay-at-home mothers do not have the luxury of pacifying their internal restlessness with a movie, shopping, or a lunch-date whenever the impulse presents itself. Instead, when at the peak of our frustrations, we have one choice: to either stew in our anger or evolve into a more flexible and forgiving individual.

There are many acts of bravery that can characterize an individual as being strong. Staying home to raise a child requires most of them, but these are performed without accolades, medals, or standing ovations. A mother who can endure the stillness—accept her doubts, come face to face with her biggest fears and not look away—must watch her world unravel. She will find out she is not perfect, she has limits, and her love alone will not guarantee the safety and happiness of her family. Accepting weakness requires bravery and great faith. It forces us to enter into each moment, task, and conversation with a prayer for guidance. Stillness teaches us, through self-sacrifice and humility, to let go of expectations, unclench our fists, and open our hands and hearts to a broader reality and a bigger purpose.

Yes, many of our maternal tasks seem mundane. Our battles can feel small and trite when compared to those doing more “worthwhile” work—like fighting hunger, defending freedom, or protecting the poor. There are days you will want to scream, “This is pointless, useless, a waste of time!” But this is where real courage begins! We quietly sweep the floor, braid ponytails, pour the milk without complaining, and to the best of our ability send a silent message to the little eyes always watching that they are more than worth every effort we put forth on their behalf. In her autobiography The Long Loneliness, Dorothy Day writes, “most of our life is unimportant, filled with trivial things from morning till night. But when it is transformed by love it is of interest even to the angels.”

Home

It's not that my kids aren’t capable of interesting conversation, or even occasional displays of empathy, it's just hard to consider them good company when I know that they view me as a representation – of boundaries, of safety, of dinner. They cannot fathom that I would have needs and insecurities, or be weighed down by solitude. Mid-week, after going three straight days without adult conversation or changing my juice-stained shirt, my children may sense a bit of melancholy clouding the eyes of their cereal, milk, and pretzel producing mother, but that is where the pondering ends. And that is where it should end, I believe, for they are still too young and fragile to be wincing at the pangs of isolation.

I remember when I first felt it, at the age of ten or eleven. “It’s like I’m homesick,” I tried to explain to my preoccupied parents “except the weird thing is that I haven’t left for anywhere.” Over time I would grow to recognize that gnawing sensation as loneliness, as an inability to feel at peace in my surroundings. Marriage couldn’t fill it - the gaping hole stuffed to the brim with high expectations that suddenly, and without warning, would chew up those ideals like a garbage disposal, leaving nothing but the familiar emptiness I had carried since adolescence. Motherhood, even with its constant exposure to other human beings, tiny and needy as they were, did not distract me from the underlying awareness that sometimes my skin feels too tight, and my heart too boxy for beating comfortably within its temporary encasement. My spirit, like a caged tiger, paces with the suspicion that it was created to run faster, jump higher, and travel further than is possible behind these hard as metal barriers of skin and bone.

Participating in Divine Liturgy at my neighborhood parish on Sunday mornings is not only refreshing because I get to sing, to worship, to commune, to wear shoes that clap instead of squish when they walk across a floor, but also because of my place within the center of its community. What does a stay-at-home mother of four have in common with a fifty-year-old businessman, or a harried graduate school student facing midterms and 20 page papers? What could she find so fulfilling in cups of coffee with fellow parishioners, as varied as the colors in a rainbow? What, you may ask, is so thrilling about a bunch of normal people listening over the shrills of nap deprived toddlers to a pointed homily from a priest, who is also normal yet miraculously exceptional in that he has been blessed to offer from his imperfect hands the untarnished flesh and blood of our Savior? Everything I tell you, and the only thing that matters!

Beneath the nearsighted eyes, graying hairs, and wrinkled dress shirts standing in line for the Eucharist, I find God, Himself, burning in the souls of the ordinary. I find an eternal connection through shared prayers, and longings for something greater, something purer, something tangible in this world of illusions, where reality is as foundationless as a snow fort melting in the heat of the sun. Only when I cease to view myself as an entirety, when I accept my place as a toe, or a knuckle in the greater body of Christ, can the life force of heaven pulsate through me, warming my insides with purpose. Only here, in the Church, where mingling with saints and angels is also normal, yet miraculously exceptional, can my spirit get a taste of liberation. Only here, within the context of absolute Truth can my identity become solid and defined.

The fact that your face lights up with recognition when I say, “sinfulness,” “redemption,” or “eternity,” that you come and participate with the “great cloud of witnesses,” when you could have slept in or cleaned out your garage, that around your neck I see the glimmer of a silver chain from which dangles a cross silently claiming your allegiance to the death and resurrection of Jesus, gives me courage to keep walking forward. Within a Trinity is how God chose to manifest Himself - three in one, distinctive yet impossible to pin down and separate. This is our example, our justification that the overlapping of joys and sorrows from your life into mine, binding us together through salvation, is holy and right. This is why every self-serving pursuit will undoubtedly disappoint us. Midweek, after dabbling in my share of worldly cares, melancholy calls me Home – back to the body of Christ, where the ordinary become extraordinary, where heaven touches earth, where you and I entwine our lives with faith.

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Well Dressed

Before I had children, before I had a clue about the ins and outs of gnarled hair, snotty noses, “washable” markers, and the improbability of finding two matching socks on a Sunday morning, I vowed that when I was a mother my kids would be neatly pressed and sufficiently scrubbed, to the point of sparkling. I had visions of my future daughter in a gingham-checked dress with two auburn braids hanging perfectly straight, and tied with slender ribbons. We would be adorable, she and I, best of friends walking hand-in-hand, repelling dirt and bad taste with our Teflon like resistance to tacky trends and media plastered apparel.

Fast forward two-and-a-half years later, I had long since eaten and swallowed those foolish notions. With the introduction of spit-up, I was humbled. By the time I experienced potty training, I was full on laughing at myself, the old self who was certain that a toilet bowl was plenty wide to contain those first erratic attempts of a preschooler trying to hit his mark. “Don’t change those pants!” became my standard order, “I’ll just get a washcloth.”

With the birth of our second-born, Priscilla, however, old dreams sprung back to life. There were ponytails, sparkly barrettes, patent leather shoes, and bibs to keep dribbles of juice off her floral jumpers. There were the appropriate “oohs and ahs” from relatives, neighbors, and cashiers at the grocery store. Days of cuteness turned into months, months turned into years – three to be exact before my power to choose which coordinated outfit would be wriggled over her dimpled legs and cooperatively raised arms, came to a screeching halt. “No mama,” she said, pointing to the tasteful blouse poised above her head, “not that one!”

Firmly, I insisted on maintaining some semblance of tidiness. Every morning we both stiffened, arranging our game faces in front of her dresser. She’d hold up a pleated skirt to be paired with jeans, and a polka dot sweater. “Sorry,” I’d say, “That’s not going to work.” And her wailing, the sobbing, the grieving over the loss of control would effectively dampen both of our moods for hours. Eventually, I figured, the dust would settle and she would come around. Later on, when it was obvious to an older and more practical Priscilla that I was only trying to help her, the madness would simmer down and peace would once again return in the form of preplanned ensembles, we both could agree on, laid out the evening before.

Months of tension turned into years – two to be exact before I questioned the legitimacy of my stubborn stance on such an external issue. “Please mama,” said five-year-old Priscilla, searching for ways to express herself, pleading for a chance to take ownership of her body. In a culture where the self-esteem of little girls is battered and bruised by a societal dictation on what equals “pretty,” did I really want to deny my daughter an opportunity to feel comfortable in her own skin?

I was embarrassed by my three-year-old all decked out in a pajama top and sweat pants. I was self-conscious accompanying her, as a four-year-old, to a birthday party to which she insisted on wearing a gaudy 1990’s hair bow. I had tried my best this morning to smile approvingly at Priscilla as she bounded out of her room in jean shorts, leggings, and snow boots, to keep my mouth shut while she downed that one last reckless swig of chocolate milk before the bus arrived to pick her up for afternoon kindergarten, resulting in a brown puddle that soiled her favorite unicorn t-shirt. When her disappointed eyes turned watery and red, however, I instinctively jumped into action. “Don’t change!” I called out with conviction. “I’ll just get a washcloth.”

Living Water

The Samaritan woman took a lot of flack, I’d assume, while going about the business of her day. I am sure she was accustomed to the whispered comments and the disgusted expressions on the faces of those familiar with her indiscretions. How jolting, however, to be confronted by a man she had never seen before, over stepping socially correct boundaries by asking her to draw him water, and then speaking quite bluntly and authoritatively about the most intimate details of her life.

I try to put myself in her position, to apply that odd encounter to my contemporary existence, but I guess I don’t know how I’d respond to a stranger at the grocery store asking me to fill up his cart. I can’t say what I’d do if he accurately exposed, to my horror, that right before leaving for this errand I had torn into my son with excessive sternness for childish behavior unworthy of such wrath. After picking up my jaw from off the linoleum floor, would I stay for more of this uncomfortable conversation or just hightail it to the nearest check-out line for a quick get away? In this day and age, pointing fingers at anyone (unless of course they are narrow minded) is equivalent to putting a cigarette in the lips of a baby. Being called out on account of your sins is an assault that no one, in this great and civilized nation, deserves to be subject to. And besides, with the definition of sin being so hazy and all, who’s to say what is right or wrong?

Trying to infiltrate modern culture in order to redeem it is a bit like pouring dish soap in the ocean. Not only is that enormous body of water too turbulent and pervasive for being purified by such inadequate means, but also the soap itself becomes contaminated by the very filth it was trying to clean. To dress the part, speak the part, and play the part of progressiveness with the intent of appearing relevant, is more dangerous to the actors than inspiring to the real life characters they are trying to lure into the faith by spoon-feeding a message of feel-good love and approval. Over time, that “seeker sensitive” approach to evangelism will have no choice but to become broader, and even less offensive if it is to keep up with the ever-softening morals of our society. Even if one does accept Christianity based upon the image of Jesus presented, the image of a deity who will accentuate your comfortable lifestyle without actually demanding it from you, will they truly experience the Christian faith as described in the New Testament? By offering a sanctified version of what they have already, we deny them a chance to transcend this rat race entirely, to find themselves by losing themselves in Christ.

The Son of God, who met the Samaritan woman at the well for the purpose of transforming her soul, did not bring with Him kid gloves or a watered down version of the Truth. He rose above bigotry and chauvinism, yes, but proceeded to lay out the demands, nonnegotiable, for attaining His Living Water. Her many mistakes and foolish choices were forgivable; it is our will, not our sins, that keep us trapped in darkness. But the ball did lie in her court, so to speak. She was not pulled “irresistibly,” into Salvation. She had to act, to choose, and to change. The Samaritan woman, also known as Photini, is called “equal to the apostles” by the Church because she did not let a sinful past keep her from responding to Jesus. She accepted His disapproval of her transgressions, and then trusted in His mercy by turning from them. Immediately she departed from His presence, full of gratitude and enlightenment, devoting the remainder of her days to offering anyone within earshot an opportunity for a heart-mending conversion, unlike anything they had ever experienced before.

I compare myself often with the proverbial Jones’s, grumbling when I fall behind. I want Christ to fit in somewhere between my ever accumulating possessions and my rapidly filling calendar. I want to blend in, and claim my inalienable right to a piece of the American pie. Other times, however, like on this rainy afternoon, I am deeply aware of how shallow, how disappointing, how unfulfilling, is every accomplishment, every thing, and everyone (myself, most certainly included). It is times like this that I am most receptive to the witness of the Samaritan woman. “Tell me my shortcomings, expose all my wickedness, shed light on the secrets that are eating me alive! I am parched, and in need of refreshment.” It is times like now that I could toss aside everything, regardless of the consequences, and live fully for my one and only hope at being satisfied.

My shopping cart is full, and yet my neighbor’s is empty…whose thirst will Christ quench through me?

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Apology

While changing the spider-man sheets on my 4 and 8 year-old-sons’ bunk bed, I found no less then thirty pieces of pastel colored foil, once containing chocolate Easter eggs, stuffed inside pillowcases like drug money. My two underage smugglers had been hording contraband candy for weeks without raising an ounce of suspicion from me, their optimistic mother; quite frankly, I was dumbfounded by my ignorance. Throughout the interrogation they lowered their eyes with solemnity, “I’m sorry mom,” they mechanically offered. But I couldn’t help speculating that behind the punishment induced, “shoot, I got caught” tears, were a couple of strong wills arming themselves against my chastising assaults. I lectured until the steady stream of words pouring from out my lips ceased to be relevant to the crime at hand. But genuine remorse, I discovered, cannot be forced through hardened hearts, embittered by the emotional tirades of a stretched thin parent. Honesty cannot bloom in rocky soil.

“Get out of this office!” I lashed at my children just yesterday. “Go to your rooms! I do not want to see you, or hear you, or be near you right now, do you understand?!” I had tried to maintain my composure, to be kind and mature even while their two straight hours of bickering pounded at my head like a hammer. But then I snapped…I reached my limit, the thin layer of resolve separating feelings from ideals split down the middle allowing anger to flow unimpeded.
“I wish it could be like before,” whispered my oldest child, “like earlier when you were happy.”
“Look Elijah,” I fumed. “I have had it with the fighting! It makes me sick, sometimes, how you treat each other!”
“How about,” he suggested, “I sit right here quietly until you can calm down, and when you’re ready, we can go back to being like old times.”
And suddenly I was aware of how I looked to my kids: wild-eyed, evil, and monstrous.

Just when I think I have it all down, I am humiliated by a lack of self-control. My lasting impression, echoing down the hallway with empty threats, verifies not that certain behavior is unacceptable, but rather that mom is crazy. It is naïve to imagine I would never give way to the stress of being pulled in five directions. It is understandable, I daresay, to lose patience when sleep is scarce and demands are high. But to sweep it under the rug, to move on without apologizing for unloading adult issues on my children, does a grave disservice to our relationship. It undermines the values I try to teach them by example.

I am sorry my little ones. Let us try again tomorrow to be respectful of each other, and sincere in our efforts to love, to learn, and to grow.

Abundance

It’s not that I’m ungrateful for my own healthy childhood, free from the horrors of Polio, Mumps and Measles. Nor do I wish upon any boy or girl the annoyance of oatmeal baths and Calamine lotion, spread like icing over pock infested skin. I’m just a little confused, here, about what constitutes an emergency in a society intolerant of fevers, rashes, acne, or the wrinkles confirming everyone’s greatest fear: we are all getting older by the minute. As if I feel didn’t feel bad enough about being so …well, imperfect, I am now made into a monster on top of that if I answer anything but an enthusiastic “NO!” to my doctor’s loaded question of, “Do you really want your daughter to suffer through the flu … DO YOU?”
“Close the shades, kids! Lock the front door! Your brother has the sniffles, and a cough! Keep it from the neighbors that we let nature take its course. ‘Don’t you know there’s a pill for that?’ they’d say.”

What did parents do before Google, advertised prescriptions, or reruns of the Oprah Winfrey show? What kind of supernatural wisdom enabled them to dress, feed, discipline, and entertain their families without cable? How did they not go clinically insane at having to wait for a letter, a dress to be sewn, or strawberries to come into season? Admittedly, my own mothering intuition is getting a bit rusty, and more often than I care to divulge do I self-medicate impending dilemmas using nothing but a debit card and an overcrowded Walmart, soothing the sores of humanity with Playstations, DVD’s, and super-sized bags of Fritos. Now that I think about it, when was the last time I used my instincts to work through anything?

It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the abundance of food, information, and electronic devices available on a moment’s notice, to make this life more palatable. Nor do I wish upon any boy or girl hardships or bouts of boredom. I am just a little worried about my own kid’s chances of survival if, God forbid, a tragedy came upon us. How would they find the wherewithal to persevere, despite discomfort, if I teach them by example that pain and inconvenience are unacceptable? How will they know their own strength, if they never bear a burden on their shoulders? So if you see my children whining, indignant over hearing the word “no,” don’t worry, it’s not that I’ve lost my check book but that I’ve found my own opinions, and the nerve to make a choice all by myself.

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Rise and Walk

Thirty-eight years with lifeless limbs. Three decades of bodily affliction. Almost 14,000 days of not participating in life, love, or labor. Within eyesight is his one chance for liberation. Every morning they gather, the outcasts of humanity tossed aside like broken tools, because here they are considered broken, and dirty, and useless. Every morning they come, bearing lesions, mutations, blinded eyes, and the scars of tragedy and rejection. Every morning they congregate at the pool, the pool within his eyesight, for healing.

But as the waves begin to roll, as the uproar of desperate bodies pushing, scratching, and tearing at each other for the chance to be first, for the chance to be whole, reaches its chaotic climax, this paralytic man averts his eyes. It is too painful to watch the phenomenon of a mended life take place, again, before him. The shouts of elation from the fortunate recipient, dripping with new opportunities available only to the unimpaired, are like fingernails on a chalkboard. The sound of another’s joy serves to magnify his sorrow, for on his own it is impossible to reach the water.

“Do you want to be healed?”
Who would ask such a thing? But the face now in view is as serious as death, and this man had stopped to look at him directly, not through him like a colorless piece of glass.
“There is no one,” replies the paralytic “ who will carry me to the pool when the water is troubled.”
“Then rise,” says the stranger, “take up your pallet and walk.”

Here are two commandments of equal importance: Rise and walk.
If the story had ended differently (“You are healed, now stay right there”), I could justify being bathed in the restorative waters of baptism only to take back my place on the ground, contorting healthy limbs into the same broken and useless positions as before, refusing to stand or run. I would do well to grab hands with the ex-paralytic as he tromps triumphantly through town, oblivious to the judgments of society, yelling, “Jesus! It was Jesus who gave me back my life,” validating our gifts of wholeness by moving forward.

Salvation equals transformation, a total response to God. A hasty sign of the cross as I rush to meet my day, the attendance of services when its convenient, a flippant swallowing of the body and blood of Christ without trembling, without confessing, without believing in the miracle that it is, is like crawling on a treadmill heading nowhere. I am so tired, yet not any closer to deliverance from my same old sins. I’ve not changed because I expect that change should fall into my lap, just by snapping my fingers and saying the magic words. “Lord have mercy,” is but a meaningless expression, unless I’m willing to accept that mercy in whatever form He deems best. When I feel it: the sacrifice, the knots in my stomach as I hand my life over in faith, then I’ll begin to see progress, spurred on by the Holy Spirit: “Rise and Walk, Rise and Walk, Rise and Walk”

Do I want to be healed? It’s a legitimate question, because sometimes I honestly don’t know. I pray for this out of habit, while I cling to the floor, to what’s familiar– my empty request floating upwards, and then evaporating long before reaching its destination. Only when I despise this crippled existence will I find the discipline necessary to respond with my time, my desires, and my opened heart. When I am thankful, truly thankful, I will pick up my pallet and march, oblivious to the judgments of society. “Jesus!” I will shout without embarrassment or hesitation, “It was Jesus who gave me back my life!” Please… grab my hand, we’ll be stronger in numbers, and let's pick up the pace toward Home.

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Freedom

Five-year-old Priscilla would like to go around the block on her bike, alone. In fact, she assures me, she wants this more than anything she has ever wanted before. Holding my gaze, widening her eyes, and weakening my resolve with her china doll complexion, she begs for an affirmative answer from me, her mother, now clenching the fate of an anxious daughter in her hands. But once she turns that corner, I can no longer see her, my Priscilla, who up until this afternoon was contented with living under my feet, my wings, and my field of vision. The severity of my indecision highlights an inability to adjust to the needs of my young children, brazenly seeking out their independence. Her request opens doors I’d just assume keep locked a little longer.

For a moment I am transported to the future, to a time when those same pleading eyes will pierce my gut with a request for the car keys, an out of state college application, or an internship in Paris for the summer. For a second, I am bewildered by her current desire to ride that hot pink bike around the world. What about the craters and cracks in the sidewalk, and the cars not watching their speed? What about the unleashed dogs, the landmines, and the hypodermic needles aimed at her slender arms, her veins light blue and innocent, as innocent as a newborn baby. My baby, Priscilla, still believes that the world is good.

“I think children should wear helmets all the time,” declares my friend, half-jokingly.
“Here, here!” I concur, “and bullet-proof vests, and floaties on their elbows to keep them buoyant.” I had dreamed of the day when I could take back my arm from around the bulbous belly of a toddler, when my hip would be loosed from the straddling of impish limbs. It does get awfully hectic – wiping spills, cooling fiery tempers, and playing endless games of hide-and-seek. It does get lonely and frustrating – slowing down your life to raise a family. But growing pains are called just that because they stretch and pull our limits, broadening horizons and limbering constrictive tendencies that bind us to ourselves. I, for one, grew awfully attached to the outpouring of lavish affection, soothing my frazzled nerves with puckered kisses.

It is tempting to put my foot down, and forbid this heinous act of getting older, or to lock up my children with the holiday dishes where porcelain flesh cannot be nicked by carelessness. “Is it worse,” I wonder, “to watch my sons and daughters suffocate behind protective glass, or to have to take my chances with their freedom? Should I teach them fear or let them choose to fly?” When I think back on my own enchanted childhood, barefoot and bold with unrestraint, I am warmed by memories of neighborhood jaunts, sunburned noses, and secrets shared with giggles over Popsicles, cold and sweet. But I also squirm with disbelief at the foolishness of some of my choices. “It’s different now,” I‘d like to claim, but maybe it’s only me that changed while shedding waning youth like dried out skin.

What good is love if it’s all bunched up and wrinkled in my pocket? What good is teaching goodness if that goodness isn’t shared? What a gift to ignite a torch for all those flailing in their blindness, and to bless the murky darkness with its light. What a gift to light my children with compassion. “Be wise my little ones, but be not afraid to step out and seize the moments fresh and fleeting. Be aware of, but not inhibited by affliction. Be strong, be brave, be conscious of the suffering and the joys of vulnerability, and then love with open hands and open hearts!”

“Please mamma, I can do this. I know how to get back to home!” Priscilla states her case with authentic fervor. But it is more than just permission she is asking for. She is caught, held fast, between her roles as “little” and “getting bigger.” That burrowing gaze is fierce but her sucking thumb, still wet and rosy, betrays the stoic courage now presented. Priscilla needs my confidence, in her, in me, and in that bike’s ability to maneuver around the dangers, on a sidewalk I cannot see from where I’m standing. “O.K.,” I say, “start pedaling,” as I hold my breath and wait for her return.

Time

“Didn’t we just do this?” I asked the back of my husband’s head, not sure if sleep had overtaken him.
“H-m-m?” he responded, hesitantly, because I am a free flowing, conversational, force to be reckoned with. A seemingly innocuous question, blurted from my nimble lips, can evolve into a discourse on anything under the sun.
“Weren’t we just here in these same positions, whispering to each other ‘goodnight’?”
No answer, only deep inhalations mocking my insomnia with sounds of slumber.

I understand that time is methodical, weatherproof, and constant, but lately I could swear that when I blink on a Tuesday my eyes open up to a Thursday afternoon. “Where is Wednesday?” I marvel, while stuffing my son’s feet into shoes that fit him perfectly 15 minutes ago. “What happened to March, for that matter?” It hits me hardest in the evenings, when I sink into a still warm pillow wondering if I ever really left this bed at all, cringing at my similarities to tumbleweed blown forth by a gusty wind, to grass withering up in anonymity.

This can’t be right, I’m sure of it. Huge chunks of life skipped over and wasted are bound to make me shudder in the end. I have stacked my days like building blocks, piling one upon another to construct a mythical future of my dreams. What a hindrance it would be to examine each brick before moving ahead to the next one. So I throw them on, slap them on, as fast as I can manage inspired by a fairy tail conclusion. But nobody knows what the weather might bring, when lightening may strike us down. It would sure be a shame to have labored so intensely on a fantasy never to be realized. If only it were possible for each and every brick to contain inherent worth all on its own.

“The wise thief,” we sing at Holy Friday Matins, “didst Thou make worthy of Paradise in a single moment, O Lord;” a single moment to transform a doomed man’s destiny. If I thought my soul were on the line maybe I would view the 86, 400 seconds in my day as a little more worthy of seizing. If I thought I’d be held accountable for the millions of moments I’ve let slip through my fingers, I might tremble with shame and regret. If I took my faith more seriously, I would burst into each new morning, wringing out of that brick every possible opportunity to repent and express my gratitude.

“I wish that it was Friday… If only it were summer…” Let’s face it, I will never be satisfied. And thank goodness for that, or I might exchange my hopes for acceptance. “Give us this day our daily bread,” we pray. Just enough to keep us focused on the present, where decisions on life, love, God, and salvation are rife with enduring significance, where we meet the Holy Spirit in our minute-to-minute choices to either serve Christ or ourselves. Oh, the miracle of a sunrise! Oh, the grace of starting over, waking up to a clean, blank, slate! Finally, there is hope for a taste of true contentment, in slowing down and surrendering selfish ambitions. I am tired of the running. I am weary from the building of earthly kingdoms destined for destruction. This day is a perfect day for standing still.


“You are a great father,” I whisper to my husband, in the darkness of yet another night. Because I appreciate him with all my heart, and this day I want for him to know that. I want to seize a moment before it’s gone. It is time to take them seriously, my destiny, my faith, my choices, because one never knows what the weather might bring or when lightening may strike me down. In the blink of an eye I will step into eternity, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on my soul.”

Possession

Love laced with dread; love strangled by horrific possibilities; an unexplained ache while embracing my child or waving goodbye to my spouse; the fear, contaminating joy so sweet, whispering in my ear, “You would die, wither up and waste away if that baby, that parent, that husband left this world before you,” is not congruent with a victorious Resurrection. This fear is the first thing I want to examine, repent of, and obliterate as an heir of the living Christ.

Abraham walked with Isaac up a mountain. Throughout that long journey he conversed with his son, maybe joking and laughing sharing memories of previous years when Isaac was younger and naïve, naïve as a fish swimming open mouthed straight for a hook pierced worm, trusting that the nourishment will be his free and clear. Abraham, fondling the dagger in his cloak, perhaps slicing his finger over the blade, marched on toward the unthinkable guided only by his devotion to God. I can tolerate this story when that same God is foremost on my mind and in my heart. But when the order is reversed, when the blessings tower over my Creator, that story both offends and frightens me to tears.

“Why must you love God more?” ask my jealous children in unison. “We love you more than anything!”
“Don’t you see?” I answer, as much to myself as to them “My own love is broken and imperfect. Only by loving God first can I love you best, can I open my hands and give you freedom.”
Possession is tricky because it feels like devotion, even while it smothers and frets. Possession keeps one busy with the paying of bills, the charting of goals, the changing of sheets on a bunk bed. It tells you that if you try hard enough, worry obsessively enough, and make the right plans and resolutions, it will all work out in the end; it will all come together just as you devised. Possession stuffs love into a box of reasonable shape and size quite satisfied with the assuredness of that embrace.

There is no room in this soul for Christ and anything else. To add my own agenda is to compromise the purity of my faith. To desire nothing but sunny days and a woundless existence, is to close my mind to the will of God. There is so much evil in this world. Just trying to keep on top of it, wagging your head in disbelief, can be a full-time occupation. The longer I look, the more effort I invest into stockpiling my basement with generators, water bottles, and bird-flu vaccines, the less confidant my prayers become. It is hard to pray and duct tape windows simultaneously. It is hard to long for heaven when your one goal in life is to keep your family anchored to this earth.

If I could bottle the courage sprung forth during the Paschal Liturgy when I sang along with Jesus to Mary, the Theotokos:
Do not lament me, O Mother, seeing me in the tomb, for I shall arise and be eternally glorified as God,

I would drink of it continually. I would bathe in it, cleansing my tormented thoughts with the healing promise of the crucified Christ. I would shout at the top of my lungs, echoing with transcendental volume off the walls of an empty tomb, the words of St. John Chrysostom:
O death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?
Christ is Risen, and you, O death, are annihilated! Christ is Risen, and the evil ones are cast down! Christ is Risen, and the angels rejoice! Christ is Risen, and life is liberated!

Love sanctified by sacrifice; love disinfected by death and resurrection; an unexplained peace while embracing my child or waving goodbye to my spouse; this hope, intensifying joy so sweet, whispering in my ear that hell has been conquered, is the gift our Risen Lord freely offers. This hope is the only thing I want to make room for as an heir of the living Christ. May He grant me the fortitude to march on toward the unknowable guided only by my devotion to Him.

Click HERE to listen to this reflection. This is a service of ANCIENT FAITH RADIO.

Indeed He Is Risen!

“I have a question I’m scared to ask,” said eight year-old Elijah after our reading of the parable of the ten virgins waiting for the bridegroom. “I am afraid,” he went on “that just saying it is a really bad sin.”

“O.k.,” I gulped, inwardly ransacking my brain for an age appropriate explanation of the term virgin, just in case.
“What is it?” I finally managed to respond calmly.
“Well … what if, I mean… wonder if the scientists are right? What if there is no God?”

“H-m-m,” I lingered, not expecting to have to answer this question so soon. Not expecting doubt and logic to creep in at such an early age, and highjack the trusting nature of my son. “That is the essence of faith,” I weakly offered. “To believe what cannot be seen.” And at that moment, I wanted to force my conviction through him but I could clearly view his soul apart from mine, resistant to being commandeered by another. I saw for the first time, with excitement and trepidation, Elijah’s struggle for a faith of his own.

How will he understand and absorb this Pascha that Christ is Risen, when our street looks the same, when kids at school are still mean, when our house remains cluttered with dirty socks and colored pencils? How must I live in order to validate our Church’s song of Resurrection? What can I offer, neck deep in the logistics of raising a family, that would stand out and affirm to my children that death has been trampled, that our chains have been loosed, and that our purpose for living has been defined with piercing clarity? How will he know Christ is Risen, when I am still the same sinful and flustered mom that I have always been?

And it’s not just Elijah or his brother and sisters, but also my neighbors, my acquaintances, the strangers I randomly come into contact with who are summing up my values by my actions at that moment. Who are culling fact from chatter by my love or lack thereof. Christ is Risen! What does that look like? How is my world different because of it? I wonder, now, if I no longer ask the difficult questions because habit outweighs my ideology; because my faith has literally been thrown on a to-do list to be checked off with each Scripture verse read and feast celebrated. “What if there is no God?” I never pause to ponder or second-guess.

My little doubting Thomas, reaching for nail holes, brings me to shame with his quest for the Truth; for the real God, not a pocket sized deity created in man’s image to pull out on a whim at our convenience. I don’t want to check-off Pascha and move on. So I ask myself, for the sake of my family, for the sake of my neighbor, for the sake of my relevance as a follower of Christ, “What will I do with the reality of a risen Savior?” The apostles gave up every earthly comfort to spread that Gospel message. Monastics turn from worldly ambitions to devote their bodies, minds, and spirits to prayer. Martyrs boldly declared their devotion by offering theirs lives as a sacrifice. I could, and certainly should, at least reassess my priorities to reflect my position on the one thing needful and authenticate my Paschal cry: “Christ is Risen! Indeed He is Risen! Crawl out of your grave,” I must remind myself, “and dance with contagious and unselfconscious joy!”

“You should never be afraid to ask us anything,” I tell Elijah later on. “It is good to search, and wrestle with those doubts so your faith will be genuine, not just a hand-me-down from dad and me.” I wanted to go on, then, and say I was sorry for my excessive worry, for my lack of patience, for skipping blessings before meals. I wanted to explain my misguided attempts at training him to “fit in,” at brushing off chances to really listen because there is so very much I want to accomplish, so much busywork to distract me from the nudging of the Holy Spirit. But enough with the words, enough with the lectures, he will know that Christ is Risen when that Truth swallows and digests our household, when he witnesses first-hand that even sinful and flustered mothers can rise above logistics, and capture Heaven through the cross.

Click HERE to listen to this reflection. This is a service of ANCIENT FAITH RADIO.