Sentimental

On October 25th, I cupped Benji’s big boy chin in my hand. “Five years ago today,” I cooed, “mommy woke up and had to call the doctor …”

“I know,” interrupted Ben “because it was time for me to come out of your tummy and then you cried and everybody ate donuts. You’ve told me that story a million times.”

Not everyone is as sentimental as I am. I’ve always been a sucker for raindrops on roses, deliriously happy endings, and memories that grow sweeter with time. I’m a feel good junkie, forever wringing droplets of schmaltziness out of dried-out, ordinary moments - forever equating goodness with tingling warmth. Just last week I was reading about the Romanovs, holding my breath, hoping against all hope that maybe this time the outcome would be different, maybe in this version their lives would be spared. But historical fact won out in the end and I had to dab my eyes with the tissue I was using for a bookmark. Ditto for the biography of Grand Duchess Elizabeth – the unavoidable finale, while certainly humbling and inspiring, pierced my gut like a blade slicing mawkishness from cold hard reality.

As a teenager I attended youth group at the Bible Church a few towns over. One winter, we bussed it to some cabins in the woods for a weekend of sanctimonious ecstasy. We sang, until our throats were raw, soft as cotton love songs to the Holy Spirit. We confessed to one another (while drunk on Dr. Pepper) secret sins, wicked grudges, and a variety of sordid temptations. We sobbed, embraced, made passionate late night promises to be faithful, zealous, and holy. We journaled, sitting cross-legged on graffiti stained picnic tables, our romanticized aspirations - I was totally “on fire” for Jesus. Being naturally predisposed, however, to use my feelings as a gauge for genuineness, worthwhileness, and authenticity, that experience ingrained in me a permanent correlation between emotion and God’s presence in my life. I was an addict on the hunt for a high in the form of worship - repetitive, melodious, and poignant. But depression set in when the flames died down- God was absent, or angry, or worse yet just apathetic. Sobering up, after binging on such spiritual intoxication, was disheartening and disconcerting to say the least.

Throughout college I would continue to walk the impossibly narrow line between guilt and fanaticism, using my Bible like a road map to guide me. It seemed a scant pairing, even then: just my own fickle self and the Word of God. That is, I suppose, if you didn’t count the hundreds of contradictory opinions, on what the Lord really meant in those verses, being fed to me by pastors, professors, commentaries, small group leaders, and peers. But ultimately, it was my own responsibility to conjure up a belief I felt comfortable with, a task as daunting as crossing the ocean on an inner tube - a task that would eventually leave me cynical, defensive, and irritated. It seemed harder than it should be: finding a connection with the living Christ, one that wasn’t so dependent on my personal and very limited resources. It seemed that I was destined to either buck a nebulous system or to lose my relevance as a Christian through the sterility of lukewarmness.

Thanks be to God, I chose the former, swallowing ravenously the subtantiveness of the sacraments - the historical, touchable, tasteable, smellable, hearable, and recitable Truths of the Christian Faith as was lived out and died for by the apostles, Church Fathers, and saints. Thanks be to God for the stability, the community both earthly and heavenly, the continuity and authority of the Orthodox Church. As I grew in knowledge and practice, as I aligned myself less with the current culture and more with the Church calendar, as I rooted myself in the fertile soil of a Theology unaffected by the sins, biases, and imperfections of its champions, I was able to disentangle myself from the immobilizing habit of depending on feelings to translate my religious experiences. I could finally stop grinding my wheels, and move forward.

Don’t get me wrong, I relish in the joy of Pascha. I shed tears till my face is blotchy on Holy Friday. I’ve had sensations of clarity, remorse, and thankfulness as bright and searing as the blaze of a burning bush. But you see, aha!, these were gifts free and clear – unexpected, uninduced, and unrequired for my growth in the life of Christ Jesus. These were, and will continue to be, the proverbial icing on a cake that is already satisfying on its own, that was formed out of tried and true ingredients blending together, organically, under the direction of an age old recipe. The tools of the Church are building my faith: Eucharist, confession, prayer, fasting, Scripture reading, almsgiving, and participation in the Divine Services. Resources, neither limited nor reliant on ever-fluctuating hormones, moods, and temperaments, anchor my soul. I ‘m being saved on a ship that is strong, swift, and sturdy and I am grateful beyond explanation. I recall the lonely drifting, the wondering if God was pleased with me, and the anxiety that came with numbness, without melancholy. But ask me about the day of Ben’s birth, when I labored in agony for thirteen hours, when near crazy with exhaustion I pushed and screamed and groaned until he emerged like the sun out of darkness, and well… see, even now I’m getting weepy.

I’m just sappy like that I suppose.

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Significant

I remember the first time I felt clearly dissatisfied, like all my ambitions were being suffocated by the mundaneness of adult responsibilities. I was making numerous copies on the seventh floor of a truck company. The repetition of blank paper being fed through a machine only to be spit right back out again as a duplicate of the one before it, felt a little too close to home. My days were bleeding into one another without distinction - hours of my existence being wasted on a job for which I cared little, for which I was painfully, maddeningly, ill suited. For a while there things looked promising; professors had been encouraging about my prospects as an impetus for change, “school-free” independence had been an exhilarating achievement, and the marriage I had recently entered into proved to be a titillating venture fraught with both passion and insecurity. But one cannot keep up forever with that feverish pace now, can they? I suspect that Visa bills and ten-hour workdays have leveled many a high hope, have tempered plenty of idealistic aspirations. At the time, however, while Xeroxing my life away, that natural progression towards maturation felt more like “selling out,” the waiting for something else to come along was near unbearable.

News of my pregnancy was a light at the end of the tunnel. I would find clarity in motherhood. I would devote myself to the ecstasy of becoming a co-creator. I would lose myself in the gratification of raising children. The eight-month countdown to my last day as a corporate communications administrative assistant, I viewed as a period of incubation. Every thought and action was devoted to a future starting point. Every day was another square to check off my calendar until real life, my more meaningful life, began. And when, at last, I had trudged through all those peripheral moments leading up to the afternoon of my son’s birth, I delighted in the newfound freedom to let go of old expectations and embrace the sacrificial persona of caregiver, nurturer, and parent.

I poured out that optimism into my perfectly beautiful infant who instinctively sucked every last bit of it from my sleep deprived, overwhelmed, and lonely old soul. And when the well was dry, when the weeks had turned into months without removing from me, permanently, the hunger for something more, the discontentment I couldn’t shake no matter how hard I prayed, I wished, or manipulated my circumstances- I finally stopped trying all together. I threw up my hands, I threw in the towel, and I threw out my preconceived notions of fulfillment. I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted, from God, from out of these years I would spend here on this earth. For the first time, without any ulterior motives lurking behind my plea, my intercessions, I prayed to the Lord for mercy. I asked Him for the strength to make it, not through this year, not through this month or week, not even through this day, but through this breakfast, dialogue, or trip to the store. I accepted, out of exhaustion, that I was incapable of doing anything noble or satisfying outside of Christ.

Boom. Boom. Boom. There were three more children, not one of them much taller than my knee. The house was a disaster. My patience - beyond tested; throat tightening, eye twitching, and deep breath taking all effectively, over nine-years-time, chipped away at a crippling habit of preferring my own agenda. The love (intoxicating, unabashed, and unconditional), for these tiny persons as frail and imperfect as I am, continues to keep me up at night in a prayerful vigil for wisdom, courage, and forgiveness. I do not, presently, have my finger on the pulse of social justice. I cannot hop aboard the next Red Cross bus to whatever town is being devastated by hurricanes, tornadoes, or fire. I am bound here, firmly, by obligations that in a global sense seem awfully trite and unimportant, but I do not feel unimportant any longer.

Twelve years ago I stepped timidly into an Eastern Orthodox Church only to stay put there for good. Salvation as a process, as a path unique to each of us, was a concept both foreign and intriguing. Upon conversion I accepted it, upon reaching my personal limits, I rejoiced in it. For the very context in which I found myself, in which I formerly struggled to find meaning (as a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and neighbor) lay the crux of my ultimate purpose: to be faithful in the circumstances custom designed by God to ensure the death of myself, making room for the Resurrection of Christ within me. Every week I wait at the bus stop, I empty the dishwasher, I engage in conversation with my husband, my children, the fellow members of my small midwestern community. Every day it is a fight to participate in those events completely. The alluring promises of potential freedoms (“when the kids are older”, “when this project is completed”), of eventual accomplishments, of another time and place more exciting, more rewarding than the one I am immersed in, beckon me to tune out – to ultimately lose out on the minutes building on top of one another to form a lifetime.

“Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom,” prayed Moses in Psalm 90. Teach me to desire only the pain, boredom, thankfulness, or frustration you have blessed me with this very second. May I not squander these gifts of illumination, not wish away the tools that can pry me from the bondage of my mortal self. Grant me eyes that find You in everything. Grant me the ears to hear Your directives – as quiet as the whispers on a mountaintop. Grant me the fortitude to live out this day - fully, attentively, lovingly, until its completion.


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Prudence

I used to be a little sharper than I am now – less trusting, more guarded, not as likely to have the wool pulled over my eyes. In the city, our doorbell rang daily. Fingers belonging to any number of salesman, proselytizers, or budding politicians pressed against it hoping that, as the lady of the house, I’d be open, sympathetic, lulled in to the pitch they had spit polished until it shone, until it glistened like a sucker, slick and sweet. But a blank face dropped the bomb before my lips could speak a word. Oh, please, I had heard it all before.

“I already have a Church, thank you."

" I’d rather not put that sign in our yard."

"I don’t need the queen size sheets or tube socks you are selling from out of that shopping cart."

My credit card number? Signature? Date of birth? I don’t think so. I’m sorry but it’s way too risky nowadays. The rules have been broken, lies were told and I’m not interested in being taken for a fool by you or anyone.”

I have softened here, where eye contact is expected, along with a wave, as you pass a fellow driver, bike rider, or pedestrian. I assume the best because I want it to be true – that there are places immune to deception where the citizens are kind and honest, where when a doorbell rings I can answer it with a smile. Which is exactly what I did for the good ole’ boy from Nappanee, wearing a huge toothy grin and carrying a clipboard. “Hello, mam, my name is Brent how are you doing this afternoon?” And then I swear he tipped his hat like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins, all wonderful, courteous and charming. "He had a badge and everything,” I would later tell my husband, unamused by this latest lapse in judgment. All Brent had needed was to do a real quick check of our last gas bill to make sure it included the clause about keeping our prices fixed throughout the winter. He would have hated for my family to have fallen victim to skyrocketing payments that would inevitably be required when the weather turned cold. So I signed, verified, made chit chat with my new best buddy who, wouldn’t you know it, just adored kids because he was the youngest of eleven. What a sweetheart, what an angel, what a super polite young man - that twenty-something, golden haired sneakster!

“Look at this,” Troy said, pointing to the website listing U.S. Energy Savings Corp. as a scam. “E tu, Brute!” I silently accused them. Even here I must be prudent and alert? Must I filter what flows through me from even sources so (seemingly) benign as the small talk with a utilities (ahem) provider, the catalogues in my mailbox, or the voyeuristic updates on lives led less than prayerfully being plastered on the computer screen in my own cozy office, where children are playing, laundry is folded, and tempers are soothed in the rocking chair. I don’t mean to complain, but all that vigilance can become awfully draining. I mean, shoot, it’s tiring to always have to ask myself if that decision will improve our financial situation or ultimately worsen it, if assuaging my curiosity will edify my spirit or degrade it, if that purchase will bring me satisfaction or an insatiable desire for more stuff. Sometimes, the invitation to surrender from those for whom this earthly existence is the end all be all can be very tempting. Sometimes I don’t want to think it through. Do I have to be spiritually “on” all the time?

My priest is some sort of mind reader. I know this because every homily he delivers is aimed straight for the hidden recesses of my brain, where I ponder on, justify, and dilute the negativity of, my actions. So when he hit me with, “At every moment you are either building up God’s Kingdom or actively obstructing it, there is no sitting on the sidelines,” I nearly gasped with embarrassment. Was the admission, “Presently pursuing an alternative to the narrow path,” written on my forehead? Or is it God, Himself, concerned about my salvation, who offers life saving reminders capable of raising my soul above the scams, the disappointment, the empty guarantees littered generously along the wide and easy? Could that subsequent regret from having wasted time, wasted money, be a Christ sent tap on the shoulder, a post it note saying “oil lamp refill,” a subtle aide-memoire urging that I wait, wait, wait for my Bridegroom.

So Troy beat the system by canceling, by doing the research and pulling us out of the program before the time limit to do so expired - I’m back to asking questions and looking skeptical. It’s a shame but its reality; blinded eyes will not alter the fact that all that glitters isn’t gold or, in this case, all that feels warm isn’t low cost petroleum. "Behold, I send you out as sheep in the midst of wolves; so be shrewd as serpents and innocent as doves,” said Jesus to His disciples in Matthew chapter 10. I guess some things never change; it seems the wolves continue breeding, providing each new generation with opportunities for being swindled, for seeking wisdom, for choosing a course and sticking with it come what may.

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Sleepless

"It might be easier to fall asleep, sweetheart, if you weren’t snuggled up against an entire set of Charlie Brown Encyclopedias.”

Elijah, my eight year old, glanced sheepishly at the cold hard evidence of his late night addiction: reading any and everything he can get his hands on. If I asked him to sit down with these books at a more reasonable hour, say at noon or 4:45 pm, he would complain passionately enough to make me worry that my love for the written word had not been passed on to our children. But put Elijah in a twin size bed (sometime after 9:00 pm) and suddenly he becomes best friends forever with Ramona Quimby, Roald Dahl, Nate the Great, and Homer Price. A good friend of mine relays so fondly his own youthful memories of reading “Lord of the Rings” in a pitch-black bedroom, illumined only by the orange glow from the on/off switch of his electric blanket. I don’t want to deny my son those sacred moments of adolescent enlightenment, but neither do I care to strain my vocal chords on repetitive requests to get up and get-a-move-on the next morning. “Hand them over,” I commanded, filling my arms with pages and pages of Charles Schultz endorsed data on space, geography, and reptiles.

When, once again, Elijah’s mattress was supporting nothing but the weight of his of own body, I kissed his cheek and then headed downstairs for last minute chores and preparations. After packing two lunches, programming the coffee pot, checking the calendar, and leafing through the homework folders for any papers I neglected to sign, I too, was finally ready to call it a day. The minute my foot reached the second story landing, however, I heard the telltale rustling of sheets followed closely by exaggerated breathing - heavy inhalations designed to imply that the person taking in such large quantities of oxygen was most certainly deep in slumber. Elijah knows that I worry. He knows I get frustrated when ten p.m. rolls around and he’s yet to have begun the restorative process of unconsciously resting. So he squinted his eyes shut when I peeked in through the door. But I was on to him.

The prayer corner is at the end of our hallway, just a few feet from where Elijah was faux sleeping. I knew he could hear me as I lit the candles and cleared my throat. That night I would pull out “The Akathist to the Mother of God, Nurturer of Children”. That night I would chant louder than usual. If I asked Elijah to sit down with me at a more reasonable hour so I could fervently lay out for him all of my earnest longings for his soul, he would squirm uncomfortably enough to make me worry that nothing I was saying, nothing I was trying to communicate about faith and God and salvation was getting through to him. But confine Elijah to a twin size bed while his brain is unwinding, while speaking of him but not to him directly, and suddenly he’s as absorbent as a sponge.

First I took a moment just to look at her. I marveled at all she was asked to endure and still believe. And yet her face, so wise and certain, spoke volumes about the worthwhileness of her ascetic struggles in light of Christ’s victory over death - in context of the glory that was to follow. When I had absorbed the incredible truth that Mary, the Theotokos, was listening, that she loves my family with all the maternal tenderness in her heart, I commenced with the written petitions. I poured out my anxieties, my insecurities, all of my selfish wishes at her feet in exchange for a heavenly reminder of what I’m here for: to pass on a legacy of faithfulness to my sons and daughters.

"By the wondrous and incomprehensible actions of Thy Son," I implored Her, " lead my children with Thy merciful hand beneath Thy gracious protection, that with Sincerity I may cry to Thee:

Raise my children to seek first the Kingdom of God and His Righteousness.
Raise my children to walk the narrow way leading to life eternal.
Raise my children to do the will of Thy Son and God in every place.
Raise my children to long to inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.
Raise my children to not commit blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.
Raise my children to be numbered among Thy chosen ones.
Raise my children, Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary, O Lady, to be made worthy of the Kingdom of Heaven and make them heirs of eternal blessings."

Each line I spoke clearly, pausing between sentences to let the words sink in because this head of mine can be thick as a brick sometimes. I hoped that Elijah was still eavesdropping. I wanted his last memories of that day to be the sound of his mother praying - for him, by name, with devotion. I can’t force-feed a significant interaction down the throats of my children; I can’t predict when a door will open. So if a rare opportunity presents itself for connecting on a more meaningful level, I try and seize it. I am looking, always searching for ways to make Christ’s teachings relevant to their every day experiences- with relationships, disappointments, and fears. But I was pleading that night, in front of God, the Theotokos, our patron saints, and Elijah, for the strength to desire for them humility over worldly success, patience over comfort, and eternal joys over temporal ones.

When the candles were extinguished, I kissed the icons – thankful for a chance to physically express my gratitude to Jesus, His most pure Mother, and the “Great Cloud of Witnesses,” all of whom miraculously and mercifully care deeply for the likes of a sinful, forgetful, impressionable old me. “I love you mom,” came a whisper from the boys’ room. And it nearly stung, the sweetness of that moment, like an electrical current carrying light, energy, life itself to our darkened hallway still smoky with the remnants of my supplications, still echoing with reverberations of God’s goodness. "Elijah... ," I choked out, almost inaudibly, into the quiet of a random weeknight evening turned extraordinary in its eleventh hour, "I love you, too."

Miracle

After ten years and four children, my husband and I pulled up our city roots and headed for the cornfields. It wasn't until we were packed to the gills in our two-bedroom bungalow that desperation set in and the need became obvious to confront our urban addiction by quitting cold turkey. The vandalism, graffiti, and alley rats were growing passé and our children too adventurous for sequestration.



Our hunt for home began in bustling suburbia, where strip malls defy nature by growing out of cement with the aggressiveness of ivy devouring an iron gate. "Now this one is just lovely, don't you think?" With a practiced eye and convincing smile, our realtor tried her best to bring life to our deadpan faces. But at the end of each forgettable showing, it was clear that the impetus for a decision would be based on which cloned tri-level we hated the least. We were saved in the end by a visit to friends living quite contentedly in a small town just north of where we were searching. It took all of ninety minutes to secure a conversion. Troy and I were hooked on this Midwest Mayberry with its tree lined streets, historic downtown, and European Market offering produce, cheese, bread, and flowers every Saturday.



We met our house on-line and the attraction was instantaneous. The century-old Victorian lured us with its hard wood floors, exposed brick, and open floor plan. It was obvious at our first face-to-face a glamour shot had been submitted but the damage was done, we had mentally unpacked our belongings. We loved this home, creaks and all, adopting the semi-permanent catchphrase of "work in progress" for describing our purchase. Most projects would be tackled with our own sweat and tears as time and money allowed. Staining our floors, however, was too big a gamble for us to bet our skills on. For that job, we would call in professionals.



My parents, who had recently moved to the area as well, invited us to stay with them throughout the five-day process of sanding, staining, and sealing. Their four-bedroom, Zen-like, haven of organization would provide a nice respite from the headache of emptying and breaking down boxes. After setting up the pack-n-play and putting our suitcases in the guest room closet, I allowed myself to exhale the breath I had been holding for the last three months. The papers were signed and the key to our happiness dangled reassuringly from the chain in my wallet.



The street out front of mom and dad's was quiet and unthreatening. Cars turned corners gingerly, anticipating the possibility of big wheels, scooters, or a kick ball game. I clicked together the straps of a sports helmet under Elijah's lifted chin and sent him pedaling around the block. My seven-year-old, feeling his first brush with independence, bended down on his bike like a striking tiger and leaped with adolescent ferociousness towards an imaginary finish line. Earlier that morning, the kids and I had stocked up at K-Mart on sidewalk chalk, bubbles, and water guns. Priscilla and Benjamin, in their chlorine scented uniforms of swimsuits and flip-flops, pulled out our stash of summertime staples and lined them up with "oohs" and "ahhs" on the sun baked driveway. I dared trouble to find us in this small town oasis.



Death, illness, and motherhood are three common extractors of dormant thoughts and hidden beliefs. The flow of milk warming my breast and perfectly quenching the thirst of one child after another was, quite frankly, too bizarre for me to make light of. The process of birth ignited my simmering faith to a boiling point. I was now doomed to wrestle with life rather than ride the waves of random happenstance. Divine convictions can warm or cool depending on the season. In a period like this, of tranquil stability, light-hearted ponderings on paint colors, blow-up swimming pools, and rose bushes took precedence over weighty issues of the heart. My prayers had become requests for affirmation of what I already knew to be true. God was my teammate, spotting my back flips and cheering me on. I had lost my sense of place and possibility.



Three days into my first week of being a Hoosier, I was descending the stairs with Mary on my hip when a scream from Priscilla pierced the silence, putting my existence on hold. "Mommy! Benji fell out the window!" From the second story office my father, white and fumbling, confirmed this dreaded statement by leaping past me and rushing with purpose out the sliding back door. My husband also bolted into action while I stood frozen and wept. Elijah's pitiful pleading for someone to call 9-1-1 prompted my movement and I braced myself for the image I was about to see: three-year-old Benjamin lying flat on his back with each arm bent at a 90 degree angle, like an infant sleeping peacefully in its crib. The window 15 feet above my head, now bare except for its hanging mangled screen, looked almost as apologetic as a child holding the handle of a broken teapot staring remorsefully at the shards of porcelain below. There was a second of not knowing which way the tide would turn. Normalcy halted, eternity opened, and trivial preoccupations, so heavy with their significance just moments before, flittered away in the wind. Outside the limits of time, logic, and reason, I closed my eyes and begged the Lord for mercy.



Troy enveloped Benji with his own lanky figure. A whimper from their combined form brought tentative relief. Sitting up, appropriately dazed and flustered, my son met my eyes and announced softly, "I don't want to do that again." We checked him repeatedly for a concussion, lacerations or broken bones. There was no possible way of escaping that plunge undamaged but Benjamin, feeling hungry, walked upright and fully conscious to the patio table and proceeded to eat a taco. Troy, dad, and I, still reeling from panic and choking back tears, regarded him with the same confusion as I imagine Mary and Martha did upon seeing their brother Lazarus anxiously quenching his thirst, still wrapped in burial rags and smelling of rotting flesh. His unscathed presence, like manna from heaven or an icon weeping, was a miracle refusing to pass through our lives unacknowledged.



I had nearly lost and then regained a child through no intervention of my own. Nothing unnerves a mother like coming to terms with her limitations. Carefully and methodically, I had constructed an environment for unencumbered success and even here mortality followed. "Why did God let that happen to Ben?" Elijah later asked, still agitated by possible scenarios too terrible for his trusting mind to comprehend. Without pretense or patronization, I answered as honestly as I could. "To remind us of guardian angels, sweetheart."

"No that's not it," he mumbled, walking out into the hallway. "I think Benjamin is just clumsy."

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Uncluttered

My daughter, Priscilla, would gladly switch places with you if, heaven forbid, a stomach virus tore up your insides leaving you nauseous and raw in a fetal position next to the toilet. At least so she says, head tilted and eyelashes flapping like any good Disney princess, charming her one true love. Not bound by the confines of rationality, her warm and tender sentiments (“You are the bestest mom… more than no one in the whole wide world!”) can disorient the blues out of anyone. Priscilla is fiercely loyal, compassionate, and sweet as a peppermint candy. She is precious, cute as a button, and the absolute worst, most negligent cleaner-upper I have ever laid eyes on.

It takes her thirty-five minutes to hang up a dress, an additional twenty-two to put her shoes away. And the moaning from her bedroom, the pitiful cries of injustice at having to clear the floor of paper dolls, Polly Pockets, and ballerina tutus, is enough to make a loving mother wring her hands in exasperation. Accusations of unfairness have more than once instigated an eye-rolling tirade from yours truly – a self-gratifying breakdown of the chores completed daily by me, without fanfare, acknowledgment, or thanks. Last weekend, having reached my quarterly limit with the clutter and the stuff and the disturbing wads of dust reproducing like rabbits behind the dressers, I broke out the vacuum and trash bags. Trembling at the site of me, a mom on a mission, Priscilla’s whimpering began with the first syllable in the sentence: “No one is going anywhere until this mess is cleaned up;” because it was altogether possible that her house arrest could last a lifetime.

You can imagine my suspicion when seven minutes later Priscilla emerged smiling from her room. “I’m going to play next door with Elizabeth!” she announced.

“You’re finished?” I asked, incredulously.

“H-m-m, h-m-m,” she confirmed, not meeting my eyes, picking nervously at a scab on her skin.

And of course I had to verify such an audacious claim, like when five-year-old Benjamin yells down the stairs, “I’m done! Are you going to check my closet?”

“I am now,” is the standard reply.

At first, I was dumbfounded by the orderly nightstands, visible rugs, and the patchwork quilt pulled bumpily over her pillow. But then suddenly it all made sense, as my gaze focused in the on the bits and pieces of hair ribbons, Strawberry Shortcake accessories, and dirty socks peeking out from beneath her twin sized bed. Upon closer inspection, it became obvious that Priscilla, as a justifiable solution (at least in her mind) to an otherwise insurmountable dilemma, had employed the bulldozer technique of sweeping all the debris into one enormous pile and, in this case, shoving it (not so discreetly) out of sight. She could tell, I suppose, by my “you have got to be kidding me” face, we were not on the same “tidying up” wavelength. I was tired. Priscilla was tired, of the nagging, the frantic searching for missing items, and the undercurrent of disappointment emanating from my pursed lips every time I passed by her doorway. “Come back in here,” I said softly “and let’s fix this problem together.”

Out from her drawers came the too small, too big, and out of season clothing. Out went the toy box and dress-up supplies. Out to the trash went last year’s school papers, the dried up markers and random puzzle pieces, lost and lonely. Out went everything that so easily overwhelmed her, which she wanted but couldn’t manage on her own. What remained were the bare necessities, clearly assigned places for her things, and a space that Priscilla could rest and breathe in. How could she have obeyed me, at the tender age of six, faced with a task most ill defined? After awhile, after a certain amount of junk in anyone’s life is accumulated, the process of cleaning up becomes a lot more complicated, becomes a lot less realistic in the long run.

I’ve had this dream of becoming an author. I’d like to get the field trip permission slips in on time. If I could afford one renovation, I’d rip up the kitchen flooring and put in hardwood. I am curious about the monks protesting in Myanmar. This Christmas, should we travel or stay home? This Thursday should we have pizza or stew? Is it normal that my children argue so much? I have to figure out a way to get some exercise. “What’s that?” “Do what?” “You mean right now?” Of course, I would (if I could)! In fact I talk about it incessantly, the peace that comes from submitting fully to God’s will. It’s just that I’m kind of busy, it’s not so cut and dry, I have goals and responsibilities I need to attend to.

It is often at this point, when the every day details begin crowding out my opportunities for divine illumination, that Christ mercifully and painfully starts to toss out the rubbish, on my behalf. My work is rejected. Our finances become strained by unforeseen car troubles or the laying-off of my husband from his job. An angry and stubborn child rocks my confidence. A series of stupid, humiliating, mistakes makes me question my own capabilities. Yet when the fluff, the broken agendas, the misplaced desires are finally cleared away, wouldn’t you know it…life suddenly becomes a whole lot more simple. What to do next, is not nearly so confusing, so up for grabs, so clouded by a soul-full of earthly stimuli: pray, beg for mercy, feel the unexplainable tranquility of being swallowed up by God, the only Hope I’ve got for getting Home.

My daughter, Priscilla, looks around her, admiringly, at the haven of unfussiness and minimalist beauty. It feels good to watch her sink into that bed – without having to shove off the girly-girl litter, without having to endure my disapproving scowl, without having to waste a moment on sorting through the chaos in an attempt to find exactly what she is looking for. For all that is left are the things of true importance, are the items that I, as the mother who adores her, deemed necessary for this stage of her development, for this moment in her childhood, for right now.

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Unflappable

In my defense, I was already jumpy, thanks to a $5,000.00 sewer bill and a finicky old house as unpredictable and endearing as my two-year-old daughter – with the laughing and stumbling, leaking and staining, and the undoing of that which was once orderly and fully functional. When my mother pointed out the pool of water growing ominously beneath our refrigerator, I panicked. Mentally, I began calculating the cost of replacing faulty appliances, ripping up moldy linoleum, or patching pipes ready to burst from the influx of water now mysteriously flooding my kitchen. We mopped, but the puddle kept stubbornly refilling. Was it coming from behind the stove? Was there a blockage forcing the water to escape by way of cracks in our baseboards? I piled towels, crouched on all fours to track down the origin of this impending disaster. Where was my husband, it was nearly 5:30 p.m.? “Hand me my cell phone!” I ordered.

“Hello,” said Troy so even keeled, unflappable and unemotional as ever.

“How do you turn off the water?” I barked, irrationally angry that I was dealing with this all by myself.

“Why?”

“Because a small lake is forming on the kitchen floor and I can’t stop it or find where it’s coming from!”

“Just relax, I’ll be home in a second.”

“Fine!” I snapped, mumbling under my breath about how frustrating it is to not be taken seriously.

Five minutes later the doorknob turned. Troy calmly walked in, set down his bag and visually assessed my “I’ve had it up to here" expression, the soaking wet mop, and the layer of towels draped dramatically atop sunny yellow tiles. Without saying a word he stepped over all my misguided attempts at taking ownership of this problem and opened the refrigerator door. I watched him lean down, and to my horror, snap closed the spout of a 2.5-gallon plastic jug of drinking water slowly emptying its contents over leftovers before streaming like a river into the larger body of water below. “You have to shut this,” he smirked. And I looked on, dumbfounded, at the evidence of my totally unnecessary hysteria revealing more about my temperament than I cared to lay claim to. “Ha, Ha!” I responded, “very funny.” Because what else is there to say in the face of such ridiculousness?

I notice this trait in my children and I cringe with guilt as Elijah frets feverishly over strong winds and rolling thunder. As Priscilla stalks the school nurse, bringing home slips of paper from her office near every other day with the words “bug bite,” “stomach ache,” or “scraped” scrawled upon them. What message do I send when I talk like our existence isn’t random but live as if I am sweating and inching my way across a tightrope, like one wrong move, one subtle shift within atmospheric conditions, could send all my hopes and happiness freefalling into a netless abyss. Out of love, I over sympathize, identifying with the anxiousness I should be nipping in the bud – my furrowed brow betraying stabs at bravery. For when the hype and horror of nightly news gets trapped beneath my skin, when sickness makes a tiny body burn, when tomorrow’s demands start disfiguring current joy, I tend to run around in circles like a chicken without its head - all dizzy, directionless, and unproductive.

Too many of my decisions are thoughtless reactions to stimuli neither truthful nor transcendent. So easily and impulsively do I buckle under the stress of negative circumstances. To parent this way, as one pushed helplessly here and there, to and fro like a tumbleweed by the side of a highway, only guarantees my losing out on fleeting opportunities to purposefully root my family in the Faith. “What’s wrong mom?” asks Elijah, his unnervingly perceptive gaze peeling back a layer of confidence, paper-thin. My mouth moves reassuringly but what’s communicated loud and clear is a lukewarm conviction that Christ’s omniscient and omnipotent hand holds this earth, and my cares, firm within it. When my priest states, unwaveringly, that nothing in this world is worth our anxiety, it’s like a balm to my spirit, chapped and raw. Every week I come for this, I soak in the nourishment of hymns, flat out defiant and unyielding to the taunts of greed and death. And although I am weak, forever breaking promises to live as Christ, it is my duty to pass that same assurance on to my children. It is my spiritual obligation and my pathway toward Salvation, to illustrate for them daily how a life with and for Christ is quite different, altogether, than one without Him.

It’s like trying to mop up an ocean: this goal of staying unflustered for Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary. The wisest thing for me would be to put down the towels, quit conjuring up the most outlandish, worst-case scenarios, and surrender all my misguided attempts at taking ownership of a challenge impossible without God’s intervention. It’s ok for them to see that I’m not naturally a stoic. It is good to pray together, and often, for the courage to get through any situation. But it is also necessary that I stop, think, and remember who I am, where my hope lies, and how my actions convey more about the Truth than fluffy explanations regarding love, goodness, and Heaven. “I don’t like that face mama,” says four-year-old Ben when I scowl at the mess, at the never-ending pile of laundry. “I don’t either,” I say, once I realize that my meanest stares, my hissy fits, my fuming and agonizing accomplish nothing. One folded shirt at a time, one deep breath before up and declaring that the sky is falling, one brief prayer as I approach my child who is frustrated, frustrating, or frightened; how will the words and my demeanor be different when I yield to God and let Him fill Him my mouth, my soul, the members of my family with His mercy?

“Troy!” I whisper frantically, waving him over to our bedroom. “Do you hear that? Something’s moving in the corner!” I tiptoe behind him ready to bolt if confronted by a bat, a mouse, a raccoon. “What do you think it is, should I get a net?” But he’s already walking toward the scratchy noises. “Is this what you heard?” he whispers back, eyes wide with mock alarm. Slowly he reaches his hand toward our clock radio and turns up the volume so that the sound I am freaking out over (static between stations) plays louder.

“Shut up!” I laugh, tackling him down.

“What would you do without me?” he teases.

It’s a legitimate question, but one not worth wrestling over presently. Not today, while he’s here right in front of me - to delight in, to make me smile, to keep me humble.

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Resistance

I wish I could say that I had planned to go, that last week I had dutifully checked my Church calendar, noticed that the Elevation of the Cross was right around the corner, and immediately made attending that festal Liturgy a priority. But here’s how it really went down: Thursday afternoon my husband said, “Tomorrow is Elevation of the Cross, would you like to go?”

“Is the service here in town?” I asked.

“No, but the parish in Merrillville is having Liturgy at 9:00 am.”

“H-m-m,” I stalled, because Merrillville was at least 40 minutes away. That would mean getting my older two onto the bus, getting myself (and our younger two) dressed for doing something besides swinging, and then hightailing it out of here to make it on time. I wouldn’t say that I jumped at the chance, but since I am trying to be a better listener, a more reflexive responder to the nudging of the Holy Spirit, I did eventually answer that question in the affirmative; we would go to the service - in Merrillville - in the morning.

It seemed like a rather innocuous choice, that spur of the moment decision to show up at Church. But with all the resistance I faced, beginning bright and early on Friday, you would have thought I had decided to sell all my possessions and donate the proceeds to the poor. I mean, really, I had begrudgingly shifted my priorities to make room for this special feast, and yet here I was being attacked on all sides, worn down to the nub until I almost called the whole thing off entirely. At 6:15 am all four of my children woke up simultaneously on the absolute worst side of their beds. This gave me zero alone time to pull myself together. Three out of six members of our family had no clean underwear. Toothbrushes were mysteriously out of place, tucked away in miscellaneous drawers and under bunk beds rife with dust bunnies. There were spills, missing tennis shoes, weepy accusations, and two lunches to be made in three minutes flat. This would have been hectic enough, on its own, but add to that an empty stomach and the fog of exhaustion stubbornly clouding my mood, grieving for its usual mug of coffee, and I start resembling the Dr. Jeckyl half of Mr. Hyde. If I were God, I thought (most inappropriately), buckling under the strain of my crabbiness, “I wouldn’t even want me in Church – not with this lousy attitude.”

But lo and behold, there I was one hour later in the parking lot of The Protection of the Virgin Mary Orthodox Church, pulling Benji’s dress pants over the bunched up waistband of his pajamas bottoms (Ben was, unfortunately, one of the unlucky family members whose undergarments still lay wet and mildewing in the washing machine). We filed in, picked a spot to set up camp, and waited for the service to begin. Even then, while actually present in the nave of this beautiful parish whose stained glass windows sparkled and shone from the sunlight gazing upon them, I had my doubts; my head was full of distractions and nagging concerns determined to keep me absent, if not physically, then mentally from all meditations on Christ. Silently, meekly, I prayed for attentiveness as the ringing of the bells invited all of us to come, to worship, to be uplifted by the power of the Cross. I sang with the choir. I bowed toward the censer. I participated, despite my chaotic circumstances, initial grumpiness, and the occasional need to reprimand four-year-old Ben and two-year-old Mary, and I was blessed.

Just give it a shot, I dare you, and you’ll know I am talking about. I am not suggesting something extreme, here - anything sacrificial of your time, for the sake of the Faith, will do: a commitment to saying the Lord’s Prayer before bed and upon rising, making it to a Saturday evening Vespers, cracking open the Bible; attempt to push yourself just a fraction beyond where you were yesterday and watch hell try its darndest to overwhelm you, to trip you up, to keep you sidetracked and tangled in the mayhem of earthly cares. Believe me, I’ve fallen for it at least 10,000 times. I’ve surrendered over and over again to the touchable, the knowable, the present reality that demands its own precedence - claming unlawful dibs on my heart, on my spirit, on my mind. God’s love is not hypnotic, luring me uncontrollably into His presence. God’s love is not interested in competing with money, comfortableness, or notoriety for a measly portion of my soul. God’s love will not shout over the noise, will not twist my arm into submission, will not reveal itself until I turn, ever so slightly, toward Him and then miraculously I feel it everywhere: in the voices of my singing children, in the phone call from a friend, in the light infused brilliance of a stained glass window within a Church I didn’t particularly want to visit, but am now so very grateful that I did.

On Saturday, I wake early enough to grab my grocery list and hit the Super Walmart before it fills like a sport’s bar on game night. It is a mundane task, one that I dread on a weekly basis and yet this Saturday the 15 minutes of drive time required to get from here to there becomes an unexpected moment of thanksgiving. A hymn from yesterday’s feast became embedded in my subconscious and now spontaneously pours from out my mouth in song: Before Thy Cross, we bow down in worship O Master, and Thy Holy Resurrection we glorify! And from behind the wheel of a 98 Subaru heading south on Highway 49 to Valparaiso, I see glimpses of Heaven peeking through the triviality of this run-of-the-mill errand and I become dangerously aware of my true purpose. I turn, just ever so slightly, towards the love of Christ Jesus and the resistance, binding my every good intention, unravels like a thread that’s been snipped – evaporates in the brightness of God’s mercy.

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Screamer

Be careful what you pray for.

A week ago, I was all set to write about rules of prayer and my habit of making “on-the-go” intercessions. Not that interspersing “Lord Have Mercys” with dish washing and teeth brushing isn’t profitable, on the contrary, frequently pondering upon Christ helps to order my priorities, provides me with at least a little more patience, and is crucial for maintaining my sanity throughout the day. But there is something altogether different about standing before icons, pausing in silence while my mind empties itself of surface garbage, setting aside all other activities and distractions before opening my will up to God’s. I wanted to explore the difference between formal and spontaneous prayer, the importance of including both in one’s schedule, but then I was knocked down, took a shot to the jugular, I was humiliated, devastated on a Friday afternoon and I can focus on nothing else until I deal with what it is screaming in my heart.

Screaming. I have a screamer. What two-year-old Mary lacks in size she more than makes up for in volume. She is a spitfire, an impish stick of dynamite, and we adore her, screaming and all. "When you stop screaming,” we say, laying her in the crib, “we will get you out.” For although she is delectable and funny and snuggly such hysteria cannot be encouraged, rewarded, or extinguished by way of explanations. In Chicago, our street was abuzz with children’s laughter, with the scolding of parents, and yes, with the screaming of babies learning to sleep on their own, of siblings arguing, and of toddlers not getting their way. “Is that my son?” I’d ask myself, putting an ear to his bedroom door. “Oh no, it’s the little girl that lives next to us,” and I’d breath a sigh of relief. Nap time had not been cut short after all.

But here, in my new small town, where gardens are tended to devotedly, where houses are inhabited by the same families for decades, where the quiet has a sound of its own, the buzz of little children, my little children (the only ones within earshot) comes across more like a jackhammer ripping up quaintness and tranquility. I know this because Friday I got a telephone phone call. “Hello?” I said, over the chaos of my older kids raiding the cupboards for after-school snacks and of Mary, having just been denied a piece of unwrapped and dirt covered candy, characteristically screaming in her crib. What met my ear was a verbal assault most upsetting. Apparently, my mothering skills were being questioned by the neighborhood (or at least two people within it). I was horrified and deeply offended by the accusations from neighbors I had always considered friendly and welcoming. I was told that such screaming was not natural and that either I was mistreating Mary (and my daughter's siblings) or that something was just plain wrong with her. It was so bizarre, so hard to wrap my mind around. And I sobbed like I hadn’t sobbed in years.

That morning, inspired by reflections on prayer, I awoke fifteen minutes earlier than normal. Before getting out of my pajamas or putting in my contacts, I lit two candles and opened an actual prayer book. Taking a deep breath, I tried to reign in my thoughts so they could meditate on the words my mouth would soon deliver. “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” Having invoked the Holy Trinity I commenced with the morning prayers:

“O Lord, grant that I may greet the coming day in peace. Help me to rely upon your holy will at every moment. In every hour of the day, reveal your will to me. Bless my association with all who surround me. Teach me to treat whatever may happen to me throughout the day with peace of soul and with firm conviction that your will governs all. In all my deeds and words, guide my thoughts and feelings. In unforeseen events, let me not forget that all are sent by you. Teach me to act firmly and wisely, without embittering and embarrassing others. Give me strength to bear the fatigue of the coming day with all that it shall bring. Direct my will. Teach me to pray. Pray yourself in me.”

I will tell you dear friends, that this entreaty by Metropolitan Philaret enveloped me fully. I can assure you, by God’s grace, that I was spiritually uplifted even when crushed down, with the remembrance of Christ’s omnipotence. “How would you have me respond?” was my spontaneous prayer, born out of the formal prayers carved into a day as of yet unknown, carved into my soul by the effort it took to recite them. I would eventually go to my accusers, apologize for the noise, assure them that we love, oh do we love, our children. I may have been believed or I may never have the satisfaction of being vindicated. I may continue to be whispered about for years to come, wrongfully slandered, and grievously misunderstood. Be careful what you pray for. Things like patience, humility, a desire to please God alone. Because His answers can burn like a scalding hot branding iron while we are being marked, set apart, as His own.

I was all set to write about rules of prayer and my habit of making “on-the-go” intercessions. I was all set to talk about these things objectively until life dealt a blow most unexpected. Rules of prayer, formal prayer, are not merely a “good idea”. Offering the initial moments of a brand new morning to God, absolutely, unequivocally, beats sleeping in, checking e-mail, or wiping down bathroom sinks, when it comes to protecting my soul. There is no one else, nothing else, more worthy of my time, my praise, my exertions. There is no one else, nothing else, who can lead me through despair and into the Kingdom of Heaven. There is no one else, nothing else that should obstruct my vision of Christ Jesus, because He is love, perfect love, unshakable love, a love that will never forsake me.

“Are you ready to calm down?” I ask my tiny daughter whose eyelashes glisten with beads of wetness, leftover tears from a tantrum. “Uh-huh,” she says, reaching out her arms for the hug I, too, am longing for. I breathe in the smell of her, sweat mixed with diaper cream, the sweetest scent I know upon this earth. “Lord have mercy,” I pray, spontaneously. “Please grant me wisdom, please guide my every decision, please help me to a better mother. Amen.”

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Trendy

My sister-in-law was the first to clue me in. “No way,” I said “the 80’s?” It was hard imagine what could be salvageable from an era defined by parachute pants, feather earrings, and armfuls of rubber bracelets. Photos of myself from that decade made it pretty obvious, to me anyway, that some looks were not worth digging out, dusting off, and putting back into circulation. “Oh yes,” she assured me, “walk downtown Chicago and you’ll see all kinds five inch leather belts riding the hips of those more confident, or long strands of bright plastic beads bumping up against collar raised polo’s.”

“Well, that’s Chicago,” I conceded, doubting highly that the rest of America’s Heartland would jump onto that particular break dancing, “Material Girl” blasting bandwagon. We Hoosiers prefer to just blend in, if you know what I mean. Last week, however, while escorting my kids to the bus stop, I passed a Junior High student from my neighborhood all decked out in a mini skirt and pink footless leggings. Matching fingerless gloves, stretching clear up to her elbows, completed an ensemble unmistakably inspired by Valley Girls gagging with spoons all of twenty years earlier. I was like totally flabbergasted!

It amazes me how impossible it seems to stay current with the ethical, technological, and fashion conscious trends passing though our culture like Christmas time mall shoppers streaming in and out of revolving doors. “Don’t you ever IM? (or instant message for those of you, like myself, so hopelessly backwards)” my brother teased me when I guessed that LOL stood for lots of laughs. I recently heard that even e-mail is being viewed as “so last year” by teenagers who fluently text their friends in a language unrecognizable to their ignorant parents. Global Warming? Yes. War in Iraq? Yes. Smoking bans? Oh, Yes. Alternatives to Evolution? The slightest questioning of sexual promiscuity or pro-choice rhetoric? No. No. And No. It is smart to take note of them, but certainly don’t hang your hat on any one value, style, or agenda. And I wouldn't get too comfortable with your low-carb diet, caffeine addiction, and preference for bottled water because tomorrow may very well reveal that excessive amounts of protein combined with espresso and the toxins in those plastic containers is a dangerous, even lethal, combination.

Attesting to either wisdom or weakness, I am the last person you’d see out shaking and rocking the boat, but in support of free speech, equality, and thighs too dimply for leggings, would I be so out of line to ask a few questions weighing heavily upon my heart? Like can’t we all just agree that wide legged pants are more flattering? Does anyone else, besides me, feel nervous about the breakneck speed with which our nation is sprinting forward into uncharted territories? Shouldn’t some things be immune to faddishness? “Christians Can Be Cool!” I read in the Chicago Tribune several weeks ago. Church plants are sprouting up all over the city defying “yesterday’s” overly conservative approach to spreading the Gospel. Slickly dressed pastors use incense, bass guitars, and literary references to reach community members who might normally view church attendance as social suicide. “I like it here,” one new parishioner commented, who had stopped attending church ten years ago because of too many stifling rules and regulations. “I appreciate that I can completely be myself and just worship God.”

Dare I suggest that a lifetime of subtle shifting, away from the primary responsibility of all Christians to abandon everything for the sake of the cross, might compromise the fullness of the Faith? Should I not feel concern over a trend that encourages individualism in the name of Jesus, the purest example of selflessness that ever was or shall be? Is it not my place to shout “Come and See!” when asked if anything good, trustworthy, and uncompromising can be found in this overly depressed and anxious world? Is it not a privilege to espouse a doctrine that has succesfully remained impervious to the assaults of time, liberalism, and persecution?

If I have found, within the Orthodox Church, an anchor more than capable of keeping all of us who insist on fighting against the current from drifting into dangerous waters without even realizing how far off course we've gone, would it not be shameful to keep silent? Yes. Yes. Five times over, yes. Then why do I skirt the issue, tip toe around the uncomfortableness, get all flushed and fidgety when questioned about my beliefs? The truth is, I am timid. I by no means have all of the answers. I am sincerely not interested in proving anyone right or wrong. It’s just that I feel so fulfilled whereas before I was dissatisfied and I thought you’d like to know that, in case you are dissatisfied too with the slipperiness of modern values, styles and agendas keeping Truth from sticking anywhere for long.

“This is a really old show,” I told the children, prefacing our viewing of The Little Rascals.

“Tell me about it!” smirked eight-year-old Elijah. “When was it made? Like in 1986?”I chalked that comment up there with his, “Hey mom, what was your favorite dot com when you were a little girl?” And I can hardly believe the answer myself, that there was a time before Internet, before the now expected gratification of buying, knowing, and communicating anything in an instant. I forget what a busy signal sounds like, how to work a payphone, the amount of paychecks it took to get my Sears coat out of lay-a-way, and what possessed me to smear these lips with frosty pink gloss or coat my auburn eyelashes with turquoise mascara. Keep up! Keep up! If you blink you’ll miss everything, or in the words of the poet Bob Dylan,

Come gather 'round people

Wherever you roam

And admit that the waters

Around you have grown

And accept it that soon

You’ll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you is worth savin’

Then you better start swimmin’

Or you’ll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin’

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Change

Despite the fact that the sight of numbers makes my brain go numb, at twenty-years-old I had a brief stint as a bank teller. I was, admittedly, horrible at this job – habitually out of balance, a known tripper of silent burglar alarms, and often guilty of handing out more cash than requested due to crisp new bills and their tendency to stick together. And although I would sweat through my day, always antsy and second guessing myself, there were a few aspects about the position that didn’t make me nauseous: slow and early mornings at the drive-through window, rarely needing to work past 3:00 pm, and occasionally having reason to use the change counter.

One afternoon, a five-year-old boy walked into our bank with his dad. Refusing help, he staggered toward me carrying an enormous glass jar filled to the brim with coins. I could tell this was a special event, a momentous event that had taken months to come to fruition. With all of his dwindling strength the little boy raised the jar over his head and placed it in my hands.

“Wow,” I asked appropriately, “did you save all this by yourself?”

“Well, mostly” he admitted.

“It’s going towards his savings account,” added the father.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” I said … “any guesses?” While some outrageous suggestions were being thrown at me (“twenty-two thousand, hundred, million!”) I opened the jar and turned on the change counter. The rumbling, sucking noise, much like that of a vacuum cleaner, muted my young customer mid-prediction. Tilting the jar, I turned to face him with a smile as the first quarters and nickels rolled out of his sight and into the hungry mouth of this coin-chomping monster. Like a slow motion movie sequence, his eyes grew wide, his lips parted in horror, his arms reached out helplessly, and then “No-o-o-o-o!” came the cry of dismay. By this time the jar was nearly empty and my smile had been flattened by his obvious grief and the sudden realization that this process had not been carefully explained to him.

“Here you are,” I said meekly, after every last penny had been swallowed up, after scribbling down the actual and rather impressive figure on a deposit slip, after offering back a now vacant jar and the lousy piece of paper.

“That’s great buddy!” attempted his father, also realizing (a bit too late in my opinion) that to his son, a written dollar amount would mean absolutely nothing.

The boy was livid and inconsolable. I was the enemy, a thief, a dirty rotten cheater. No matter how hard I tried to explain that all of that cumbersome and virtually useless change had been replaced with something of actual value, his distain for me only intensified. What he loved, much more than the padding of his savings account, were the coins themselves – how they clinked together, how cool and solid they felt when gripped in his sweaty fist, how they were tangible and visible – unmistakably present. What he desired was the freedom to retain his self-perceived treasure without his parents, or me the evil bank teller, trying to convince him that by letting go he’d become a wealthier man. What he couldn’t wrap his mind around was the enigma of nothing being something, of less being more in the end.

“For whoever would save his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake and the gospel's will save it,” said Jesus in the eighth chapter of Mark. This verse has made me uncomfortable since the first time I heard it, since I first grasped the gravity of its message. I, too, prefer my treasures to be visible, tangible, unmistakably present. With all my dwindling strength I protect them – my things, my health, my family. I’ve lost years of sleep, wasted millions of moments, imagined countless horrific scenarios due to my anxiousness about possibilities outside of my control. I’ve retained just a sliver of a barrier between God and myself, a buffer between me and a reckless abandon to follow Christ at any cost, to lose the life I know and love in order to ultimately save it.

But see, here’s the thing, I’m miserable. Withholding even a fraction of my heart from Christ, praying “Thy Will Be Done” while simultaneously begging that nothing too difficult be asked of me, cherishing the blessings themselves over union with the Originator of every sweet thing I wake up to, is the opposite of peace and freedom. Fear and faith are like oil and water, like square pegs and round holes, like wet kindling trying to catch a flame. From this side of eternity I can’t possibly understand the enigma of how losing is really finding, I can’t imagine the grace that infuses those more willing to empty their jars until I hand mine over and accept that my vision is limited, my desires corruptible, and that my best bet for obtaining anything of actual value is trusting, truly trusting, in my Savior.

Change, on a daily basis, can feel heavy in our pockets, unwieldy in our wallets, inconvenient when counted out and used to purchase goods. But change in the long-term, when stored for future spending, can make us richer. Change is inevitable; change is an impetus for either giving up or going forth. Through change, push comes to shove, rubber meets the road, and I, of little faith, (God willing) begin to think beyond the grave and live accordingly. So here I go …plink, plink, plink, one little possession at a time, exchanging earth for heaven, trepidation for confidence, and spilling my doubts like dulled copper pennies transformed into a weightless fortune, padding my soul with wealth that never dwindles, gaining by forfeiting it all.

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Idle Talk

As far as waiting rooms are concerned, this one was a disappointment – no Thomas the Train table, no miniature chairs, no kid’s books save for the one issue of Highlights Magazine that we already had at home. And it was packed with people, none of whom were emanating any child friendly vibes that might put me more at ease while I shushed the relentless whining: “Mom, you said this would take just a few minutes? I’m thirsty! How much longer?”

But just as I was confiscating the illustrated article on the slaughtering of Gorillas in Uganda from four-year-old Benjamin, lo and behold did a knight in shining armor waltz through the jingling glass door wearing Capri pants and clutching an American Girl Doll. Vanessa, I will call her, who looked to be about eleven or so, sat down next to her mother and proceeded to open a mouth that would not close again until after our eventual departure. Catching six-year-old Priscilla’s obviously staring eye, Vanessa invited her to come on over and get a closer look at Kit, the Depression Era representative within American Girl’s highly popular doll line who, ironically, was carrying a cell phone. “Maybe I better hold on to that,” said Vanessa gently dislodging it from my daughter’s fist. “That thing alone costs like forty bucks.” Before long, Vanessa had captivated, with her knack for colorful story telling, all of my children’s undivided attention. “Thank goodness,” I thought, before losing myself in a two-year-old issue of National Geographic.

Within ten minutes, everyone in the doctor’s office knew more than they should about the credit card bill causing tension in Vanessa’s family, about her uncle who gives his four-year-old anything and everything she desires (much to the consternation of his siblings), and the exact cost of most of Vanessa’s possessions. “She’s a talker,” her mother mouthed to me, looking more and more uncomfortable with each of her daughter’s revelations. It wasn’t until Vanessa’s provocative announcement that she knew for a fact her mom and dad had not kissed since the day of their wedding, and that anytime her dad came close to her mother she demanded he back off and take a shower, that Vanessa’s mom finally said, “Stop. That is enough!”

“Even when he does take a shower,” Vanessa added quickly, “she still won’t kiss him.”

Never one to be outdone, Benjamin chimed in with a tidbit about his father. “My dad,” said Benji, “has to see the doctor about a sore…”

“Sh-h-h!!!” interrupted Priscilla, picking up on Vanessa’s mother’s not so subtle suggestion that family secrets were not to be shared.

After a slightly uncomfortable pause, I felt the responsibility to vindicate my husband from the embarrassing assumptions of his fellow patients. “Shoulder,” I clarified for those within earshot. “Your dad is seeing the doctor about his shoulder.”

Somewhere between the outright sin of slander and the nobility of words used to encourage, uplift, and speak the truth, lies the seldom-explored abyss of idle talk. “This, too, must be tempered?” I thought to myself after first reciting the Lenten prayer of St. Ephraim. “Oh Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of sloth (yes, that makes sense...I’ve wasted lots of hours avoiding work by playing around on the computer), despair (oh boy, now there's an issue I've wrestled with half my life), lust of power (H-m-m, interesting. I suppose I have hungered for control over my children, my husband, and even my acquaintances), and idle talk (Whoa, where do I begin with this one?).

The entire time you’re speaking, I wait for a chance to interject because I know something pertinent to the subject matter, because I’ve been to that place your describing, because I like the sound of my voice and how it complements our conversation. But then later, I’ll replay that dialogue in my head, evaluating to death every superfluous syllable that, in hindsight, could have easily been left unsaid. From start to finish, from the initial urge to be heard to the subsequent regret of having never truly listened, the outpouring of my thoughts and energy land squarely upon my own person. I am so concerned, too concerned, with myself.

Before I discovered Orthodoxy, before I became so “salvation as a process” oriented, so ultra aware of the thousands of daily decisions made for myself alone, I was contented with staying clear of the “biggies”: lies, verbal abuse, and vicious gossip. It honestly never occurred to me that expressing my position on any number of controversial topics, sharing juicy information under the guise of Christian concern, updating my family on exactly how hard I work around here, and looking for opportunities to casually toss out accolades I've received, could slowly erode my desire to be wholly defined as a follower of Jesus Christ.

“But I say unto you, that every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment,” said Jesus in the book of Matthew. Imagine, all of our arrogant assertions, all of our nagging and whining, all of the out of context statements weve passed off as totally legitimate information, being aired on a loudspeaker in front of God and everyone. And now imagine the reverse, the release of neither hating nor adoring ourselves, of never feeling desperate to either promote or defend our own agendas. Imagine, just imagine, having the freedom, the confidence, and the discipline to stay quiet. “O Lord, open thou my lips; and my mouth shall show forth thy praise,” we sing with David in Psalm 51. Even in this, the decision to speak or stay silent, I cannot be trusted, without Christ’s direction, to choose wisely. Or in other words, if I don’t have anything edifying, praiseworthy, or positive to say, if I feel anxious to articulate my personal opinions, if I am not in a state of prayerful submissiveness, it is far better to say absolutely nothing.

So try me again. Let’s sit down together and use the privilege of our voices to promote strength, courage, and godliness. Let me hear you, this time with ears not muffled by selfishness and insecurity. Let us laugh, cry, or discuss what's in our hearts at the Holy Spirit’s bidding. Let me seize the opportunity to be a better friend, daughter, sister, wife, mother, customer, co-worker, and neighbor by shutting up and tuning in, by saying nothing that could deflect from your God-given worth and importance to me- absolutely nothing at all.

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Communication

They were given specific instructions: take the letter, buy a stamp, and mail it. In the upper peninsula of Michigan, life moves a bit slower, families stay out a little later, and eight and nine year old boys start chomping at the bit for a taste of freedom. My sister-in-law, Michelle, had brought with her a walkie talkie and now she clipped it to our son, Elijah, before he and her son, Nathaniel, took off on their own for an adventure – a quest for the neighborhood post office.

My husband, Troy, and his siblings had always loved vacationing at his grandparents’, partly because they were allowed to explore the quaint downtown storefronts without the suffocating breath of adults streaming down their necks, without stuffy moms and dads to cramp their style. With twinkling eyes and nostalgic smiles Troy and his sister sent these two cousins on their way. “Just call when you get there,” they requested.

“Beep,” went the walkie talkie, not five minutes after their departure. Between fits of static Elijah’s voice broke through,

“We’re at the end of the street, where do we go from here?”

“Keep straight ahead,” they were told.

“Beep, Beep,” a few moments later Elijah checked in with an urgent update.

“We’re running a little late,” he shouted, “Nathaniel has dropped the letter!”

“Alright,” replied Michelle, now giggling. “That’s fine.” Our two brave navigators were also scrupulous communicators, leaving nothing that might possibly be important to the imagination.

“Beep. Beep. Beep,” came the signal one more time.

“Hello,” answered Michelle, “Did you make it?”

“It’s closed,” said the boys, “what should we do?”

“Come on back,” she instructed.

“What?!”

“Come – on – back,” Michelle repeated slowly, aborting their mission after a valiant attempt, making alternate plans for the stampless letter en route to its orginal starting point.

It isn’t the infrequent petition for a helping hand, the “uh-oh, I really screwed up this time” kind of dialogue, that makes us feel connected. You know how it is, when you’ve been out of touch but you find yourself in need of some assistance. How awkward to make the necessary small talk before ashamedly getting to the point, before revealing the true nature of your relationship – a relationship based less on reciprocal love and more on convenience and obligation. If you could of just kept up in the first place, seeking out advice, sharing the joys and struggles along the way, those phone calls home would seem natural, warm and comforting instead of distant – like a voice lost in static, all distorted and misunderstood.

It’s the little things that hold us together, like strands of twine wrapped all the more securely with each and every length of string that’s added. It’s in the sharing of the particulars (not general and sweeping overviews) that one leaps from casual acquaintance to trusted friend. It’s the ability to speak truthfully, into ears never fickle or judgmental, that gives us strength to crawl out of a rut and try again tomorrow. It’s the frequency of our correspondence that makes it easy and enjoyable, to call, write, and visit with you on a regular basis. But it’s the little things that also stand between us, the nit picky to-do list pulling us into ourselves, allowing days to turn into months without the proper notification that time is slipping away, that you are slipping away, that we are slipping away from each other.

I am certain I know where I’m going and this confidence betrays me. I’ve been out of touch due to lack of need or restlessness. But when, inevitably, I reach a crossroads, uncertain of how to proceed, the rust building up on my prayer life makes it difficult to converse without stiffness. The regret of having forgotten my First Love makes it even more humiliating to approach Him when all looks lost, when all appears hopeless, when I am lonely and empty and tired of wandering aimlessly. If I’d just kept in contact with consistency, laying all of my thoughts and desires, every trivial detail, every step in front of me at His feet, I’d have stayed on course, avoiding dangerous detours and taking courage in our intimacy – my lone connection to what truly makes sense in this world.

When mind and heart are united in prayer, said St Seraphim of Sarov, and the soul is wholly concentrated in a single desire for God, then the heart grows warm and the light of Christ begins to shine and fills the inward man with peace and joy. We should thank the Lord for everything and give ourselves up to His will; we should also offer Him all our thoughts and words, and strive to make everything serve only His good pleasure.

My family is back to reality, our suitcases unpacked, our floaties and lifejackets in storage. We are back to the grind of chores, bills and deadlines and I am extremely tempted to dive right in without pausing to seek out Christ’s guidance. There’s so much to do, so much to fuss over, so many reasons for scrupulously communicating - “Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy, Lord have mercy on my soul.”

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Sacred

“So here are some things I should probably not say out loud in the third grade…”

While I was sitting at the computer, minding my own business, eight-year-old Elijah walked into the office ready to unload, apparently, a wealth of smutty information he had received from fellow bus passengers the previous school year. The entire scenario was so disorienting that I literally froze up, unable to type, unable to focus, unable to respond with any semblance of authority to the expletives and anatomically correct terminology assaulting my ears through the innocent voice of my son. “Think! Think!” I commanded my brain, short-circuiting from an overload of shock and confusion. Obviously, he was feeling me out. The curiosity, after all this time, was killing him. “Don’t get weird,” I coached myself, “you knew this day was coming.

I discovered that older boys had teased him by writing words on notebook paper, words as foreign to my Elijah as Chinese characters, mysterious, exotic and bold, and having him recite them out loud - as they laughed, as he wondered for months what exactly was just so funny. Steadying my voice and composure, I turned to him with an expression that relayed how normal and natural this conversation between a mother and her growing child should be. I camouflaged my squirminess with questions. “Did they tell you what those things meant?” I prodded, trying to assess how accurate were the sordid scraps of details floating through his head, trying to buy some time while I conjured up possible explanations that would inform Elijah without embarrassing him, without discouraging him from feeling comfortable enough to step right up to me and let loose all the honest inquiries that silence or chastisement would have him take elsewhere for answers.

Just as I suspected, Elijah’s informants turned out to be inaccurate, impressionable, and immature - their view of intimacy representing, to a tee, the audaciousness of our culture at large where boundaries are meant to be crossed, where familiarity breeds disrespect, where nothing is considered “off limits” any longer. I’m tempted to hide them from it, sheltering my children in dark, antiseptic corners while they fill in the gaps of missing data with titillating assumptions about what exactly is going out there in our great big planet of sin. But I can’t risk having any of my kids come to their own conclusions about morality and faith without my guidance, so I will try to walk beside them staying alert for opportunities to put the chaos into context, to shed light on the shadows that creep into spirits blocking out peace, hope, and freedom.

The entire far wall of our upstairs hallway is a backdrop for icons and candles, hung generously on its center and down its sides. This austere display of Orthodox infused spirituality could easily be mistaken for an over-the-top, in your face, endorsement of a rigorous, outdated, and completely irrelevant form of asceticism; such foreign images, mysterious, exotic, and bold, exude black and white convictions ill fitting with a society cloaked in gray. In this day and age - where even God, Himself, has become subject to a well-intended makeover, His hardcore requirements softened and smoothed to appear more palatable to the church visitors sipping lattes in their pews - unfiltered glimpses of white hot holiness tend to burn before they purify and enlighten. But to my weary heart, so easily tempted and then ultimately disappointed by the empty promises of excitement and comfort sparkling like fool’s gold on self-centered choices, this section of our home devoted to prayer and meditation is like a little piece of heaven. These saints, crosses, and depictions of Christ evoke the courage I need to not compromise my beliefs, to stay leery of the fast and easy, to follow in the footsteps of those who persevered until their very last breath here on earth.

With all of the unconstructive at best (and totally destructive at worst) messages being pumped into my kids, it is imperative that I counter that negative stimuli with that which is good and noble. So we gather before our icons as a family to offer praise and supplication to the same undiluted God the apostles worshiped before us; we enter into the timelessness of Christ. This consecrated focal point, unlike anything else we will gaze at throughout the day, is essential because we are human, because senses are the portals to our soul. And no one’s eyes see further, no one’s ear hear louder, no one’s nose inhales deeper than those of young children trying to make sense of this world. May our homes be a refuge of Truth, sacredness, and beauty.

“It’s time for the talk,” I told Troy over coffee. “Its time you had the talk with Elijah.” Like a deer in headlights my husband looked back at me - I could almost smell the friction of his own brain churning, his mental gears burning, his memories returning to a decades old adolescence. And we both begin to painfully, slowly, begrudgingly understand that it is time to adjust, time to pray ceaselessly, time to keep up with our son.

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