Waiting for Change

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

let-down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories

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

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

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

Understanding the Cross of Christ

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

promise

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

“The day for what, sweetheart?”

“The day I wear my Costco dress.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am rich in passions,

and clothed in the deceitful robe of hypocrisy.

I rejoice in the sins of self-indulgence.

There is no limit to my lack of love.

I neglect my spiritual understanding

That lies at the gate of repentance.

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

that I may not be tormented in the unquenchable fire,

praying in vain for a finger to be dipped in water

to relieve my burning tongue.

But make me dwell in the bosom of Abraham,

as the lover of mankind.

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

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

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

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

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

I promise.

Naming the Child

My dearest little one,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you,

Mama



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

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

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

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

Interview

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

I'll be back soon!

Arise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quiet

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

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

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

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

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

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

A House United

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Announcement

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

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

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

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

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

Community

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

Not I, says Elijah.

Not I, says Priscilla

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Absorption

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Christ is Born! Glorify Him!