Homeschool

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

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

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

“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

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

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.

Click HERE to listen to this post (beginning 2/14). This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Opportunity

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

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

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

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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Beauty

I want you to read the next line quickly, without pausing to reflect upon the evil that would drive a person to perform such an act of depravity. Last week a man threw his four young children from a bridge and I am tired of being held hostage by this sort of nonsense. It seems now would be a good time to promote beauty over filth, creation over destruction, sacrifice in lieu of greed; it seems today could use some lace around its edges.

My two-year-old daughter, Mary, just this past Saturday, broke a seventeen-day streak of wearing the same velvety semi-formal Christmas dress - to the library, the store, Church, and to nowhere in particular. At first it annoyed me what with all the new lovely outfits she's received as gifts and adorable hand-me-down sweaters, jeans, jumpers still stuffed in her drawer untouched and unloved by their current fickle owner. But after a week or so, once it sank in that this phase was not about stubbornness but rather honest to goodness appreciation for a piece of attire that made her feel like a princess, I began to admire her dedication. Mary, as of yet, has no concept of societal norms, her motivations stem only from an unpretentious confidence too rooted in unconditional love to be wilted by the opinions of others.

I enjoy stringing words together, words I like the sound of, words I play like an instrument, wield like a brush to compose a story, paint a picture, clear my head. There are plenty of things I could be doing, should be doing like sleeping, straightening-up, worrying about all the cruel ways this world could hurt me, but then my days would be smashed on top of one another by monotony. There is bravery in rising above, there is hope in the resurrection of unwarranted kindness and in art for its own “unnecessary” sake.

Because when Beth, my dear friend, invites me for lunch and her table is set with coordinating linens and tastefully etched goblets, I feel blessed and invigorated by her hospitality. When my sister-in-law, Paige, goes out of her way to participate in lives other than her own, I feel inspired to get out of myself and make connections. When Julia takes photographs, when my cousin (in-law) Erik lives modestly off of his highly melodic and emotionally perceptive music, when Mary’s godmother takes the time to design a lovely watercolor of their cabin in the woods, I remember to believe in the Good, that life is holy, and that faith cannot be measured, calculated, or mass produced with all the repetitiveness and unoriginality of an assembly line. There are countless ways to defy malevolence, to offer our talents, our unique drives and passions back to God.

I am most courageous when actively combating hell with expectations of Heaven, when I get off my lazy, stupefied, media junkie haunches and deposit a little luminosity where there wasn’t any. Drive past my priest’s house in the springtime and I guarantee you’ll be taken aback by the glory of his garden – wild, explosive, and vibrant with every color imaginable. I defy you to listen to St. Elizabeth’s choir belt out “Blessed be the Name of the Lord” at the end of Liturgy without smiling. Turn off the television and pick up a book, call a friend, write a letter. Delight in and encourage wholeheartedly your child’s imagination. Let the compliments flow generously while all judgments dry up from lack of use. Bring forth something noble from out of nothing and be satisfied!

Excellence

Having thoroughly read through the first five chapters a good half dozen times, I have decided this year to go ahead and move on through the rest of the Brother’s Karamozov by Dostoyevsky. To be honest, I feel a little sheepish that is has taken me so long to do so. I mean, really, it's a literary treasure chock full of Orthodox Spirituality. I’ve met Orthodox converts who were drawn to the Faith solely by the contents of this novel.

See, what happens is, I sit down with all 822 pages, get started and then frequently interrupted by requests for dinner, clean clothes, homework help, etc. and then I put the book down for a month or so, opting rather for something more useful, like an umpteenth perusal of the three-year-old Good Housekeeping article on how to clean anything in under a minute.

It turns out that acquiring a taste for excellence takes some discipline and forethought, but I’m here to hopefully prove to you and to myself that it is worth it. As a special treat, my Close to Home podcast this week will offer a radio drama of sorts. I am reading ( in my best radio voice) a passage from The Brothers Karamozov. This excerpt involves Father Zossima, a much loved and revered Orthodox elder of a well-known Russian Monastary and a peasant woman, having made a pilgrimage to see him, asking for Spiritual counseling after the death of her four children due to various illnesses. If there is anyone in your life you fear losing then I hope that you will find this text to be as wrenching, victorious and prayer provoking as I do.

Click HERE to listen to this podcast in its entirety.

This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Rivalry

It never mattered how much of a lead I was given – five runs, ten runs – I could never, and I mean never, ever, beat my older brother in a game of whiffle ball. If you were able to hit the back fence of our perfectly square yard, you automatically had yourself a trot around the bases homerun. Bobby nailed his target over and over and it was frustrating as all get out to have to pitch then whirl my head around to watch the ball sail out of reach and my brother take his time reaching first, second, third while the score tipped ever more heavily in his favor. It never mattered how determined I was, or how fiercely I choked up on that monstrous red bat, I could never, and I mean never, ever, put one past him. One, two, three, I was out and usually crying; nothing’s fair when you’re only nine and he is twelve.

He used to hide around the house until I’d shake with foreboding. At any moment, from any possible place, Bobby would jump forth and scare the living daylights out of me.

“Mom!” I’d yell, in my most annoying tattletale voice, “Bobby’s being mean again!”

“Then don’t play with him,” she’d answer, like always. Like every single other time I came to her with a similar complaint. My mom seemed less concerned then than I am now, watching with deja vu eight-year-old Elijah taunting six-year-old Priscilla with his two year age difference. “Be good to each other!” I yell, trailing them like a maternal shadow, micromanaging their interactions, turning molehills into mountains and feeling yucky about it. I am wondering now if moral suffocation is the best way to get a point across after all.

I have excellent kids, great kids, human kids who sneak lollipops when I’m not looking, shove junk under their bed on clean-up day, scream with frantic concern if one of their brothers or sisters gets hurt, call me from school to ask about a movie being shown (“Am I allowed to see that one, mom?”). They, like me, have good days and bad days, make positive choices and poor ones, deserve to be held accountable for every indiscretion and, yet, oh the grace of it, are continually forgiven. “What were you thinking?!” is such an accusatory, wall building, unanswerable conversation starter and yet I find myself picking at the scabs of my children’s mistakes with those very same words on a daily basis. Perhaps a log removal is in order, a remembrance of my own selfish nature; maybe love and consequences (minus the wordy and nitpicking lectures) is enough.

Bobby and I grew to respect each other immensely. My mom was right not to worry, not to beat us over the head verbally with the golden rule, but rather to keep her distance (to keep her sanity by setting boundaries). We fought, we got bored, we apologized on our own, and we have plenty of bonding memories to show for it. I want that for Priscilla and Elijah, for all of them: shared secrets, soft giggling after lights-out that I hear but take my own sweet time climbing up the stairs to put an end to, a relationship that transcends a mother’s well intentioned meddling. Nothing builds character quite like sharing a bedroom, sharing blood, sharing a childhood with your siblings - nothing keeps one humble like a few sweaty summers of getting the pants beat off you in whiffle ball by your hero, your rival, your friend.

Benji

I like the idea of having five-year-old Benjamin snuggle up on my lap while I read to him from the Boxcar Children or the Illustrated Life of the Theotokos, but Benjamin would rather that I not do either. So tonight while my head pounded like the subwoofer in a tricked out Monte Carlo, while the rest of my family was at vespers getting sprinkled with the blessed water from the Feast of Theophany, while I was alone with my third child, I read to him instead from the The Definitive Guide to the Craft of Star Wars: Episode 1.

How is it possible to live with a small person everyday, to have labored them into existence, and yet still feel locked out from the core of their being? Where his siblings drape their own open wide personalities around my shoulders like a shawl, Ben knits together secretly the convictions, fears, and hopes that will come to define him away from my prying eyes, anxious heart. When they say “yes”, Ben says “no.” When I call “come”, Ben stays put - whether out of defiance or pure distractedness, I couldn’t tell you.

I have tried to pull him to me, to gently, lovingly, tame his wild self into a boy that would reflect my moral, social, and spiritual values. I have angrily, sternly attempted to force him into an easier to handle version of a son – one that didn’t talk back, make up their own outlandish words to our evening prayers, or ask our visitors to “Please go home now,” much to my obvious chagrin. I have talked at him, corralled his exuberance, made excuses for his unapologetically non-conformist behavior. But recently, I have been struck with fervor to re-introduce myself as a mother who respects his right to not be me. Its either that or watch him drift just out reach over the years that threaten to steal him with their lure of adolescence, independence, and eventual adulthood.

“What do you want to do right now, sweetheart, besides watching mommy ‘just get these few more things done?' Look me straight in the eyes and tell me about the superheroes, villains, and dragons whose storylines can keep you playing in the bathtub till the water turns tepid and your skin an iridescent blue. Is it frustrating when I drag you along through my agendas like a muzzled puppy? Lets set limits that are fair, sensitive to your age and temperament, realistic. Let me hear that laugh that starts rumbling in your gut before exploding like fireworks on the Fourth of July. I love you as you are – my gift, my delight, my salvation.

Resolution

The mood in general was tense and apocalyptic. I was an inexperienced mother grappling with possibilities more sobering, outlandish, open-ended than I had ever before had to contemplate throughout my relatively brief quarter of a century on this earth. There were warnings, theories, haunting instructions: “Duck and cover!” “Stockpile your cellars!” “Get plenty of extra batteries for your flashlights!” The countdown began, we collectively winced - the whole wide world on the brink of a brand new millennium.

10 (lock the door in case there's looters), 9 (step away from the computer, it may explode), 8 (pass out those bottles of water), 7 (light your candles, here comes the blackout), 6 (kiss your loved ones, forgive your enemies), 5 (snuggle close, we’ll generate body heat), 4 (stuff the cash under your mattress), 3 (grab your prayer rope), 2 (hold your breath), 1 (laugh nervously; we were all mistaken. Break out the champagne! Happy New Year!)

How silly we must have looked to those who knew better. A Tower of Babel type of foolishness involving miniscule ideas that seemed giant to the men and women who meticulously built them from out of intellect, research, and self-confidence. “The Sky is Falling!” said someone, and we panicked, while time marched on oblivious to all the commotion, while God remained uninfluenced by the uninspired prophecies of His children. Eight years later and another midnight passes, devoid of total annihilation on a global scale. I’m still here, still standing, still clueless about the future, still waffling between faith and apprehension. And the Midwestern snow cascades generously down from the Heavens, landing peacefully, indiscriminately, on both the beautiful and the ugly, on the living and the dying, on those who think it miraculous and on those who find it commonplace, totally explainable, and irrelevant. We are busy, busy, busy understanding everything.

A friend shared with me her struggles – devastatingly heavy unknowns. “Please pray,” she requested, and I felt her sorrow drip into my heart. This New Year will unfold for many like a “Choose Your Own Adventure” book (“I’ll do this, than that, than the other. Here’s my timeline set in stone.”), but for just as many more it will pry open doors they had mentally, emotionally, spiritually bolted shut to no avail. There will be joy where we least expect it and unforeseen discontentment in the surefire plans to make us better, happier, more likeable than before. Of course I want to change a few things about myself; I’m sure my husband and children would be only too pleased to compile an alphabetical list for me. Let’s see…there’s patience, organization, self-control, blah, blah, blah, all the regulars - nothing’s new under the sun of my domesticity. But with an official, January 1st, starting point upon me, the temptation to go ahead and once more resolve something significant, stretching, potentially life changing is irresistible.

So here it goes (drum roll, please) …this year, I, Molly Ann Sabourin, am determined to make fewer resolutions, to plan less and trust more in the omnipotence of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. I wish to quiet my longings by way of prayer, to stay focused on salvation through consistent participation in the Divine Services, to confess my way back to the narrow path after inevitably veering too far right, too far left. I want to “rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep” like it’s a career, a bona fide calling worth the bulk of my time, energy, and resources. When it seems absolutely insane to move forward in the direction of Christ’s leading, when I’m handed a trumpet to knock down insurmountable walls, a staff to part the waters, may I, may we have the confidence to silence the naysayers, ignore the odds against us, and let God work a miracle in the midst of loss, trepidation, and distress. This year I want to decrease my amount of goals and increase my intercessions for others. “Thy will be done,” I mean that (please overlook the trembling), I really do.

It took me a full two hours to scrub the eighteen months worth of maple syrup, dried jam, and unknown sticky pools of brownish gunk from out the drawers and crevices of my refrigerator, but now it gleams and I find myself opening the door to peer inside of it as often as possible. It feels good, really good, to bask in the fruits of my labor. Sure, it would be great to also have a basement I could walk through without cringing, a couple of shirts ironed, a pantry with spices stacked neatly side by side instead of piled haphazardly like the clothes still shoved in our suitcases, but today I will delight in the small accomplishment at hand – a refrigerator that yesterday was dirty but now is clean. It’s all a matter of perspective, really, either “Poor me, look at this mess I’m surrounded by!” or “My, what a lot of opportunities I have to make a difference.” New Year, new chances, new beginnings – choose wisely.

Humbled

An hour before heading out the door for the Matins of Nativity service, I seriously considered hand stitching a big scarlet “H” to my Christmas sweater - “Hypocrite” it would stand for, so unholy were my thoughts the three days previous. There is something about the final week of any Church prescribed Fast that can knock, crush, pummel one down to size with the speed and efficiency of a wrecking ball in motion.

Casual passing comments I normally wouldn’t think twice about suddenly felt all sharp-edged, malignant, and irritating. Last minute wrapping, packing and meal planning played their holiday part (though I swore up and down that they wouldn’t) in relegating the birth of Christ to an overlooked eighth item on my to-do list. The mothering role I normally don with gracious acceptance, this past week felt tight and overly restrictive. Prayer was all but banished from my frantic schedule. “No room!” I cried most ashamedly, most helplessly, like a house packed over-full with obnoxious boarders. “No room,” I whispered gravely upon entering my local parish on Monday evening, already lit and cloudy with candles and incense.

I know better I really do, but discarded theories have a tendency to rise again from out of my mental ashes when I’m too distracted to shred to pieces their faulty conclusions. A pious existence, I so erroneously convinced myself, is built cautiously piece by piece from the outside in. First I look the part, sound the part, claim the part as my own - then, and only then, will I be blessed with the authenticity that will truly set me aside as a spiritual force to reckoned with. In this state of mind, I don’t make use of the Fast as much as I try to conquer it. It’s not an opportunity so much as a challenge that will prove to Christ and to everyone else on earth that I am serious about my Faith. “How can we be an encouragement to others?” I will ask my teammate, God, while munching on lentils and flipping through the pages of Father Hopko’s Winter Pascha. I‘ll be sincere in my desire to promote Christianity but I’ll forget that the playing field is level. There is a secret, prideful piece of me that subconsciously supposes I have less to be redeemed of than my peers.

How badly I wanted to play the part of the subservient shepherds, turning my attention from the work at hand to worship and fall down before the Christ child. I was oh so very sure that this was the year I had it in me. But then one peripheral thing led seamlessly to another and the Fasting foods ran low, the kids were out of school, we traveled back and forth from here to there and back home again. I neglected to secure the precariously layered attributes designed to make me look like, feel like, morph into the real deal and so they crumbled at my feet like the concrete victim of a violent demolition. Rather than verifying my commitment, the Nativity Fast would highlight beyond what I was capable of denying, my limitations, my unworthiness, my just as desperate need as every other flagrant sinner for a savior.


An hour before heading out the door for the Matins of Nativity service, I seriously wondered if I would even be welcome, so undisciplined were my choices, reactions, inner ramblings the three days previous. My role, evidently, in our Lord’s incarnation would neither be that of the bright shining star leading wise, searching men to the King of Righteousness. “No room,” I had said, more than once, more than twice, sealing my humbling fate as the infamous innkeeper. I didn’t march through the doors of St. Elizabeth’s with triumph, elation, a sense of tranquility. I more like crawled on my hands and knees, dragging my growling belly eager for some scraps to relieve the hunger. I came to Jesus like a beggar offering only the flimsy hope that he would see me as I am and love me anyway.

The pure untainted reverence of the Orthodox Christian Church is incomparable in its theological depth and ethereal beauty, and the Matins and Liturgy of Nativity were no exception. It is disorienting, if you’re not used to it, the solid line She sacramentally draws between the divinity of God and the humanity of us who are the recipients of His mercy. The services are formal, lengthy enough to challenge your ability to stay focused, but if you’re starving for the savory Truth, unsweetened, there is plenty available to sink your bared jaws into. Come ravenous and be filled; come empty of assumptions about yourself, your neighbor, about Christ and His unknowable, unfathomable ways and feel your mind and heart explode with the magnitude of His glory. I came, I repented, I left anchored to that manger and all the more grateful for the gift God placed inside it of His Son. The guest of honor has arrived because of, not despite, my miserable failures; I am nothing, He is everything to me.

“Christ is Born!” I sang the Troparion, I participated in the penitential prayers. “Glorify Him!” I screwed up as usual, but I’m reminded of my rightful place because of it - as one indebted fully, one so glaringly ill equipped for Fasting, talking, or rule obeying my way into Christ’s good graces. Even lousy innkeepers are offered the sacred chance to house the Prince of Peace within their souls - If I accept, If I believe, If I admit I need His help to clear the clutter and deny the impulses to think any more or less of myself than necessary. Off of me, eyes, off of me! Fill your sight with Goodness and Heaven, with Forgiveness, with Holiness, with the inextinguishable Light of the birth and resurrection of the God who cared enough to become a man.

Wonder

It had been a good morning, as far Liturgy was concerned. Amazingly, I heard a great deal of the service and now as we began to prepare for the Eucharist I closed my eyes to recite the pre-communion prayer. Beside me (or more accurately, leaning up against me) was six-year-old Priscilla who kept wriggling her shoulder blades to remind my hand why exactly it was resting upon her flawless skin. “Tickle my back mama,” she pleaded for the tenth time in the past hour - exactly like I used to ask my own mother to do while sitting in the wooden pews of our Bible church.

“I believe, O Lord, and I confess…” we all began, the whole shivering lot of us who had braved the freezing elements to make sense of our separate yet inextricably linked lives by partaking of the body and blood of Christ Jesus. I assumed she wasn’t interested in the words that every Sunday cut straight through the irrelevant drivel vying desperately for my undivided attention, but children are usually listening most when you least expect them to.

“…Of thy Mystical Supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a communicant; for I will not speak of thy Mystery to thine enemies, neither like Judas will I give thee a kiss; but like the thief will I confess thee: Remember me, O Lord, in thy Kingdom.”

“What does that mean?” whispered Priscilla, her exaggeratedly hushed tone as inconspicuous as a passing garbage truck.

“Shh!” was my instinctive response until I realized that her interruption was valid, an honest to goodness inquiry into an element of our Faith as opposed to a third request to go downstairs and use the restroom. “What does what mean?” I quickly added, modeling with my own voice a more appropriate volume.

“Neither like Judas will I give Thee a kiss,” my daughter clarified.

“Shame on me,” I thought, had I really never explained that to her before?

Swiftly, I delivered the abbreviated version into my right hand cupped tightly around her ear: Trust. Betrayal. Kiss. Death. I spoke hurriedly and without inflection. But the sheer unfairness of it all needn’t of have been dramatized or embellished for Priscilla’s sake. The cold straight facts were enough to get her steaming. She whipped her face around to meet my gaze - eyes steely, lips pursed, forehead wrinkled. I felt pressure to mirror her revolted expression but the righteous indignation necessary for making it look authentic quite simply wasn’t there at my disposal. “He hung himself out of shame,” I told her finally, to let her know that Judas felt bad in the end - really, horribly bad about his actions.

“Good,” said Priscilla, and she meant it.

I wasn’t always this placid, so unperturbed by Biblical accounts of sacrifice, injustice, crucifixion. Time and repetition played their part to dull my astonishment, like a scar makes numb the initial stinging pangs of bodily violence. At five-years-old I was removed from a pre-release screening of “The Jesus Film.” A guilty verdict passed down upon the innocent was just more than I could process at that age. “Crucify Him! Free Barabbas!” they yelled, and I hated that condemning mob - so much so that I shouted right back at them. “Don’t do this!” I hysterically protested, in the midst of a crowded theater. “Stop it! You can’t! I won’t let you kill my Jesus!”

Every Holy Week the death of Christ is solemnly and reverently commemorated. At the Holy Friday service I will ponder, and even shed tears over, such an agonizing and unfathomable act of mercy. But it is highly unlikely I’ll become so engrossed in His suffering that I lose all control of my faculties, that I’ll make a public spectacle of myself on behalf of Christ. I did feel the heat, however, off my daughter’s fiery earnestness, and for the first time in a long time the profoundness of the incarnation undeniably singed my soul; her curiosity sparked a wondering of my own: How could a person having been that close to Jesus, having witnessed firsthand both His glory and humility, having seen Him heal the sick and feed the poor, have turned against Him over something so transitory as money? How could, or for that matter, how can the Son of God allow Himself to be so utterly disrespected by His own creation?


Jesus did not resist the soldiers in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus did not call down the powers of Heaven to alleviate the afflictions of His torture. Jesus did not establish an earthly kingdom. Jesus doesn’t force us to worship, to emulate, to adore Him. “Well where’s the greatness in that?” any honest child will question. “Well where’s the greatness in that?” this worn and weathered adult hasn’t even thought to ask, or meditate upon, in ages. What is so significant (now with Christmas fast approaching) about a baby and a stable and virgin mother and some shepherds? Why should the quality of my life be enhanced because of this Feast? At the Matins of Nativity, as in every Orthodox service, we sing hymns packed tightly with theology and you if you listen, really listen, they’ll blow your mind:

How is He contained in a womb
Whom nothing can contain?
How can He be held in the arms of His mother
Who remains forever in the bosom of His Father?
It is according to His good will,
As He knows and as He desires!
For being without flesh,
He of His own good will has been made flesh;
And He Who Is has for our sake become what He was not.

From His birth to death to Resurrection, Christ’s message was immaculately consistent. Every controversial move he made, or refused to make, while on earth fell in line with a mission of love, as a means to salvation. Love over comfort. Love over power. Love over vengeance and pride. Love over zealousness. Love most victorious over mortality, poverty, and degradation. Love perfected through self-restraint. Love first revealed in the most humble of circumstances to the most ordinary of human beings – like us, if only we were searching as intently as they were then for a savior. If only the news of His birth hadn’t become so commonplace, so watered down, such a sentimental excuse for having a party.

God is with us! Understand all ye nations and submit yourselves, for God is with us! said the holy prophet Isaiah; that, dear Priscilla, is the very pertinent message I long for us to absorb as a family this holiday season. That is a Truth worth getting all worked up over, for Love destroying death is the ultimate in significance. So inspire me with your illimitable devotion. Infect me with your contagious enthrallment. God became man now how I will I respond? For your sakes, may my reaction be bold, unmistakable, and enduring; for my sake may it be genuine and courageous. Let those of us who have hung all our hope on the cross listen awe struck to the angel’s announcement, dirty our knees prostrating reverently before the manger, and then run - impulsively sharing the miraculousness of the Gospel with everyone we meet along the way, making public spectacles of ourselves out of joy, out of Christ sanctioned love, unashamedly overcome by a renewed and child like wonder. “Christ is Born!” we must continually proclaim like we mean it, “Glorify Him!”

Click HERE to listen to this post on Ancient Faith Radio (beginning 12/20).

Handful

I’m getting too old for this. I expected my fourth child in six years to be a delicate whisper of sweetness, yet all three of her determined sibling's temperaments combined cannot compete in any real way with the impressive stubbornness of our one little Mary. On Saturday night, we were inundated with a snowstorm. It was touch and go there for awhile regarding Liturgy on Sunday, but eventually we made the decision to pull boots on over our dress pants and tights and try our luck with the unplowed roads that lead to St. Elizabeth’s.

Mary got her heart set on a ridiculously large, blue striped, Land’s End dress that belongs to her six-year-old sister, Priscilla, and a pair of old white sandals. I try to be open minded, to let the girls modestly express their own sense of style but every single thing about Mary’s outfit was impractical– the prospect of her tripping and freezing off those impossibly tiny toes was, unfortunately, more than I could ignore in good conscience. “No sweetheart,” we told her and it all went downhill from there. The screaming lasted a solid 40 minutes, which translated to three and a quarter hours in Temper Tantrum Land where every nerve-fraying second drags on like a Junior High band concert – you stick around out of loyalty, wishing all the while for an alcoholic beverage to take the edge off.

We held Mary firmly, we presented her with many charming options in terms of attire, we tried to distract her with a strawberry cereal bar –her most favorite snack in the world. But the anger only intensified until (I am convinced) she forgot completely what had started the smoldering fire, now raging uncontrollably within her, in the first place. “Let’s just take her anyway and see if she calms down in the car,” my husband suggested, but that sounded like a giant, stress- induced migraine waiting to happen. We were shouting such ideas back and forth to each other when suddenly there was a break in the storm…silence, oh good grief what a beautiful sound! I hurried to Mary’s bedroom where just seconds earlier she had been howling in her crib, only to find her peacefully snoring; beads of sweat on her small pixie forehead were the sole remaining evidence of a struggle. I changed into jeans and tennis shoes; this mom wasn’t going anywhere. “Rest, Mary, rest. Life’s overwhelmed you.”

“Where’s daddy?” asked my newly awakened daughter an hour and a half later, all smiles and kisses and sunshine.

“At Church,” I told her, “where mama and Mary should be.”

“Oh-h-h! Church!” she said happily, tracing the ever-increasing fine lines on my face with her fingers. I could have swallowed her whole right then and there; so delectable to me did she seem at that moment. The affront to our ears, my morning plans, was forgiven in a heartbeat - the resiliency of maternal devotion in continual affect. I’ve got my hands full all right with this one, but free time is overrated anyway. Who needs predictability when there’s wild, messy love to keep me permanently engaged in the present?

But I’ll certainly take that glass of Merlot if you’re offering.

Abundance

I didn’t send out Christmas cards this year and now every afternoon I cringe when opening the mailbox, where large green and red envelopes elegantly inscribed with the words Sabourin Family seem to be chastising me for my holiday negligence. “We took the time to bless you and your loved ones,” they taunt …but not really, because the people who sent them are so kind and generous and considerate. I over think these things, and those things, and all things when it comes right down to it.

If there were a contest (involving prize money) for the person who could contain the largest amount of ideas, irrational concerns, analyzations, theories and reflections inside their head at any one given moment, I would totally become a contestant because I think I’d have an amazing shot at cleaning up and clearing out my competition. Just this week our oldest son, Elijah, who had recently caught an itchy case of pink eye from his brother, yelled out to me in the middle of the night that his vision was blurry. I ran into his room, flipping on the light to investigate, but he was talking all gibberish and refused to open his eyelids so I could get a better look. After sleeping not one lousy wink, racking my brain for a fool-proof plan that would get him to the doctor and his sister Priscilla to school while five-year-old Ben and two-year-old Mary tagged along, I nauseously pulled myself out of bed only to be greeted by a clear-eyed, happy-go-lucky Elijah who had no memory whatsoever of awaking me. “

I have read several books on the Holocaust and now feel guilty every time it is freezing cold outside and I am shivering in my down coat and long underwear, knowing that those who spent time in the concentration camps had to labor in much harsher and more agonizing weather conditions, without socks, Isotoner gloves, or fur lined boots. I question vigorously my intentions regarding everything. I wonder curiously about the lives of the family members in the car ahead us on the highway – Where do they live? Where are they going? Are they happy?

Within people who smile genuinely, unselfconsciously, at everyone they come into contact with, I find breathtaking and inspiring beauty - like our children’s librarian with the sun shiny voice and mild mannered demeanor. I think about how much effort it must take to treat all of us so warmly, even when she’s tired, distracted, or cranky. I think if I could be like anyone, it would be her. It’s both a blessing and a curse – having a mind that runs on cruise control, never stopping, pulling over, or slowing down. How would it be, I often wonder, to let things go like my husband, sleeping peacefully all curled up with his “wait and see” attitude? How would it sound without the steady hum of an ongoing internal dialogue to serenade me? I wish I had the key to shut down this thought-guzzling contraption every now and then…but not really, because sometimes in the labyrinth of my psyche Christ reveals Himself. God is good; God is attentive; God is merciful to grant me clarity through the chaos.