Shame

It had been one of those days, one of those “everything takes twice as long to accomplish as it should” kind of days. It was a kind of day where I would hate for you to meet me for the first time, lest you assume that I am always so whiny and overly irritable. I had just come home from an afternoon of squeezing down the aisles of a Super Walmart to a kitchen counter sticky with spilled milk and once mushy Rice Chex now hardened like cement, now requiring the blade of a butter knife to be pried from the Formica beneath them. “Who didn’t clean up their breakfast mess?” I yelled to no one.

It was 5:00 p.m., time to make dinner, so I preheated the oven to 425 degrees. While putting away the grapes and yogurt I noticed that the pizza dough was not in the refrigerator. “Shoot!” I mumbled, pulling open the opposite door where, sure enough, sat one of the most essential ingredients for compiling our supper unusable like a rock in the freezer. Rummaging through the plastic grocery bags, I found a package of tortillas purchased for a different recipe to be used later on in the week. “This will have to do,” I decided, laying them on cookie sheets and topping each one with mozzarella, hoping there’d be enough for my ravenous family. Thus was the opening scene when entering stage left appeared five noisy characters lead by the obnoxious Susanna. “Not in here you guys,” I ordered sternly, “I’m busy.”

Six months ago, while cleaning the upstairs bathroom, I heard deep laughter from a voice I didn’t recognize coming from the porch outside our door. When I ventured down to investigate, five-year-old Priscilla grabbed me by the arm with excitement. “Mom,” she said, “this is the new friend I just met, she was riding her bike past the house. She can burp the entire alphabet! Can I play with her… please?” In front of me stood Susanna, a full head taller than my daughter and wearing a t-shirt pulled taut over a chest that bulged where Priscilla’s stayed flat, saying something inappropriate about a cowboy. Her upper lip was stained with what I could only imagine was orange soda and the smell of cigarette smoke clung stubbornly to her hair and skin.

Somewhat alarmed by Priscilla’s obvious awe of this girl, I asked a few questions to try and figure out where she came from. To my surprise, Susanna was only in the first grade and lived a mere two streets behind us. “Stay in the yard where I can see you,” I finally relented. Soon thereafter Susanna became a regular visitor, ringing our doorbell anytime between the hours of 7:30 am and 8:45 pm. It became sadly apparent that she was quite often left to her own devices. I was leery of her presence, always on alert for behavior irreconcilable with our family values. I stayed distant, never too welcoming, lest she assume that I was tolerant of crudeness.

So when the timer dinged and I called the children over to the picnic table, it was no big shocker that Susanna was not expected home to eat her own dinner. “That’s not my problem,” I determined, because it was one of those days too chaotic and frustrating for thinking outside of myself. I was polite enough to at least inquire if she would be having a meal later, though I asked in such a way, in such a hurried non-committal way, that would guarantee an answer compatible with my intentions. But even as Susanna said “yes,” even as she agreed not to become a burden, she met my gaze and didn’t let it go. She knew what I was doing, I knew what I was doing and we shared that dirty secret while my own kids chewed and swallowed their consistently offered nourishment. “But if Susanna wasn’t eating at home,” declared Priscilla with confidence, her sweet voice as damning as a cock crowing once, twice, three distinct times, “you would give her some of our food, right mama?”

Back in the kitchen I wanted to peel off my skin, to scrub my insides of the guilt from treating a child, a child of great significance to God, with such distain. Like Eve naked, Peter tongue tied, or David with blood on his hands, I both marveled at and mourned my own depravity. “Have mercy on me,” was all I could bear to mutter while I filled a plate to be offered to the guest in our home, to the guest with a name, with feelings, and with a very real need to be cared for. “Thank you,” said Susanna as she reached out hungrily for whatever it was I was willing to give her: a smile, a pizza, a portion of the blessings bestowed upon me, blessings so obviously unearned. “See” said Priscilla, “I told you my mom would share.” Because I’ve stressed to her in the past the importance of being on the lookout for ways to serve Christ by serving others, because every day should be one of those “take up your cross and follow Me” kind of days, the kind of day for loving like I’ve been loved.

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Roots

I knew it was time to move when I was loading the kids into our van outside of a McDonalds Play Land and my six-year-old son, Elijah, pointing to an iridescent puddle of oil pooling under the pick-up truck next to us, in wonderment said, “Look, mommy, a rainbow!”


For as long as possible, we delayed the inevitable. I home schooled, we converted a porch into an extra half bedroom, and we cleaned out the basement for a few more square feet of living space. With the birth of Mary, however, our family of six was busting at the seams of our 2 ½ bedroom condo getting smaller by the minute. And then our garage was broken into. All of the hubcaps were stolen off our van. My husband, Troy, was almost hit by a car recklessly speeding down the street. I was feeling tense and claustrophobic. The kids were sprouting wings and wanting to fly.

Our unit was on the market for three months. Three months of having to show our place at any given moment. Three months of waiting for offers, offers falling through, and discussions about lowering the price - I was as skittish as a heroine in a horror film. By the time the sale was finalized, after a nail biter of a closing, all the nostalgia had been drained from my heart. We found an old Victorian in a quaint Indiana neighborhood, twice the size and three times as far from Troy’s job downtown. Throughout all the mayhem of sorting and packing, I was distracted from dwelling on the changes that were just around the corner. Perhaps, in all honesty, I couldn’t bear a formal goodbye. The feelings were too raw for handling just yet, too sore for an intrusive examination. We drove off into the future, without regret.

Of all of the millions of concerns tossing about in my mind last year, my children and their adjustment to this move, was not one of them. I had packed them up, along with the picture frames and dishes, assuming they were just as unfeeling as the glass and porcelain we had wrapped with such diligence and care. “They are too small,” I thought, “to notice the difference.” But a week into our new lives as Hoosiers, once the novelty wore off and the permanence was starting to set in, Troy and I found ourselves with a small mutiny on our hands. “This house is too creaky and too scary! I miss my neighbors and our old park!” The disappointment expressed by my kids astonished me. “Are you serious?” we asked. “You have freedom here, and room to play. We live close to the library and bike trails.” But I was missing the point, entirely. Their longings could not be fulfilled using facts and logic. It takes time to develop roots and blossom in foreign soil.

I was reminded of that somewhat recently because this next January it will be ten years since Troy and I officially entered the Orthodox Church. Like our Chicago exodus, the conversion became imminent when it was obvious staying in place was no longer an option. It was a bold move, a big move and one that affected not just our lives, but also the lives of so many around us. We had been romanced by the beauty and antiquity of the Faith. We felt compelled to go ahead in the direction of God’s leading. We were confident in our decision and journeyed toward the future, without regret. Once the novelty wore off, however, and the permanency of sacramental living set in, my soul put on a mutiny of its own. It wasn’t a matter of facts and dates; I knew in my head how sound theologically were the hymns, creeds, and teachings of Orthodoxy. But being only a tiny bud, newly planted in the richness of Tradition, it was hard and humbling to have to wait on elements outside my control for nourishment that would stimulate my growth.

Like a tree, each year of my continued conversion forms a ring, marking a slow but steady development. A nine-ringed Oak is substantially stronger than a seed, but nowhere near close to reaching its maximum potential. There are forests strong and mature to inspire me. There are tender shoots of green, peeking out from under grass and dirt in need of my encouragement and prayer. All of us are stretching upward toward heaven at our own unique pace, equally dependent on the sun, the rain, and the oxygen so generously offered from the hand of God. A forced asceticism, I learned early on, can bloom quickly and even brilliantly before just as suddenly withering away, but a consistent and patient yearning to be conformed to the image of Christ will withstand the storms of doubt and persecution. It takes time to develop roots and blossom in foreign soil.

On our way to Troy’s parents for a highly anticipated long weekend, Elijah and Priscilla asked if we could please drive through the city. It was a little out of the way, but they were so excited by the possibility, we agreed to take the detour. It is captivating, all those buildings and the lights reflecting off the water of Lake Michigan. “Ah, Chicago,” said Elijah from the back seat, “the city of dreams!” I realized then, they were not mere possessions. My children were individuals with their own distinctive passions and sorrows. They would adjust, as they were ready, in their own time and in their own way. I was to love and respect the process. “I think I left my batman in my old room,” four-year-old Benjamin told me yesterday.” I promised him, that we had checked for such things before moving. “Let’s go upstairs,” I said, “to your new room and find it together.”

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

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Inconvenient

This month, I thought I should be cleaning because that’s what good moms do. Last month, when I was cooking, baking, and meal planning for the betterment of my family, I neglected the dust and cobwebs until the “haunted house” look became unbearable, until I put down my spatula to grip our handheld vacuum, eradicating dirt like my life depended on it. If I was more balanced, I could spread myself evenly, I could function in the middle of the road. But unfortunately, I’m about as flexible as a charging freight train that would sooner crash than change directions quickly. The way I see it, when your role contains as many definitions as a dictionary, sometimes just picking one of them to perfect and obsess over seems saner than trying to memorize them all.

So I bought a Swiffer, some new dish clothes, and anti-bacterial wipes. I made schedules to stick to like glue. I listed jobs and hung them on the refrigerator because good moms, responsible moms, teach their children to work hard like they do. It takes 21 days to form a habit, three weeks of refusing to compromise before the actions necessary for reaching one’s goal feel natural instead of forced. I couldn’t sit down, I couldn’t stop dusting, or washing, or folding, or scrubbing, but the results were incredibly positive; for the first time in a long time, my home was haven of tidiness.

The side effects of this most recent preoccupation were minor, at least as far as I was concerned. My inability to pause for drawn out dialogue or an impromptu game of Uno was a small price to pay for the gift I was giving to my husband, my kids, and myself. I prayed for the discipline not to get sidetracked, to keep this train a movin’ straight ahead. But wouldn’t you know it, that this week, the third week in my quest to form a habit, our youngest daughter Mary has decided to break free of her sweet and docile temperament in favor of a new personality just a little bit louder and a whole lot more stubborn. This updated version of our baby girl is not interested in the rules so clearly posted. The fourteen days I’ve invested in bringing order out of chaos means nothing to one whose own obsession is to feel the tickling grass between her toes. Mary has made it perfectly clear that my unyielding distractedness is an annoyance that will not be tolerated.

The high-pitched whining reached glass-shattering decibels as she furiously scratched at our closed front door. Admittedly, I was frustrated and torn. “Just a minute,” I promised, “I am really almost finished.” But I knew in reality it would be more like half an hour before I felt free to step away from the daily chores. I also knew that one hectic afternoon could undo a week’s worth of effort and that vigilance was my best defense. But then, like a whistling in the wind, came an almost imperceptible nudging blowing through my thoughts, suggesting, but not demanding, that I stop mid-sweep and tend to Mary. “The work at hand is so important,” I mentally argued with my conscience, “Later, I swear, I will make it up to her. We will swing as long as she wants to, but I really need to get these few things done.”

“Take her outside,” came again that subtle prompting, Spirit filled whispers presenting me with one of a million chances to deny myself and simply obey – without question, without pausing, without trying to justify the hundreds of excuses slowing my response time and hardening my will. Begrudgingly, I finally surrendered, putting down the broom to take my anxious daughter by the hand. “Let’s go,” I said, as she wobbled her way toward the sidewalk, laughing and pointing at all of the commonplace miracles I have learned to take for granted over time - like dogs, ants, and bluebirds cheerily chirping. The sun warming my shoulders, the fresh air clearing my head, and the sight of my child truly happy were enough to elicit spontaneous prayers of gratitude, prayers that would have never have found their voice within the confines of my stringent to-do list. “How many times,” I wondered, “has God, in His mercy, offered me the opportunity to commune with Him? How many times have I lost a glimpse of heaven because my eyes were firmly fixed upon the ground?”

It is very inconvenient to stand before icons, to break-up a busy Saturday and attend evening vespers, to plan meals around periods of fasting, or to stop a charging train in its tracks. But of the many definitions summing up my current identity, there is one that must shine brighter than the rest. Should not all my actions be securely bound in Christ, fusing together, working together until each reflect the glory of my Savior? Because maybe, just maybe, amidst the rigorous requirements of self-assigned resolutions there are miracles light and joyous to rediscover - like smiles, conversation, and impulsive prayers of thankfulness for little girls, a change of scenery, and other such inconvenient blessings marking this day, and every day as holy.

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Anniversary

If I could force your hand through blood, flesh, and bone wrapping each of your fingers tightly around my heart, maybe then, for a moment, you would know how often it beats for you and how genuine I am when I tell you, “You are loved.”

These words, penned in the winter of 1996, were presented to a handsome, intelligent, and quiet young man by yours truly in the form of a Valentine. Back then, when our love was hot as fire, flames of intensity swallowed whole any naggings, doubts, or complicated questions that could dampen a romantic inferno like spit laced fingers snuffing out the blaze of a candle setting moods sweet and dreamy. Back when our love was brand spanking new, still wrapped in shiny cellophane and ribbons, I wasn’t sure if he would treasure it, after years of wear and tear, after memorizing every flaw and wrinkle. But I squealed with delight when he offered to try and asked me, on bended knee, to do the same.

“Where were we?” my children wonder, looking at the pictures of their mom and dad dressed to the nines. And they are shocked to discover why they couldn’t attend the wedding, “Weren’t you so sad and bored without us?” Truth be told, I can hardly remember how Troy and I spent our time alone, before babies and car seats and constant interruptions, before bedtimes, and homework, and minivans. It takes effort to go back, to find that person behind the role of husband, father and provider. It takes discipline to keep treasuring a love worn and weathered from a decade of stretching and adapting – to adulthood, parenthood, and the onslaught of growing responsibilities. It takes a man, good and noble, to serve his wife by submitting to Christ, adoring her with holy and pure affection. It takes a marriage upheld by Faith to keep a covenant from crumbling, due to selfishness and worldly persuasions. But in the context of the Church, there is joy and salvation in this sacrament both miraculous and merciful. It takes a wife this appreciative to praise God every evening for the partner, warm and stable, at her side.

So to Troy, on our tenth anniversary, I offer up words once again. For though we may be out of breath, out of our minds, and out of money, I am full of motivation to express these sentiments before distraction and busyness steal our thunder. When you temper my anxiety with calmness, when you gather up our family for prayer, when you demand that our children respect me, I feel cherished. When the future is hazy and uncertain, when I think I’m in over my head – with adulthood, parenthood, and the onslaught of growing responsibilities, I take comfort in your shoulders always ready and willing to share the weight and ease my heavy load. And while this heart, now bigger and wiser, has grown more or less accustomed to the doubts, it still maintains its steady, passionate, beat. Because the trials I feared would separate us, rather fused what was two into one; the uphill climbs only strengthened our resolve.

Husbands, never call her simply by her name, said St. John Chrysostom in his homily on Ephesians, but with terms of endearment, with honor, with much love. Honor her, and she will not need honor from others; she will not want the glory that comes from others, if she enjoys that which comes from thee. Prefer her before all, on every account, both for her beauty and her discernment, and praise her.

What more could a wife ever dream of? What lavishness could compare with being honored by a virtuous husband? When the flowers wilt, when the dinner is consumed, when the cards are packed away with dusty photos, this, my dear Troy, is the gift I will continuously revel in – being loved by a man such as you.

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Extraordinary

After years of digging up the plastic, cardboard, and priceless paper treasures buried in dusty corners only to be forgotten moments later, I have lost my spirit of adventure and now treat all such whimsical acquisitions as trash to be cleared and disposed of. I was on autopilot this week, my Hoover of a right arm sucking up junk from off the floors with unsentimental diligence, when I walked into my daughters’ room and found two leaves looking lost and out of place on the twin size bed. After quickly discarding the first one, my eye caught site of another, and then another, not only on her princess comforter but also tucked into lacy curtains, in the buttonhole of an emerald green dress on a red headed china doll in the corner, in the white gauzy netting flowing from her ceiling, and carefully arranged on the silvery aluminum box hiding hair bows and sparkly barrettes.

Searching for her sandals, Priscilla, my six-year-old, skipped through the door and stood with pride beside me. “Don’t you love it, mom?” she asked, “I brought nature in to look at whenever I want.” And I had to concede that it was charming, ethereal, and quite unexpected to find evidence of life co-mingling with the toys and furniture, heartbeats of rain, sun, and soil echoing off the hollowness of material possessions. Priscilla, with shoes now on her feet, was gone in a flash - off to be young while she can. Alone again, I uncharacteristically reached into the abyss of the white, tie handled, Glad bag to find the leaf I had tossed just minutes before. With carefulness I placed it back with the others and tiptoed out into the hallway, letting nature, all wild and nonconformist, take its course.

At risk of it becoming cliché, I have posted, e-mailed, and quoted my favorite Orthodox saying ad nauseam, but with its limitless ability to inspire I will dust it off again in honor of Priscilla, my woodland fairy. “Acquire the Spirit of Peace,” said St. Seraphim of Sarov, “and thousands of souls around you will be saved.” For one like me, having to break through barriers of traditional Western thought in order to capture the mystery that is Eastern Christianity, such an unconventional approach to evangelism is nothing short of revolutionary. With ears so stopped up nowadays, and words as cheap as penny candy, confrontational soapbox preaching rarely woos a wayward soul into a lifetime of submission to God. Belief in hell, a fear of hell, is painfully outdated.

But the surprising refreshment of stumbling across something so extraordinary as a life unfettered by earthly cares, amidst topsy-turvy morality, ruffled feathers, and pie-in-the-sky ambitions, is like discovering a pile of long stemmed roses lying atop a sewer grate. Without shouting, without protesting, without imitating the grit and metal beneath them, the fragrance and incomparable beauty of those flowers would quite naturally draw in a crowd of tired eyes and stuffy noses, steadily losing their sensitivity to all things fresh and light. And then here is the kicker, those same lovely roses would be offered free of charge, brightening up days and soothing sadness without demanding, without manipulating, without taking pride in their selfless acts of mercy – like a man, woman, or child fully contented with the pleasing of Christ, alone.

What about me stands out, like leaves in the folds of a curtain? How different is my demeanor because of Jesus becoming man and conquering death through the transforming power of His Resurrection? Would anyone have reason, amongst the hustle and bustle of sprinting aimlessly through the years, to pause and breathe in the comforting smells of Home - on my hair, in my mouth, and on my hands open wide for embracing, supporting, and for spelling out clearly why hope is still very much alive? Or has my faith become dull and dingy, blending in with the littered and lonely streets, passed by unnoticed like run-of-the-mill stones in a gutter?

There are nations and there are neighbors, equally in need of salvation. There are millions and there are a few, as close as my own backyard, who could sure use a dose of divine goodness. There are spiritual sights that are set too high, ignoring the opportunities in mundane interactions to spread joy like sunlight on the shadows. There are doubts too pervasive for acquiring the peace that will save first one and then another. And there are seconds, ticking away our existence, echoing off the hollowness of all that is temporal, reminding us with urgency there is work to be done. In a flash I’ll be gone, this lifetime is mine only once, only one fleeting shot to let Christ’s love, all wild and nonconformist, take its course miraculously through me.

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Boredom

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

“May we watch T.V.?” they begged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Persecution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Entangled

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

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

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

“I am a failure.”

“I am untalented.”

“I am evil.”

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

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

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

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

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


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Family

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

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

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

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

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

“I certainly do sweetheart. I certainly do.”

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

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

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


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Wisdom

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

“What is it?” I asked.

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

“Congratulations!” I said, relieved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Hero

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

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

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

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

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

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Redeeming the Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stillness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home

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

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

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

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

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

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Well Dressed

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

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

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

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

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

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

Living Water

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Apology

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

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

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

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