Guidance

It was 9:00 pm when I tiptoed into my five-year-old daughter’s room to put away the sweater she had left in the kitchen. “What are you doing mommy?” she whispered. Startled, I turned to find her in the dark. “Priscilla,” I asked, “why are you still awake? You have to get to sleep sweetheart, you have school tomorrow.”

“Scratch my back mommy. Please?”

Those eyes, so hopeful, stripped me of all excuses. My second-born, whose infancy was overlapped by her younger brother’s, had all of six months to be the baby before being bumped up by the brand new sibling forming with great speed in my barely recovered womb.

“Scoot over,” I said. And I snuggled in beside her, burying my nose in her hair, and softly brushing my fingers over her frail, bony spine.

“Sing me a song…a Christmas song,” she begged.

“How about a Christmas story?” I suggested. It occurred to me that she might not have heard before, in any kind of detail, the story of Jesus’ birth.

“O.K,” she agreed. “Then a Christmas song.”

I started with Mary being visited by the Angel Gabriel, emphasizing her youth and her incredible faith in the midst of such a bizarre arrangement.

“And God sent His son, who was also God, down to earth to be born from Mary’s tummy.”

“So God has two names,” she verified. “God and Jesus.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

She listened intently, furrowing her eyebrows at the part of my narrative where a very pregnant Mary is turned away from inn after inn, until finally, they are given shelter in a barn with the animals.

“And Jesus, the creator of all the universe,” I went on, “was born that night without a crib, or diapers, or even a mattress for Mary to rest on.”

“Jesus did have a baby blanket,” Priscilla corrected me. “I saw Him wrapped in one in a picture.”

Nodding, I continued, describing next how the shepherds’ fear turned to excitement at the angels’ announcement. I told her about the bravery of the Wise men as they defied Herod by journeying in secret to worship the baby king. I was searching for ways, for words, to capture for us both the miracle so easily lost in the repetition of this account.

“It is easy to forget why Christmas is so special.” I lectured her. “We get excited by Santa Claus, the presents, and the treats ….”

“Not me!” she interrupted. “Even when I am opening presents, I always think of Jesus.”

This exclamation, spoken so quickly and on cue, was said for my benefit. Priscilla, out of love for me, and hoping perhaps for a few extra minutes of cuddling, fed me the words I was hungry for. Although touched by her efforts to please me, I still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. Whether for her or for me, I didn’t know. How does a mother conjure up in her child, or even in herself, a passion for the incarnation that goes beyond lip service and correct answers? I don’t want Priscilla to simply inherit a hand-me-down belief. I would rather my children wrestle like Jacob with the soul-assaulting commandments of Christ, emerging from the battle bruised and transformed; wearing with zeal their tested faith like a badge of honor.

Every week, I endure the exasperated sighs from my kids at having to stand during liturgy, pray before meals, and listen respectfully to readings from the Gospel. “Don’t you get it? “ I want to scream, “this is God, that we are approaching!” But it is not my job to try and force feed an appreciation for the Church down the throats and the hearts of my family. I was blessed with the privilege of raising these sons and daughters, but they are not mine to control or possess. I can create a home environment that is honoring to Christ. I can live my life in such a way that legitimizes the eternal benefits of the Gospel message. I can pray with them and for them, before school, before bed, in times of joy, and in times of sadness. I can lovingly insist upon appropriate behavior without shaming them into resentment. From there, I can do nothing more but implore God for the faith of Abraham, trusting Him enough to offer up their souls as a sacrifice.

I sang that night every Christmas carol I could think of. Priscilla was lulled to sleep by my off-tune renditions of “What Child Is This?” and “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” I hoped, as I slipped out of her bed, that she would forever equate Nativity with the intimate whispers passed to her from mother to daughter, our shared memory guiding her like a star towards Bethlehem.

Listen to this reflection by clicking HERE. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Anger

"You are not the best!" Benjamin, wailing on his bed, is trying his hardest to think of the meanest insult he can muster using his limited three-year-old vocabulary. His anger started brewing when I suggested he pick up the train tracks circling my coffee table, an idea he viewed as cruel and unusual punishment. "It’s too hard!" he had whined, "You help." I actually had other things on my to-do list besides picking up Benjamin’s mess, so I politely declined as it was really as simple as shoving the tracks off the side into the big plastic tub below. When the whining had pushed one too many of my buttons, I set the timer and told him he had seven minutes to finish the task or he would go straight to nap with no books. The timer dinged, the mess remained, and Ben was carried to his room.

I inherited a very low tolerance for back talk and general displays of unpleasantness. That’s not to say such behavior does not occur in our household, it just means that I am particularly stern when it does. Watching Benji, however, writhe and snort with emotions too large for his small body, I knew that my harsh words would be equivalent to pouring gasoline on a fire. I waited it out, listening for the heavy breathing, a signal that the anger had taken its course and a little boy now lay exhausted in its wake. He was ready to talk, to obey, and to apologize for his disrespect.

My children are not the only victims of rage in our family. Just this week I was humbled again by own lack of self-control. Every Tuesday morning I bolt up, anxious and antsy. This is the day it all goes down. Elijah catches the bus at 7:30am. Priscilla does her school assignment and then she, Ben, baby Mary, and I run to library for the preschool program. After class, we rush back to the house, feed Priscilla and wait for the kindergarten bus to arrive at 11:15am. Then its naps, after-school homework, make dinner, eat dinner, and load up the van to take Elijah to Boy Scouts by 5:30 pm.

This particular Tuesday, all of us woke up late. I dragged Elijah out of bed, got him some breakfast, and asked him for the hundredth time to put his homework folder in his backpack and put on his coat. My seven year old stared at me blankly. "Well?" I persisted "where is your backpack?"
"I don’t know."
"What to you mean you don’t know?" We now had four minutes to get him to the bus, and my insides were starting to warm and simmer.
"I don’t know mom, I put it in the office yesterday. Maybe Ben took it."
With two minutes to go, I started spewing generalizations containing words like "never" and "always", beating with excess vigor an already dead horse. I continued my tirade while opening a cabinet and taking out a plastic shopping bag. "Here, just take this!" Two hazel eyes, narrow with contempt, met my gaze, and grabbing the bag my son ran out the door. Immediately his departure left me cold with regret.

"Can I have some more cereal mom?" From the kitchen, Priscilla, dressed head to toe in purple for "favorite color day" at school, was unscrewing the top off the milk carton.
"That’s fine, just be sure not to spill on your shirt."
"Okay," she assured me.
I could hear bickering from the table but I let it go, hoping it would resolve itself without my interference. Priscilla was looking at a book that Ben felt was rightly his. Suddenly, there was a scream, a splash, and the sound of sobbing. Rather than count to ten, I stormed into the kitchen to see Priscilla drenched in milk and cheerios. My unbridled anger boiled over. I was no more capable of controlling my outburst than of pushing molten lava back into an erupted volcano. "GO TO YOUR ROOMS!" I roared. And two frightened kids rushed to the safety of upstairs, as far as possible from their crazy, psychotic mother.

I was still not ready to let it go. Like Ben, the anger was bigger than myself. Too little sleep, too many plans, and too high of expectations created a noose I was bound to stick my neck in. In the aftermath I sat, head in my hands, agonizing over the path of my destruction. I thought of Elijah, heading out on his own without the support of my affection. I could hear the tiny whimpers of Benjamin and Priscilla, listening with fear for the sound of my feet on the stairs. I was disgusted by the emotional release I let fly at my children’s expense. The damage was done. My words of fury had been hurled impulsively, lodging with permanence in their delicate memories.

There is but one salve to soothe the wounds of an offended heart. With my tail between my legs I tiptoed up the stairs and sat on the bed, next to Priscilla. "Please look at me sweetheart," I requested. Brushing the hair from her face, I swallowed my pride and began the work of owning up to my injustice. "I am very sorry for getting so mad. You did not deserve to be treated like that. I knew the spilled milk was an accident but I overreacted anyway. Will you forgive me?" Priscilla, relishing in my vulnerability, opened her arms and accepted the apology. At just five-years-old, she is beginning to absorb an awareness of her personhood, and with it the power she possesses to either inflict pain or show mercy.

I repeated this exercise in penitence two more times with identical results. Full forgiveness, no questions asked. Children are as resilient as rubber bands, but still capable of snapping if stretched too far. Why is it so much easier to control my annoyance for strangers than to show restraint with those I hold most dear? An apology offered with sincerity builds trust, but an overused apologetic afterthought fosters resentment. To harness a temper is an act of respect communicating more with its silence than a lifetime worth of empty promises being yelled into bullhorn. It will take all my concentration and a ceaseless flow of prayer to keep my lips locked tight on a turbulent Tuesday morning. A frustrated mom is par for the course, kids are extremely competent at pushing our limits. But like it or not, we are the living examples God has chosen for communicating the value of self-discipline to these growing, ever watching creatures, formed with purpose in His image.

I hold my breath and enter the kitchen where my path of salvation sits bickering at the table in the guise of ponytails, spider-man shirts, and sticky faces, red with juice. Sometimes this cross can be so heavy, nearly immovable from the weight of responsibility. Other times it is light with joy and laughter. But every day it is mine to carry, mine to submit to, and mine, with thankfulness, to treasure.

Advent

Benjamin, my four year old, is trying to slip on his jacket without unclenching his fist. This morning he found five, crisp one-dollar bills in a card tucked away in my desk, leftover money from his birthday two weeks ago. I get the feeling that his expectations aren’t lining up with reality, so I am packing us up for a trip to the one place I know where five dollars can be stretched to twice it’s worth in value and excitement: our local, neighborhood resale shop.

Still clutching his loot, Benji jumps from the van and dances with impatience beside me. “C’mon Mommy!” he whines. Finally, I have the stroller unfolded and his baby sister buckled in. The three of us pull open the door to our own little version of paradise. The shelves, stacked tightly with toys, games, books, and stuffed animals will likely keep my son occupied for quite some time, so I take advantage of his distraction to meander through some aisles myself. The Christmas decorations are in full effect. A hodge-podge of bells, wreathes, angels, and tinsel send waves of melancholy mixed with anxiety coursing through my overtaxed mind. The amount of details I am already trying to stay on top of occupy every available brain cell, sometimes overflowing out my ears and on to the kitchen floor. I am definitely not ready for this.

Hanging by a nail between picture frames and scrapbook supplies, is a square, felt Advent Calendar in muted red, cream, and forest green. In its middle is a large pocket filled with a Christmas tree three inches high, and attached to the top by a long piece of yarn. Surrounding the bigger pocket, marked by the number “24”, are twenty-three smaller pockets in numeric order. The Christmas tree is to be moved each day, starting December 1^st, from pocket to pocket culminating in the final move to its place in the center, signaling the onset of Christmas. My fingers brush lightly over the soft fabric. “My kids would love this!” I think. But even with a $3.00 price tag, the calendar will not work for our family.

Before December 1^st, before even Thanksgiving, Orthodox Christians enter into their own Advent with the onset of the Nativity Fast. This kicks off on November 15^th, following by one day, the Feast of St. Philip. Philip was one of the first to be called as an apostle. Having met with excitement this Jesus of Nazareth, he went to his friend Nathaniel and invited him to join them. “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” asks Nathaniel. “Come and See!” is Philip’s reply.

I admit, in the past I have looked at this Fast as kind of a drag. Just as everyone else is gearing up for office parties, secret santas, and shopping sprees, we as Orthodox are expected to wind things down, and show some restraint in a time of year famous for its excess. Currently, however, I do not feel very celebratory. I have been particularly troubled by current events shaping a global outlook that, to me, looks disastrous. Nuclear testing, school violence, cut-throat elections, terrorist attacks, and the gradual acceptance of immorality once shunned not only by Christians but secular culture as well, have more than once caused me to question, “Can anything good come out of this seemingly godless world?”

Sometimes my kids get so wound up they are incapable of hearing my voice. This can be dangerous because without my guidance they are susceptible to making poor choices. With my hands, I must physically stop their movement, coming down to their level to secure their attention. “No touch!” I say firmly, pointing to the fire under the burner on my stove. I understand their inability to focus. I too, can get out of control, trying to wrap my mind around the constant barrage of stimuli being blasted in my face. Like the fascination luring gapers to a car crash, the destruction caused by nihilism, materialism and hatred is entrancing. “Come and See!” redirects the Church. Physically, through a prescription of fasting and prayer, She offers the ultimate cure; belief in the undefeatable good that destroyed death by birth, bringing hope to all who would listen.

It is ironic that the frantic pace of preparing for a Christian holiday leaves so little time for reflection on Christ. As much as I would like to believe I have it in me to block out the noise and narrow in on the “one thing needful”, I know in reality I am not that disciplined. The Church has mercifully stopped my movement, coming down to my all too human level. As a community, stronger in numbers, we enter with spiritual camaraderie into this time of preparation. By fasting, we acknowledge our dependence, and become more in tune with the sustaining power of our faith. Some days throughout this journey we’ll feel spiritually nourished, and others disappointingly dry. The determination to keep at it, however, to the best of our ability under the guidance of our Spiritual Fathers, is our physical act of knocking at the door Christ has promised to open.

I know firsthand that labor is a natural pre-cursor to birth. The two have been inexorably linked since the beginning of time. To suffer without any hope of future joy is damnation. Joy without struggle is incomplete. This theme is woven throughout the Christmas story beginning with Mary, who locked up the secret of God in her womb for nine long months, despite being tarnished as promiscuous and impure. Jesus was not to be born in Joseph’s hometown of Nazareth. This godly couple bundled up for a difficult voyage to Bethlehem before they could meet their Savior. St. Simeon waited a lifetime to finally hold the promised Christ in his arms, and the wise men traveled day and night to at last worship, with reverence, the incarnate King.

It might not seem festive to start preparing now by purging my soul of sinful tendencies. But how much more glorious is a feast when I come hungry, than when I am already full upon arriving? Our observance of Nativity does not wrap itself up the day after the birth of Christ. His arrival is just the beginning of our celebration! The post-Christmas malaise commonly associated with December 26th is incompatible with a heart filled to overflowing with the knowledge that light has invaded the darkness, and hope for the human race restored through the miracle of the Incarnation. “Christ is Born!” we’ll shout for the next 40 days, “Glorify Him!”

Benjamin’s arms can scarcely contain the bounty he has bought for himself. “I don’t need a bag!” he announces, precariously carrying his stuffed Mickey Mouse, plastic Robin action figure, and Buzz Light-Year book, while laying his now crumpled dollars on the counter. Oblivious to the peril, he bounds out the exit and into the busy parking lot. “Benjamin, wait!” I call out. “You have to stay with mommy.” The urgency of my voice brings him back to his senses and for moment he is paralyzed by his position. “Over here!” I shout, and with relief in his eyes he runs back to find me, wrapping his small sticky fingers in the folds of my sweater. “O.K. mom, I ‘m ready!” he announces, and together we head for the safety of home.

Listen to this reflection by clicking HERE. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Contentment

Licking the last of the dessert off my spoon, I look up to see my mother wiping down the underside of her microwave with Windex. I stopped by her house this morning for a visit after the kids got on the bus. When I arrived, she poured me a cup of coffee and offered something to eat. “Let’s see what I have here,” she said, opening her freezer to reveal dozens of plastic storage bags, neatly labeled and dated, filled with leftovers and baked goods. “Oh, never mind that, I’ll just make something.” Within fifteen minutes the sweet smell of blueberries, simmering in sugar, wafted through the kitchen. “There you are,” she announced, handing me a steaming bowl of cobbler, floating in cream.

It has taken me seven years and four living, breathing reminders, to accept my fate as a mother of young children. With acceptance, came adjusted expectations and a longer fuse. Today, however, as I sit in this cool, serenely sterile prototype of a life without kids, I feel in my gut the resurgence of a gnawing appetite for an existence other than my own. It is usually my practice, to douse sparks of resentment with a big splash of reality. Tending to the needs of family leaves little time for mental ponderings on “what if?” But here, the quietness releases the running to do list from my head and opens the floodgates for spontaneous reflection. Windows without smudges, the absent smell of pee and damp towels coming from the bathroom, a gleaming linoleum floor; everywhere I turn I am reminded of the contrasting chaos and clutter waiting for me at home.

“If my children were grown…” and with that, I throw out the first log. The spark is now lit, filling my insides with the warmth of possibilities. I imagine my own freezer, layered with lasagna, stew, and homemade muffins, ready to thaw and serve at a moments notice. “I could decorate however I wanted”, I muse, remembering with frustration the broken vase currently lying in pieces on my dining room table. I’d be a better hostess, a better wife, and a better friend if only I weren’t so distracted by trying to keep up with the mess! This line of reasoning spreads like the wildfire it is, engulfing my resolve with flames of dissatisfaction.

When traveling down the path laid out for us, we are often held up by debris. Pulling up to these roadblocks, the natural inclination is to change direction. “A different job, a different town, a different spouse, would make this life so much easier.” And we avoid the tedious work of reconstruction by driving around in circles in search of a street that is clear. We run to escape our frustrations only to find out that the root of our fear, insecurity and procrastination was not deeply imbedded in that person, place, or thing left behind, but in the very center of our soul.

Two years ago, I was newly pregnant with my fourth child when I found a lump in my left breast. My doctor was concerned and referred me to a specialist. I had to wait three weeks for an appointment, and the not knowing was almost more than I could bear. I slept all the time and let the house chores and laundry pile up around me. Any little thing would set me off, resulting in either yelling or tears. I am a person with a strong belief in the will of God but I allowed myself to become a victim of my circumstances. If only I didn’t have morning sickness… If only I wasn’t so tired … If only this apartment wasn’t so small… then I would be brave.

Two months later, I am naked from the waist up, lying on a medical table listening, with relief, to the ultra-sound technician confirm she had seen absolutely nothing unusual. Whatever growth had invaded my breast was now gone. On the drive home, I felt elation accompanied by a twinge of shame over my lack of stoicism. About two weeks into my depression, my mother had come to check on me and was appalled by the scene behind our front door. I was weepy, unkempt, and still wearing my pajamas at eleven-o-clock in the morning. The kids were running around me in circles, Sesame Street blaring in the background. She stepped over the toys and dirty underwear to sit me up, look me in the eye, and compassionately kick me in the butt. “I am so sorry you are scared and fatigued,” she started “but these are your children and they need you to get off that couch and be their mother!”

No matter how legitimate our gripes and difficulties may be, wallowing in self-pity will always feel worse than picking ourselves up by the bootstraps and doing the best we can with what we’ve got. Dissatisfaction gives us permission to sit idle while we complain about all the great things we could do if only we had the right materials to work with. Contentment assesses honestly the materials in our possession, and realizing their potential, transforms them into art. Wisdom and patience aren’t handed out for free. It takes the right combination of joy, pain, fear, love, and disappointment to find our hidden strengths beneath the many layers of unfulfilled expectations.

This is not the season for me to be organized. This is not the time for gourmet meals. For now, I have the temporary honor of being the most influential person in the lives of four small children. To take this responsibility for granted would be catastrophic for my own development. It is within my power to create an environment of peace and well being, not by the color I paint my walls, but by listening, laughing and a limitless offering of unconditional forgiveness. In the blink of an eye, I will be melancholy for the scuffmarks and ink-stains: proof of a house filled with life. But for now, I will pre-heat the oven for another round of fish sticks, and quiet the longings for anything, but this once-in-lifetime opportunity to feed my family

Confession

I am sitting on a wooden bench waiting my turn for absolution. I have been dreading this all day, and now with only two people in front of me and a heart heavy with baggage, I wish the whole thing over before it’s even begun. Nervously, I pull out from my pocket, a folded, half-sheet of paper and look it over for the hundredth time. My own handwriting, barely legible, spells out the true state of my pathetic position.

I am a self-proclaimed expert in hypocrisy. I know what to say, how to tilt my head sympathetically, when to smile, and where to stand, neck bowed, in reverence. Each time I unleash my tongue with gossip, let jealousy quiet due praise, exasperate my child by assuming fault without understanding the circumstances; when I spend money we don’t have to assuage my own stress, avert my eyes to evade conversation, avoid work that is dull and monotonous or listen distractedly in order to assert my own opinions, I stuff these acts of selfishness out of sight, but not out of mind, until I am ready to burst from the weight of them.

I am relatively new to this. Ten years ago I was quite content to repent before God on my own time, and in the environment of my choosing. The idea of formally listing my faults in front of a witness seemed dry and altogether unnecessary, like reciting out loud this week’s grocery list to my husband. My lifestyle was relatively innocuous and I couldn’t fathom what kind of sins would be worth mentioning at such a ceremonious event. How many ways could I possibly spin laziness?

Never before had the occasion arisen to sit down, beatitudes in hand, in order to take spiritual inventory of my soul. “Blessed are the Poor in Spirit”, the Sermon on the Mount begins. Blessed are they who acknowledge their complete dependence on Christ, and trust not in their own strength or capabilities. How authentically was I praying the words “Thy will be done?” Did I insist on trudging through with my own plans, looking only to God for verification? In what ways that day, that week, or even that month had I denied myself of anything? Each question asked, unearthed deeply rooted habits barricading my will from submission and hindering my spiritual growth.

The gentleman next to me rises from our shared pew and walks softly toward a small alcove with a table carrying a cross and the Gospel. Above these are icons of Christ, the Theotokos, and the Saints. Their stern faces, intolerant of evil and the havoc it wreaks on the hearts of men, draw out from confessors meditations on eternity usually smothered by earthly distractions. Our priest smiles warmly, wraps an arm around the shoulder of my fellow parishioner and together, heads drawn in collaboration, they begin the work of purification. Grace had instilled the desire to seek out holiness, and this young man’s loving response was his effort put forth to purge his soul of transgressions.

I bounce my knee and go over in my head the laundry list of reasons why I sit here, in the dark, on a Saturday night. I am embarrassed to reveal my same petty, manipulative, bratty tendencies and wish, just once, I had an epic sin of passion to offer, like murder for love or theft due to hunger. It is these quiet, unassuming, self-centered behaviors, however, that stick, like glue, to my persona and ingeniously distract me from the path of salvation. It isn’t until I am chin deep in the mire of my own inconsistencies and miserably annoyed by my weakness that I am able to surrender, out of desperation, to my true purpose as a servant, poor in spirit but rich in mercy.

My turn has come. It is now me walking on tiptoe, carrying my sins to the table. I am still thinking of ways to be honest about my shortcomings while allowing for just a touch of validity to sweeten the presentation. My own shoulder feels the warm embrace of my spiritual father, and my eyes meeting the piercing gaze of Christ and His saints, moisten with wonder at this sacred crowd gathered in loving concern over one wayward lamb. Standing here, my agenda changes sharply. No longer am I concerned about my status or reputation. In front of God, His priestly witness, and His church I want to turn myself inside out, revealing every last speck of dirt muddying my soul. This official handing over of a burden is a gift beyond explanation. The Church, acknowledging how parching a journey down the “road less traveled” can be, put in place an oasis of refreshment available to us all, if we just show up and drink.

I kneel, with my head under the stole and firm hand of my Priest, while he recites the anticipated prayer of absolution. As I rise, he offers his blessing and this final benediction:

“Now, having no further care for the sins you have confessed, you may go in peace.”

With my thirst quenched and strength renewed, I depart.

Listen to this reflection by clicking HERE. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Rear Window

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 door into the back yard. 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 a weeping icon, was a miracle refusing to pass through our lives unacknowledged.

I had lost and regained a child through no intervention of my own. Nothing unnerves a mother like coming to terms with her own 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’s just clumsy.”

Walking

This week, Mary took the bull by the horns and started walking solo. She had been flirting with the idea for weeks, but was reluctant to commit until last Saturday, when her lust for a toy out of reach, trumped her fear of falling. Once she had that initial rush of upright independence, she checked out into this self-dictated zone of hardcore, walk training. Her mental tenacity to keep at it, despite initially falling almost every other step was truly admirable. I would hide behind corners, so as not to break her concentration, and sneakily view, with delight, her bobbing knees and surfboard arms trying their best to keep her balanced. Every day she gets a little better. She is confident enough to choose two limbs over four in almost every circumstance, but still looks eerily like a tiny, ninety-year old woman; head down, feet shuffling and mumbling messages only she understands.

This being the fourth time I have watched this process, I was surprised at how fascinating it continues to be. We take for granted that something so innate and common place as walking, requires an awful lot of effort to master. Especially considering the trainee is simultaneously figuring out language, eating skills, and social structure (all the while measuring in at under two and a half feet tall). What amazes me most is the naturally unselfconscious attitude Mary carries with her as she progresses from infant to toddler. There is not an ounce of pretension in her accomplishments, nor does she seem in anyway concerned about her audience, or lack thereof. Her own joy at perfecting a skill is the only incentive she needs to get back up after stumbling.

It is sad to witness the inception of self-awareness: a child who scribbles on top of his artwork in black because it looks “stupid”, a slow reader mortified by his fumbling over words in class, a baseball bat tossed in frustration after a third strike. Elijah, having only been in school for close to three months, is already acutely aware of his peer’s scholastic and physical capabilities, and how his own compares. Starting in grade school, I became my own victim of self-censorship. My once flowing journal of songs, poems and stories became bland and blank after I realized I wasn’t the “best” at writing. What was the point if I wasn’t going to be paid or recognized for my work?

I believe that everyone was destined to create something out of nothing. Being made in God’s image, how could we not have the same desire for beauty and originality for its own sake? For twenty years I stunted my own growth because I was too busy being busy to waste time on artistic expression. It wasn’t until my dear friend and neighbor, Jared, decided to direct and produce his own short film, that I was inspired to dust off the corner of my brain, not directly used to rear children, and set aside time to write. For months, I watched him film, edit, and bring to life a story of his own imagination. The hours he spent after work and on weekends, must have numbered in the thousands but in the end he had a stunningly original mouthpiece for his unique voice and talents.

I am amazed by the infinite number of gifts available with which to minister to others, and thus praise God in the process. With all the degrading and demoralizing images being shoved in my face, I find my own faith strengthened by the decent, hardworking, fortitude of a person who delights in going beyond what is “necessary”. My friend, Beth, sets her dinner table with such thought and detail, making guests feel welcomed and appreciated. My Priest, in Chicago, is a carpenter and has steadfastly used those skills to beautify the temple in which he serves. My grandmother, started carving exquisite wood crosses in her seventies, and gives them away for free to those who ask. My friend Stephanie can sew, my own mother knits and crochets, my friend Jennifer has an amazing eye for decorating a space with both function and beauty. Abel’s sacrifice was accepted because he gave the best of what he had. We do a disservice to God by letting lie dormant, divinely instilled talents and abilities.

Every day, I sit at my computer, to work out thoughts on paper. I choose this activity over housework or phone calls, which isn’t always easy or convenient. I am quiet and receptive, and this waiting and listening for the words is an act of prayer and humility. As soon as I become self-conscious of my audience, my skill level, or my bank ability, my writing becomes forced, disingenuous, and oppressive. It ceases to bring joy and clarity. I want my kids to find spiritual enlightenment through the ups and downs of success and failure. I want them to feel the difference between the sustenance of creating as an act of praise, and the exhaustion of looking for approval.

The short, staccato rhythm of Mary’s little steps across my kitchen floor is a sweet and soothing sound to tired ears like mine, unaccustomed to such blatant self-acceptance. I get down on my knees and reach out my hands. “C’mon baby”, I call out. Immediately, her face lights up with happiness. She giggles and pants, trying her hardest to catch her legs up with her arms, now aching for a hug. Her bottom half twists, straight- legged, from side to side, much like that of cowboy entering a saloon. The last two steps are more of a lunge and then finally, we fall over laughing in an embrace, both thrilled with her achievement.

Sunday Morning

Every weekday, I single-handedly dress and feed four children, pack a lunch box, gather homework, and locate jackets; all by 7:30 am. There is quite a bit of scrambling and cajoling involved, but nothing that a strong cup of coffee can’t push me through. Our early morning routine is definitely not the highlight of my day, but I would take one- hundred, back-to-back, Monday through Friday kick-offs, over the chaos and cheek-biting frustration involved in one Sunday morning.

Have you ever had that dream where you are trying to get ready for some unspecified event, scheduled to start any second? Dashing around the room, you frantically try to unearth a missing shoe. Your hair refuses to cooperate with your brush. You are racked with indecision as you change your outfit dozens of times, all the while impatiently reminding yourself to “Hurry up!” No matter how hard you try, you simply cannot pull yourself together. I live that nightmare once a week.

Regardless of what time I wake up, or how much preparation I do the night before, a Sunday morning, in our house, is as maddening as a Friday evening commute. On this day shoes feel tighter, little brothers become more annoying, toothbrushes and nail clippers mysteriously disappear, and the sight of a belt and a button-up shirt sends tempers soaring. Inevitably, the size 4T dress pants I washed the night before, lay damp and wrinkled in the dryer I never turned on. A last swig of juice misses a mouth and finds a sweater. An odor, that can’t be ignored, is emitted from a fully dressed (tights included) toddler.

Of all these headaches, the most confusing and unexplainable has to be the amount of over-the-top, nonsensical, mess associated with this production. Upon leaving the house, I gaze with wonder at the wet towel crumpled on my dining room table, the large bundle of purple and pink fuzzy pipe cleaners lying precariously on the windowsill, a pumpkin stabbed on each side with corn cob holders in my kitchen sink, and a pile of snow boots in the downstairs bathroom.

Amazingly, we pull into the parking lot of St. Elizabeth’s only three minutes late. Our hushed warnings, and stern expressions are replaced with tight sunny smiles as we make our grand entrance. Candles are lit, icons are venerated, and we take our place, as a family, in the front of the Church.

Now anyone with a child under the age of two knows that 9:30am is smack in the middle of morning naptime. Mary, my one year old, is vehemently opposed to sleeping in public, so she and I are in constant motion; looking at books, pointing at flames, walking the aisle, and occasionally sneaking an animal cracker when things get hairy. My husband, Troy, concentrates on keeping our oldest, Elijah, focused with a service book while downplaying the theatrics of four-year-old Benjamin, who is noisily personifying the paper clip he’s found on the carpet. Five-year-old Priscilla, works slyly at pushing the line between full compliance and outright disobedience. Is leaning your bum against the pew technically considered standing?

Every week, at least once, I honestly question whether all this work is worth it. I try to keep focused, but my thoughts drift easily to shopping lists, song lyrics, or lunch plans. I feel ashamed of my flippancy in the midst of such sacredness and beauty. Staring into the faces of martyrs, I ask myself, “What are you doing here?” “You are hopelessly incapable of such passionate devotion!” “I am useless,” I think, “A broken toe in the body of Christ”. But just then, when on the brink of total self-loathing and resignation, I am tenderly and lovingly rescued by the onset of the Cherubic Hymn.

“Let us, who mystically represent the Cherubim, and who sing the thrice holy hymn to the life creating Trinity; now lay aside all cares. Lay aside all earthly cares.”

These words, sung slowly and reverently, pull me up from despair by anticipating my distraction and mercifully inviting me to come, as I am, and worship. “I do belong here!” And that realization is so much sweeter, knowing I don’t deserve it. For a few fleeting moments, the veil is lifted and I receive a glimpse of heaven. This soul quenching respite from a tired world looks nothing like the grocery store, the library, or my kitchen counter. I receive the sacrament of Eucharist, and am struck to tears by the enormity of this miracle: Christ in me.

Pulling out of the driveway, life on earth swallows me whole and I am once again immersed in the necessities of day to day living. Naps, laundry, and afternoon football are forefront on our minds. Throughout the week, I will attempt to work out my salvation with fear and trembling, and each day I will fall painfully short of my objectives. My inability to keep my mouth shut, stay awake for prayer, be patient with my children, or put Troy’s needs ahead of my desires, will make it impossible for me to trust in my own strength. By Saturday, I will be tired, discouraged, and depleted – just in time for a taste of grace on Sunday morning.

Listen to this reflection by clicking HERE. This is a service of Ancient Faith Radio.

Fear

This past July the six of us traveled to upper Michigan where Troy’s grandma lives. We stayed in her house with his Aunt and Uncle, cousin, and her four-year-old son. Our family set up in the basement so we could spread out and have plenty of room for all of our luggage, pack-n-play, and sleeping bags. It seemed perfect. We had privacy and could be separated from noise and distractions during naptime. The only problem was that Elijah was terrified to be down there alone. Even with all the lamps switched on the basement was dimly lit. Nondescript noises would creak and hum throughout the night and many of the objects stashed away in its corners could easily be construed as something spooky and threatening.

One night Troy and I took advantage of his Aunt and Uncle’s kind offer to watch our kids while we went out for ice cream. They were, for the most part, all asleep so I was hoping that the babysitting experience would be uneventful. When we returned Uncle Larry told us that he was watching television when he heard shouting from downstairs. In the basement he found Elijah upright in bed, absolutely positive that he had seen something monstrous out to get him. Larry helped Elijah regain his composure and eventually he did go back to sleep. A few hours later Troy and I were laying down on a pull out sofa in a small room next to the children.

I was out cold and the only phrase I can think of to describe what happened next is “a violent awakening”. Two feet away from me I heard a loud and bloodcurdling scream. In my state of utter confusion I bolted up and matched that yelp with one of my own. Troy practically flew over the bed while also screaming ready to wrestle the wild creature he assumed had entered the house to attack us. Coming to our senses we found Elijah sprinting for the stairs, eyes wide and pitifully declaring, “I can’t take it anymore!” I had been annoyed that whole week with Elijah’s refusal to settle down for quiet times and his begging to keep the overhead light on at night. No one else had a problem with it and I assumed he was just being difficult to avoid going to bed early. At that ridiculous moment, however, with all three of us panting and trying to assess what in the world just happened, I saw true terror in his little face and I was ashamed of my unfounded accusations.

I myself am “courageously challenged” so it should be of no surprise that I passed this unfortunate trait down to my eldest son. When Elijah asked me why he had to wear mosquito repellent, I explained West Nile virus and he refused to leave the house. When we had a tornado warning last month, Priscilla and Benjamin thought it was great fun to all sit down in the basement together but Elijah could sense the tension and panicked. Fear has weighed me down my entire life. I missed out on many opportunities because the risk was too great and I couldn’t guarantee a favorable outcome. Seeing these same irrational and negative thought patterns sprouting up like weeds in my son makes my heart ache with frustration.

The blissfully ignorant, rose-colored filter that protected Elijah’s mind as a young child has started to wear thin and it pains me to see his eyes begin to narrow and focus in on the dingy reality of what this world has to offer. I am easily paralyzed by the unfathomable evil that seems to run its course without opposition. My response to hatred, sickness, poverty, and death is being closely studied. I have to make a conscious decision about what approach I am going to take because riding the fence between faith and despair does an incredible disservice to my family.

So here is the question I must ask myself: Do I believe in the resurrection of Christ or do I not? If the answer is no than by all means I should head indoors and take cover, encouraging my kids to stay low to the ground. But, if the answer is yes then I must put forth the ascetical effort necessary to develop roots in a source that is good and holy. My prayers, normally obsessed with shielding Elijah from pain, should evolve into intercessions for the purification of his soul by whatever means God deems best. “Perfect love casts out fear” we are told, but the casting out requires so much discipline. I want to release you, Elijah. To let you live a life emboldened by its assurance of eternity. I can start by removing my hands from your eyes and gently using them to lift your face upwards. I have already accepted the obvious reality that I screw up all the time as a mother. If, however, I accomplish nothing else in life but to break the chains of doubt and trepidation entangling our household, I will leave this world contented.

Public School

I have had some requests for an update on how Elijah and Priscilla are adjusting to public school. This will by no means be a comprehensive report as I am piecing together two months worth of one-word answers and filling in the gaps with pure speculation, but I will do the best I can. School officially started August 23^rd. Elijah entered second grade and Priscilla began afternoon kindergarten. Neither of them seemed particularly nervous. There were no tears when the bus arrived and, unfortunately no clues about what happened in the classroom when they came home. I went with the “no news is good news” approach and assumed they were adjusting well and making friends. About four days into that first week Elijah forgot to put his homework in his take home folder. I was tempted to run him back to school but decided that the best consequence would be for him to have to miss his recess the next day and catch up (I was also not to keen on having to put shoes on everyone and load up the van). I did end up e-mailing Mrs. Hall to tell her that I was aware of the situation and to please contact me if she started to notice any habits of forgetfulness in Elijah. The next day, while her students were in music class, Mrs. Hall called me at home to break the news. It turns out my son is quite distractible. He is doing well academically but gets lost in his books and personal thoughts. I have had three conversations with Mrs. Hall (and one phone conference with the bus driver) regarding this predicament. It is just so hard for him to sit still! At first I felt a lot of pressure to discipline these habits out of him and prove to Mrs. Hall that I was a perfect parent but Elijah is pretty insistent on behaving like a seven years old boy. She now knows to touch him on the shoulder when she asks him to complete a task and have him repeat to her what exactly he is supposed to be doing. Parent Teacher conferences are in November so we’ll see if that plan is working. He is making a lot of friends and is enjoying Boy Scouts. About two weeks ago I caught Elijah looking at himself in the mirror and saying, “yep, I’m starting to look like a real kid”. I can’t imagine what the context of that inner dialogue must have been but judging from the look on his face it seemed to be quite a compliment.

Priscilla is a complete mystery. She is so happy to get on the bus every afternoon and skips home when she gets dropped off three hours later. I was shocked when I showed up at the school Open House and her teacher told me she was working on pulling Priscilla out of her shell. I had never seen this so-called shell before and felt a little gypped that I was only privy to the louder, more expressive aspects of her personality. I was also a little surprised by our family picture taped to the classroom wall which included a lovely drawing of the goldfish “Janie” we don’t actually own. At first I was concerned by the amount of homework she was being given and all that she was expected to know about letter sounds and handwriting but she is steadily rising to the challenge and has a teacher’s aide giving her extra help with phonics. I am astounded, quite frankly by how quickly kindergartners learn and grow. The other day she walked in the front door brimming over with excitement. “Look what my friend Hoku gave me!” she squealed, pulling 25 cents out of her backpack.

“Why did she give you money?” I asked.

“She said if I’d be quiet on the bus, she’d give me a quarter!”

It was a proud moment for all of us.

Benji is too young for Brummitt Elementary but he does take his “Library School” very seriously. Library school is every Tuesday for 45 minutes and his whole week revolves around it. The moms are discouraged from being in the room while the preschoolers are singing, listening to stories and playing games but I can hear what is happening from a few feet away. Ben is one of the more vocally expressive children, offering almost continual insight on every subject. Most of these tidbits begin with “One time …..” and from there a story which may or may not be related to anything ensues. He still has Priscilla in the mornings and then naps most afternoons so he doesn’t feel that lonely. Next year when Priscilla is gone all day I will have to find some more organized activities for him to get involved in. Benjamin is 100% silly from the moment he opens his eyes in the morning until he crashes on his spider man pillow at night. I adore him.

Mary is small and feisty. Most of her communication derives form the word “no”. She is not as of yet walking but can climb a set of stairs in 5 seconds flat. She has an affinity for her father and has just learned to give real puckered lip kisses. We are all amazed by every single thing she does.

All in all I am pleased with how the school year is progressing. As I told my sister-in-law Michelle, I am learning that no situation is ever perfect so you just have to make a choice and stand by it. It’s an exciting time for the kids as they become more independent. I am doing my best to guide without smothering and to temper my reactions. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some homework to sign.

Priscilla with her backpack waiting for the bus

Testing, Testing

Welcome to my first official attempt at public blogging. I am admittedly lousy at correspondance so this is a last ditch effort to communicate consistently with friends and family not currently living under my roof. My personal ramblings might not be on your top ten list for what to read this fall but maybe by checking in every once in awhile you can satisfy your gnawing curiosity about the comings and goings of a Sabourin in Indiana. Leave a comment, say a prayer, thank your lucky stars you decided two children were plenty. Whatever moves you to stay connected, I welcome with humble anticipation.
Here we go!