Thankful

It was this time of year in 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and 5th grade, that I would make turkeys at school from out of handprints, or Popsicle sticks, or paper bags, even. I would also list on autumn themed worksheets, which we would tack onto bulletin boards designed to look like giant cornucopias, what exactly I was thankful for. Though I can’t say for certain this is true, I would bet that if you compared those lists side-by-side, they would be nearly identical. “I am thankful for my family,” they would undoubtedly have included, “and God, and having food to eat.” In the latter grades, I may have mentioned “freedom” or possibly our mangy Shi-tsu dog, but all in all, it is pretty safe to say, I covered the basics, the expected, and was done with it.

In but a few short days, I will gather around a festively set table with my in-laws where everyone present will take turns sharing why it is they are grateful. In the past, I’ve mentioned pregnancies, employment for my husband, a new home, and yes, God, food and family. There’s nothing wrong with stating the obvious. Counting frequently my overt blessings is an excellent way to dispel the myth that we are somehow missing out on that greener grass up yonder. But I am thinking of mixing things up, just for kicks, perhaps taking my cue from Metropolitan Philaret’s morning prayer: In unforeseen events let me not forget that all are sent by You. This Thanksgiving, I’d like to try and redefine what constitutes, as Martha Stewart might say, “a good thing” by digging around a bit in the dirt, examining closer what appears on the surface to be nothing but plain old yuckiness, in search of meaning, enlightenment - gold. So here is it, a rather unconventional, 2008 version of my thankful list displayed here for your viewing pleasure in no particular order:

Bronchitis:
Last winter at this time, I became ill with a nasty sinus infection, which moved swiftly to my lungs and rendered me agonizingly unproductive for nearly two months. I couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t function during the day. Our house reeked of sick and sadness and claustrophobia. Remembering back on how my steady diet of sugar and caffeine mixed with zero aerobic activity, had (surprise, surprise) not really fortified my immune system, I determined a few weeks ago to make some serious changes in preparation for the upcoming flu season. Out of sheer terror, I began exercising regularly, watching what I stuck absentmindedly in my mouth, taking my vitamins consistently, and going to bed before 11:00 pm. Although it’s completely possible that I will still get sick despite these extra precautions, the side effects of my wellness inspired vigilance have been remarkable. I am awake, wide awake. I have fewer cravings for empty calories. By hitting bottom, I became desperate enough to better myself physically and ultimately emotionally as well.


The Demanding Threes:
Oh, I know what they say about the terrible twos, how that period from 18 to 36 months is the most trying for parents, the most frustrating. But having lived through that stage four times over, I beg to differ. For me, it was (is) the threes - the “demanding three’s” I like to call them. At three-years-old, each of my children turned a corner developmentally and they used all those burgeoning verbal and reasoning skills to strip me of patience, with the speed and utter thoroughness of piranhas ripping flesh from a floating carcass.

My daughter, Mary, for instance, was a mild mannered baby. She’d play quietly with her toes, smile readily, and drift off in her crib peacefully without me rocking her or pacing the floors back and forth swinging her steadily in my arms. In August, however, she left toddlerhood behind and crossed over the threshold into preschooler territory. Ever since then, pouty lips, nonsensical requirements (such as socks that are neither too tight, too stretchy, too purple nor too bulky, for example) and clinginess have replaced her previous ability to independently entertain herself. She’s also stopped taking naps unless I lie down right beside her until eventually she falls asleep, at which point I can sneak, with ninja-like stealth, out of her bedroom.

At first this new cramp in my afternoon schedule made me fume inside with annoyance, thinking of all I wasn’t accomplishing just lying there for half an hour, staring at the walls. After several days of this, however, I surrendered to the present situation at hand, the one that wasn’t changing no matter how stern I got or how many bribes I offered. Mary’s dainty little body inhaling and exhaling, her warm and delicate breath on my face, began to lull me into a state of relaxation. I now look forward to our naptime, or at least I don’t resent it and that is kind of like being thankful, so it counts.

My Husband’s Long Work Commute:
Oh boy, this is going to be challenging.
I knew that when we left the city and yet Troy’s job didn’t, a major downside to our otherwise lovely life in small town America would be the twelve-and-a-half hour work days Troy would have to put in due to a really long train ride in and out of Chicago. What this has meant for me is that at 5:30 pm, when I naturally start shutting down, he isn’t there the way he used to be to tend to the kids while I finish making dinner. He isn’t there at 6:30 pm to start the bedtime routine while I clean up. He can’t come home if I feel sick, can’t go in a little later if I’m particularly exhausted and unfortunately, there’s very little “us” time in the evenings. And now I need to interject a moment to tell all of you single mothers or mothers with husbands in the military gone for weeks and months at a time, that in my eyes you’re akin to cape sporting, high-flying, super heroes and just knowing you’re out there raising your children all on your own makes me actually feel very sheepish about my bellyaching.

But thankfulness, back to thankfulness. I am thankful for the minutes that come after my declaration of: I simply cannot do this anymore! Because it turns out that when you have to go on, despite the fear, loneliness and weariness, despite what looks and tastes and smells like insurmountable obstacles in your path, by God’s grace, you somehow do. And though our methods for staying afloat may not be pretty or ideal (i.e. Elmo or pancakes –again- for dinner), the fact that you made it through to other side of those baths, that tantrum, that never ending, teeth- clenching afternoon means that you and I are more resilient than we ever imagined we could be. It means that yes, yes we can do all things through Jesus Christ who strengthens us (Phil. 4:13).

The High Price of Food, Clothing and Technological Gadgets:
So I was standing in the middle of Aldi not too long ago holding a calculator and a shopping list. Things were tight, the refrigerator was empty, and payday was another week away. I’d brought cash so as not to overspend, as is easy to do with credit cards. What I had was what I had. Period. I began with my staples– milk, eggs, cheese, fruit and vegetables. From there I had to separate my actual needs from my perceived ones, which, it turns out, were merely “wants” masquerading as things we absolutely, positively, cannot live without. I pared down that original list, more than once, by the time I got to the check-out line. I left the store with a dollar in change and an unexpected sense of fulfillment at having successfully avoided the costly trappings of impulse buys and convenience foods. By thinking twice, I had beaten a system based on knee-jerk decision-making and an “enjoy it now, pay for it later” mentality.

See, here is the thing (the thing I’m trying to explain to our kids who swear backwards and forwards to me that if they only had that one special item, they’d be satisfied forever): having stuff is addicting. I know this because, say, I get a dress – automatically, I want shoes to go with it. New pillows for my couch – I’ll want a throw rug. What’s cable without a DVR? What good’s a cell phone without Internet access? A new winter hat? What about gloves, a scarf – heck, a better quality coat? A-h-h-h! Somebody stop me! Oh wait…I can’t afford any of those things, not when my children need to eat and stay warm and become educated. By not having the minimal funds necessary to even begin competing in the game, I am totally disqualified from playing. So, once again, I am oddly thankful, thankful for the financial limitations that, for now, are protecting me from getting caught up in a rat race I’m not yet disciplined enough to simply stroll through without getting trampled.

And then there’s the engine light that’s gone on in our minivan and the mysterious leak in our attic. What about $3.00 ATM fees or all that spam in my e-mail inbox? Maybe next year, I’ll have matured enough to find their silver lining. After all, it is a process, the changing of one’s mindset from superficial to eternal, one I’ll struggle to undergo throughout the rest of my life. But here’s the good news: God is patient. He understands how hard it is to stay spiritually alert what with all that distracting noise and, what the younger generations like to refer to as, “bling” up in our faces. Thus His gifts of the holy Church, the holy sacraments and the Holy Spirit, to help us stay focused. ‘Tis the season, as they say, for remembering our great fortune at having access to Christ’s goodness and mercy in even the most difficult and trying of circumstances. I wish for you and for me, an extended spirit of gratitude made more palpable by our hope and acts of kindness.

Tenacity

It was a hard call. On the one hand there were article deadlines looming, but then again, the boys were all out of underwear. Dinner? Oh, please; that wasn’t even on my radar screen and, oh yeah, I just remembered, I also volunteered to lead a book club for 4-7 year olds this Thursday centered around the riveting theme of “Apples.” What to tackle first? With so much on my plate, it was important to proceed wisely, making the most of what little time I had available to devote to each task. With so much at stake, I sat myself down and chose… avoidance. I caved in to my impulses. I wasted an hour researching digital cameras and reading articles while the mess got messier and my mood, grumpier. It’s tiring, stressful, frustrating to fall behind.

I grew up immersed in order, watching my mother fight clutter like her life, our lives, depended on it. My job was to clear the table and clean the bathrooms; my brother emptied the garbage and mowed the lawn. Sure, I resented it. I couldn’t fathom why my mom would get so testy about our lack of concern over smudged windows or a sink-full of dishes. I went to college and rebelled by throwing everything, including clothes, folders, and textbooks, on my dorm room floor.

I wish I could blame it solely on my environment - on cell phones, on the Internet. I’ve tried to hide behind a conviction stating women need no longer be held captive by domesticity. It would be convenient to claim for myself a free-spirited, unconventional identity and be done with it already but the truth is, I’ve wrestled for years and years and years now with feelings of guilt and anxiety due to my living by the seat of my pants and just barely getting away with it – because I’ve been permanently stuck in crisis mode. I’ve overspent, overeaten, overreacted and under appreciated my many, many blessings in response to that terrifying sensation of feeling out of control. For years and years and years, I chastised myself for a myriad of reasons including what I assumed was a lack of empathy and a limited amount of patience. I agonized over character flaws I was sure were deeply rooted in my soul.

Two weeks ago, my husband, Troy, went to town on our garage, installing hand-me-down cabinets and putting away bikes, tools and beach toys. Inspired, I rolled up my sleeves and got busy myself, tackling one room at a time while washing load after load of laundry. For eight hours, eight literal hours, I scrubbed, swept and sorted, pausing only to prepare meals for my kids. By that evening, I was sore and sweaty, and giddy with satisfaction. I’d given my all to a difficult task and the outcome was unbelievable fulfillment. For in the arduous process of bringing beauty and rhythm to our home, I forgot to check my e-mail, to long for stuff we can’t afford, or to dull my mind with stimuli neither relevant nor affirming. All those pesky “what-ifs” that often leave me shaking in my boots were effectively muted by nothing more than simple elbow grease and the thrill of accomplishing something I had started.

What my mother embodied while raising us, which as an adult I struggled for so long to emulate, was not superhuman talent or energy, but rather a solid sense of purpose uncomplicated by the lure of rampant escapism effectively stripping our generation of a respect for moderation, stick-to-itiveness and frugality. She was, and is, an excellent steward of the gifts bestowed upon her and has long understood that the quality of her life hinges solely on her willingness to make the most of her present circumstances. Whether she’s ironing, filing papers, entertaining guests or baking scones, she commits to that specific undertaking wholeheartedly and thus enjoys the many fruits of her labor, including relief from the nagging self-doubts that often accompany idleness and taunt a mind all wrapped up in itself. “Wow," my sister-in-law, Paige, once told me, “When my house is clean, I remember how much I like it.” And isn’t that true of anything we care for including jobs made more enjoyable by a tidy workspace, dinners more scrumptious because of a table set neatly, feverish babies finally resting on the shoulder of a parent willing to temporarily set aside their heavy workload for the sake of their child.

The more we separate ourselves from reality by way of living beyond our means, having an unhealthy preoccupation with instant access to stuff, entertainment, and information via our computers, Blackberries and DVR’s, and withdrawing from our communities in favor of keeping to ourselves and our self-absorbed addictions, the faster numbness and unbridled restlessness will set in until we forget, altogether, what it means to be truly, thoroughly, joyful. For the past fourteen days, I’ve endured a sort of technological detox, praying through the urges to flee the mundaneness of my responsibilities and surrender to the lure of on-line videos, healthy eating tips, and homeschool chat rooms. I exchanged irritability, seclusion and shame for a vested interest in the people and objects pertinent to my role as a mother, wife and neighbor. I tasted of achievement and it was far more delicious and nourishing than the unsubstantial, muscle-zapping sugariness of evasion.

Twice last week, opportunities to meet a need presented themselves – opportunities I would have never considered or even noticed had I been drowning in my usual ocean of chaos. I could be hospitable, volunteer to bring dinner or watch a child because for once I was being proactive, rather than passive. Just a bit of organization went such a very long way in allowing me the enormous pleasure of participating in Christ’s mission to sacrificially love others. There is no shortcut, no substitute for a strong work ethic when it comes to squeezing the most you possibly can from out these brief years spent on earth. I ask for your prayers as I continue to battle, every minute, for victory over my laziness and weak resolve. The faith of a mustard seed is what I’m aiming for, here, and confidence that God will pick me up and dust me off - will forgive me when I stumble. It’s not painless, my friends, all that unplugging and sustained exertion but nothing can compare with the elation that comes with freedom from enslavement to our barren whims. There is no time like the present to choose depth over shallowness and excellence over cheap and easy. Enough procrastination … let’s begin!

Rest

If I stir, if I twitch, if I cough or clear my throat, if the phone rings, if the birds outside our window start up again with all that maddening, infuriating, cruel and incessant chirping, he will open his eyes and I will vomit on the floor. It’s been eight days since I’ve slept for more than an hour or two consecutively, eight days since I delivered that crimson bundle of skin and hair now swaddled and lying still at my side, save for his frail and spastic breathing heightening the tension like ominous music foreshadowing danger and doom; he scares me.

Why, oh mercy, can’t I shut out the noise of my half-baked thoughts and lose consciousness? Stand me up, sit me down and I’ll drift off like a narcoleptic but here, in my bed, all reclined and covered with blankets, there’s too much pressure to take advantage of this fleeting opportunity to achieve sanity via quiescence, to make up for those nights void of any relief from exhaustion - my exhaustion putting a strangle hold on the normalcy I took for granted before my life imploded. I am suffocating.

You don’t ease yourself into motherhood, pausing between each new responsibility to catch your breath, slowly adjust to the changes, become acclimated. It’s more a jump off a cliff into the ocean then sink or swim sort of deal. A fair amount of flailing and panic, those first few months, are to be expected. The sleep issue (or more specifically, how new moms don’t get any) was a big one for me. I’d hear women complaining about their surly, sometimes lazy adolescents and I’d find myself pining for the season when I’d be frustrated by a son who’d moan and groan when told repeatedly to “wake up and get a move on!” I swore to myself that if I somehow survived his infancy, I would revel and rejoice in Elijah’s addiction to his pillow and blue cotton sheets. In fact, I’d crawl in right beside him and he and I would snore, drool, dream away the mornings. The two of us would finally, after all those trying years, refuel and refuse to greet the day until we were good and darn ready to. I’ve made many such vows as a mom too ridiculous, too impractical to keep.

Of course, I have to shake him now and turn the lights on and announce LOUDLY a dozen times over that it is, “time, young man, to get down here for breakfast!” I made it through, somehow, to that next stage of parenting where the nights are uneventful and the days are but a blur of classes and clubs, errands and meal preparing. Rarely, anymore, am I jolted from out of a deep and heavy slumber by crying or the urgent needs of fitful little ones. When I retire for the evening, I can expect, for the most part, to make it all the way through to dawn without interruption. And yet, silly me, I’ve been fighting a fog of fatigue, lately - one I’ve managed to stumble into all on my own, by way of dawdling. I’m beat, I’m telling you, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine.

We read a lot in home school, which is lovely but sometimes painful in a “I was up until 3:00 am studying and now this 8:00 am Western Civilization class is practically forcing my eyelids to close” kind of way. The subject matter is interesting but also quiet and scholarly, and nothing at all like a cold shower. “Break time,” I declare every fifteen minutes or so to stretch my legs, refill my mug and keep from passing out cold on the couch. “But too much coffee,” I once complained to my brother, “makes me jittery and even more tired later on.” To which he replied,

“You know what the cure for that is, don’t you? More coffee.”

I had an epiphany last week while sitting back down to continue on with that day’s assignment: More than half of my current frustrations, including my sluggishness, lack of productivity and my irritability, would decrease dramatically if I…brace yourselves for this…went to bed earlier. I wasn’t helpless. I could decide not to send out yet another e-mail or put down my novel. It’s just so much more convenient to pour some Espresso on the problem than to organize my life and make room for the actual solution. It takes discipline to set boundaries, to pry your attention away from the task or distraction at hand and make surrendering to the source for true refreshment and well-being a priority.

“He promised to send the Holy Spirit,” I read to my children, between yawns, from Barbara Pappas’s excellent book, God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love, “The Holy Spirit would be with them always! The Holy Spirit would give them power to do everything God wanted them to do. The Holy Spirit would fill their hearts with as much of God’s Bubbly, Gurgly, Overwhelming, Overflowing Love as they would let in.” And then I paused, I read that final sentence again, struck even in my sleepy state by the significance of those last five words. How many of us still picture in our heads a God that comes and goes, depending on our worthiness? How awesome would it be to help our kids absorb early on that His promises are constant, consistent, and unbreakable? It is tempting to make things more complicated than they need be when we cannot wrap our minds around a Love that’s not dependent on our actions or intentions or ability to reciprocate with the same degree of steadiness and deified perfection. It requires restraint to ignore our doubts and take Christ at His word.

If I wander, if I forget, if I concentrate on only the warning signs or spend all of my waning energy on treating the symptoms and not the cause of my agitation; if I run in the opposite direction of where calm and rejuvenation originate and perpetually generate in the form Christ and His plan for our Salvation, God will nevertheless keep His arms open wide and I will only be hurting myself by choosing, by preferring the coldness and the darkness of my own egotism to His warmth and brightness. It’s been too long since I last yielded to my cravings for wholeness and rest. It’s up to me to change direction, to slow down, to turn around - to accept the incomprehensible and be satisfied.

Checklist

They’d be arriving in fifteen minutes. I was sweating, literally perspiring from sprinting into rooms and out of rooms shoving clothes into closets and wiping down counter tops. I was desperately hoping the kids would have been settled by then, in their beds, reading quietly but, no, no, they were doing nothing of the sort. Five minutes. It was only five minutes now until my new neighbor friends came over for dessert and coffee. I had five minutes to construct an environment reflecting harmony and order where there was none. “Do NOT get out of your rooms!” I ordered the children.

“Your home,” they said, “it’s lovely.”

“Oh, thank you,” I answered casually, handing out pie pieces on porcelain plates. “We love it here,” I added, gathering from the looks on their faces that I was succeeding in presenting our family as respectable, delightful, God-fearing people worth getting to know. The evening went well, exactly as I’d hoped it would. Why, then, did I feel just a teensy bit guilty, like I had pulled something over on my guests? It wasn’t the first time or the last that I’d question my motives, my genuineness - my identity.

For the past twelve years I’ve been chasing around a shadow, attempting to fuse myself to that which comes and goes with a change in whatever social climate I’m currently trying to adapt to. The vision I have for what I could and probably should be can broaden, shrink, or disappear completely depending on where I stand and what or who is positioned next to me. I used to know what to say, how to act, how to carry myself in such a way that would communicate clearly my commitment to the Christian faith - you know, the updated version of it where you totally believe but also totally relate and try to look like and sound like those who don’t.

I was autonomous back then (no spouse, no kids, no needs to meet besides my own) and thus in a better position to craft a persona and stick with it. But you’ve heard what they say about familiarity breeding contempt; knowing thoroughly all of the rules, the proper etiquette and what was expected of me, I felt justified critiquing a system on which I was, obviously, an expert. After arrogantly picking it apart, I was ready to move on to something else, anything else, with the capacity to challenge or even surprise me.

Ask me now what I know or how confident I am that my next decision, step, or word spoken will be the right one; ask me how comfortable I feel as an Orthodox Christian, even a decade after converting; ask me today the best way to identify a real follower of Christ. My indefinite answers might make many (myself included) a little uneasy. I’ve tried, for the longest darn time, to find some sort of formula, to figure out this Eastern Orthodoxy and fall into a spiritual rhythm I could memorize and depend on to feel authentic. At first this seemed challenging, yes, but doable. Fasting? Check. Saturday night Vigil? Check. Pre-Communion prayers? Evening Prayers? Morning Prayers? Check. Prayer Rope? Icons? Censer? Check. Check. Check. I went from 0 to 60 mph in one month flat, ascetically speaking, and was pretty sure I was proving myself to be a serious, “in this for the long haul,” type of convert.

I knew better than to think that my zealousness was guaranteeing me God’s approval, but…well, I kind of thought it anyway. In fact, I worried, or more like agonized, when I wasn’t disciplined enough to cut out dairy on a Friday or attend a weekday service, that I was failing to represent a sort of “one size fits all” ideal I’d managed to piece together from observing my fellow parishioners. I couldn’t shake that old habit of measuring my success as a Christian up against the status quo. The natural ebb and flow of faith and doubt, warmth and coldness, restraint and indulgence, I interpreted as signs of ineptness. I reasoned in terms of “good” and “bad”; I reasoned instead of listened. I’ve been attempting to keep up with that mom, so friendly and patient, and that couple over there with the beautiful, sweet, charming children and that fellow with a passion for serving the poor, but it isn’t working.

God, I thank You that I am not like other men—extortioners, unjust, adulterers, or even as this tax collector. Every year, as Great Lent approaches, Orthodox Christians around the world are reminded that a Pharisaic confidence in ourselves and our pious efforts can bar our path towards enlightenment by blinding our eyes and blocking our ears to the wisdom granted only to those whose humility and dependence upon the compassion of the Holy Trinity keep them close enough to the Spirit to hear God’s will for any given situation delivered in whispers. God be merciful to me, a sinner, prayed the cheating, lying tax collector, having no leverage whatsoever with which to “earn” such a reward. It is this publican, Jesus tells us, who left forgiven.

Of all the astute things my priest has shared with us, the most helpful as of late has been about mystery - the Mystery of the Church and its inherent ambiguity when it comes to salvation. There is a necessary vagueness in the miracle of the sacraments lest we focus too much on the gifts ( how exactly they work and who most deserves them) and not the giver. When I act, using the tools provided by the Church, out of love and a longing for more and more of Christ, they effectively strip me of the biases and assumptions interfering with Divine Illumination and the Peace transcending all understanding. When I view them as a mandatory checklist for attaining the grace of God, however, those exact same tools break me down and remind me that I am nothing, capable of nothing pure or selfless on my own. I can’t, I am realizing, assess the Faith, define it, or try and crack it like a code if I want to tap into its soul transforming, life changing capabilities. No, it’s only through living it, clinging to it on a daily, moment-to-moment basis that I find any relief from the treadmill effect of feeling full of pride one minute and in despair over my sinfulness the next.

Just last week, my wonderful Matushka, our priest’s wife, stopped by the house. It was a wreck; the kids were loud and disruptive. I was exposed as the frazzled and fallible gal I am and it was humbling, very humbling, to say the least. Without batting an eye at the chaos, she kept on making small talk and then proceeded to help me clean the kitchen, sweeping floors and washing dishes while I dried them. I had nothing of value to give in return for her kindness and generosity – no flowers, no zucchini bread, no bottle of wine, only a flimsy but heartfelt thank you which I offered again and again. She left and I teared up because it’s healing but also painful to have to accept for yourself and reveal to others your weaknesses. I was pondering this fact when I walked down to the basement to get my laundry and found a basket full of clean but rumpled clothing belonging to my sister-in-law whose been borrowing our dryer till theirs gets repaired. Having been blessed so undeservedly, I wanted to show my appreciation and pass on a mere portion of the thoughtfulness I’d experienced and so I folded those clothes, Paige’s clothes, because that’s what was right in front of me.

And so it goes, I inch my way from one lesson and revelation to the next, never peering too far ahead and praying continually for the fortitude and the confidence to not look back. From this day, from this hour, from this minute, said St. Herman of Alaska, let us strive to love GOD above all. There is clarity for those who seek it out of a yearning for true communion with the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. It’s crazy illogical and totally maddening, intellectually, that God has chosen the foolish things of the world to shame the wise and the weak to shame the strong (I Cor. 1:27), but there it is, plain as day, as hard as anything to accept but so freeing and fulfilling for those brave enough to get over themselves, let go of their misguided preconceptions and follow willingly the Truth of Christ as revealed through His Holy Church, wherever it leads them.

Aflame

They were both on my lap, each elbowing the other. I wanted my coffee but it was too far out of reach and lukewarm now. “Can you stop that, please?” I asked, scarcely masking my growing impatience by speaking slower and a tad more loudly than I normally would, if I hadn’t been trying my hardest to keep from snapping. Last year I decided I wouldn’t send our children back to their public school when August rolled around. I ordered my own curriculum, rather, and joined a homeschool group in my neighborhood, and now I am shooing away those nagging insecurities with their unproductive assumptions. As if I wasn’t certain enough that I have patience issues and some serious organizational deficiencies.

We have breakfast first, followed by readings from Scriptures and then a story, an Orthodox story involving saints or important feast days. There is so very much to learn about our Faith, and they are old enough, I believe, to start moving past the “hows” and onto the “whys.” For it’s the reasons behind the actions that fill empty gestures with meaning. It’s Her past, Her heroes, Her Tradition and theology that make the Church such a strong and sturdy refuge from the wily entrapments of sin and distorted “truths.”

Ideally, before I embarked each morning on this monumental task of ingraining within my children a love for the teachings of Christ, the house would be in order; I’d sit in our living room rocking chair with the four of them at my feet, listening attentively and interrupting only every so often to ask a clarifying and completely applicable question. We’d end in prayer, of course. I’d have no need to bite my lip in order to keep from speaking harshly. And the kids would be enthralled, so utterly moved by the sacrifices and bravery of the martyrs who spilled their blood for the sake of the cross. But ideals, it turns out, can be the bane of my existence as a mom.

There is something about bored expressions, a screaming preschooler, and piles of unwashed dishes in the kitchen sink that can dampen a mother’s mood and negate the significance of a family devotional. As hard as I try to muffle all of the paralyzing and negative self-conjecturing, suggesting I’m not spiritually mature or disciplined enough to make these concepts penetrate through our thick and impermeable obsession with ourselves, I can’t help but think repeatedly, “Why, why, why, why bother?”

We had moved into the living room, where I cleared a spot on the love seat and grumbled at the kids about the mess, their bickering, and their antsy-ness, before opening to Chapter 6 in the book, Grandmother’s Spiritual Stories: An Orthodox Treasury of Stories for Young and Old, written by Georgia Hronas. “The Miraculous Light of the Tomb of Christ,” I began. “Benjamin, are you listening? Keep your hands away from your sister, please!” And I went on, with a downcast and tired demeanor, to share with my sons and daughters about the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem where every Holy Saturday a miracle occurs drawing thousands of pilgrims annually who wish to witness for themselves, “The Sacred Light.”

Also known as the Holy Sepulchre, The Church of the Resurrection has a courtyard, the Golgotha, which is the area where the Holy Cross and tomb of Christ were found by Saint Helen, the mother of the Emperor Constantine. The Patriarch arrives at the tomb at 11:00 am, I read. He performs a Litany around the Tomb chanting special prayers and Psalms. And then he pauses before the entrance of the Holy Tomb. There, in the presence of the pilgrims, the Patriarch is searched to insure that he has nothing with which to start a fire.

I had heard of this event. I know someone who traveled many, many miles to take part in that holiest of celebrations. But on this day, just an ordinary Tuesday with a long and tedious week ahead of me, this detailed account describing how at midnight, while the Patriarch prays with earnestness in pitch blackness, a bluish colored light appears suddenly, turning white, then into a red flame before igniting the Patriarch’s candles and the vigil lamp on the Holy Tomb, gave me chills and even piqued my children’s interest. It’s shocking, isn’t it? Especially if what you’re used to is complete and total access to a domesticated version of God, whom this nation has no qualms about mocking or defining or limiting the role of to but a mild mannered wish granter who is ours for the reconfiguring when the changing tastes of society demand it. A true display of sacredness, in all of its terrifying glory, rarely leaves one feeling comfortable or unchallenged.

What I personally experienced was an overwhelming sense of unworthiness. I imagined the fasting, the waiting for hours upon hours, all the sacrificing of time, convenience and personal space made by the Christ-hungry parishioners packed shoulder to shoulder in nervous anticipation of something bigger and so much brighter than their day-to-day disappointments and frustrations. I saw my own distracted soul, so easily put out by the mundane-ness of my chores, by children being children, and by the intensity of the life I was created to live but so often water down because it’s hard, good gracious is it hard, to deny yourself.

I looked over at Elijah, Priscilla, Ben and Mary; I took in the sight of my cluttered and un-swept home; I remembered how often I forget to put salvation at the forefront of my goals, thoughts, and decisions; I questioned my capabilities as an Orthodox Christian parent called to pass on my convictions and exemplify a Trinitarian inspired love of God and my neighbors. It became obvious that I was failing, that I was flailing and drowning because I’d ceased depending on Christ and was now swimming upstream on my own. “We’re almost finished,” I assured them, “after this page we’ll take a break. I promise.” When they were quiet again, I continued, picking up near the end of the chapter with a testimony from a middle-aged man who had journeyed from Greece to Jerusalem to take part in the Paschal Divine Liturgy and receive for himself a small portion of the extraordinary and Spirit-filled fire spread from candle to candle among the faithful.

I went to church early, he explained, so I could get a good seat close to the tomb of Christ. As people began to arrive, the church was filled with thousands of people and I couldn’t breathe. I had to leave and went to the courtyard where I sat on a bench. When the light came and everybody was rejoicing, I cried, praying and saying, ‘O Lord, I traveled so far to see your Holy Light, and because of my sins and weakness I was unable to see it.' Oh how I felt for that man! It was as if I were seated next to him, also looking back from a distance on the obedience and steadfastness of my spiritual brothers and sisters whom I’d unsuccessfully tried to emulate only to be left feeling isolated by and quite ashamed of my limitations. We were together there, on the bench outside the church, asking God for mercy and coming to terms with our own inadequacies. As I was praying, he continued (and I continued, vicariously through him), I held my thirty-three candles with both hands on my knees. Suddenly, out of nowhere, came a flicker of light like a small lightening bolt and lit my candles. My eyes were filled with tears, and my heart with great joy. My joy was so great that I stood up and shouted as loud as I could with the others, ‘I have seen your Holy Light, Oh Lord, Glory be to You!!!”

Although nothing changed outwardly; although my life was no less stressful; although we had not one more penny in the bank or one less bill to pay; although my kids were still feisty and my house still a wreck, I took comfort, an enormous amount of comfort in being treasured undeservedly by a God who is bigger and so much brighter than my own day-to-day trials and let downs. “I can’t do this!” I cried, and He blessed my newfound wisdom not with material prosperity or by releasing me from my obligations and the weight of my uncertainties, but rather by revealing to me that He is more than enough. I carry this hope like a divinely lit candle and the closer I remain to the Source of that illumination, the less I stumble around in confusion, tripping over the same old hindrances to my peace of mind.

What good are my words if my heart isn’t in them? How can I speak to my family about serenity and meekness and forgiveness, about the completeness of a life lived for Christ, while still enslaved to my fears and aggravations? What greater gift can I give to my children and husband, to you, or to myself than moving nearer, and nearer still, towards God through prayer, almsgiving, and the sacraments of His Church? What else, I daresay, even matters?

Photo by Tanjica Perovic on Flickr.

Honorable

Last May, I received a phone call from my nine-year-old son, Elijah, but I couldn’t understand him due to his intermittent sobbing between just about every other sentence, “I’m in trouble,” he was whispering (at least I think that’s what he said), “but I’m not sure why.”

I am forever on a quest to make the abstract more accessible, particularly in areas of faith where miracles lose their significance, their capacity to wow and woo, over time. But maybe that’s just me, which is all the more reason to spend my years fighting, praying for the discipline to understand and absorb what is holy but hidden from the loud, the extravagant, the rational. In giving birth you preserved your virginity, in falling asleep you did not forsake the world O Theotokos, we were singing as a family a couple of weeks ago in preparation for the Feast of the Dormition, when the Orthodox Church commemorates the bodily ascent of Mary into heaven at the end of a fruitful yet often excruciating life. I chanted the Troparian slowly, so my children could make out clearly the words, which, as usual, I believed in but had a difficult time making penetrate my present circumstances.

Mary, Theotokos: there is so much I simply cannot comprehend about her multi-faceted identity as the Mother of God.

Elijah’s teacher got on the phone, “Mrs. Sabourin, we’ve had an incident.”

My chest tightened, my heart rate quickened, “What’s going on?”

After Columbine and Virginia Tech - in the aftermath of too many horrific occurrences involving senseless brutality and young people in our public schools, strict rules were set in place and uniformly followed through on. “I really don’t think that your son meant any harm,” purred Mrs. H, “but unfortunately, we didn’t have a choice. It is school policy that if any student makes a threat of any kind, that threat will be taken seriously and the student evaluated by a counselor. “Its just protocol,” was the underlying message I was receiving, as in, “Your fears about the darkening of your son’s reputation sound awfully paranoid for the situation at hand.” I was assured that the episode had been investigated and deemed innocuous. But Elijah, still raw with inexperience, was only beginning to come to terms with the shame and confusion accompanying those accusations, accusations of a type of violence he’d never previously been exposed to in either thought or word or deed. “If only you knew him like I did,” I’d briefly contemplated mentioning but just as quickly decided against it lest such a sentiment be interpreted as biased, overly meddlesome, or spitefully ignorant.

“Can you believe he stayed with her?” they probably asked amongst themselves, maybe whispered in her presence.

The moment she willingly accepted would mark the dawn of her public demise. From that day forth, her morality, convictions, and pious character would be called into question. She would have been isolated enough, both raising and being raised by God, without the added stigma of having her selflessness couched within nearly impossible to defy innuendos suggesting Mary was but a slave to her own base desires. “Let it be to me,” she said, ”according to your word,” and the bar was set for all of us who’d dare to swallow the Fire, the passions-searing inferno that is Christ.

“Would you mind if I shared your story?” I asked Elijah, “Because when I think about it, when I remember how agitated I felt as your mother when you were so grossly misunderstood, I can relate just a sliver to the sadness felt most certainly by the Theotokos as she observed helplessly the abuse of her own Son at the hands (and slanderous tongues) of His creation.”

“That’s fine,” he said. “But first let me tell you exactly what happened,” and I listened with rapt attention as before, he’d felt uncomfortable opening up to me. “At recess we’d play tag, boys against girls,” Elijah began. “This one kid, Stephanie (I will call her in this piece for the sake of anonymity) is a really fast runner and we would tease each other about whose team was better, hers or mine. I like Stephanie, she is funny – she is my friend. I should have been paying attention in music class but I got bored and so, to be silly, I doodled on a handout, Destroy Stephanie, and showed it to the person next to me who laughed and then passed it down the row. Stephanie giggled too but then my teacher grabbed the paper and then ran and got another teacher and then they both took me out into the hallway and had me sit in a desk for like an hour waiting to talk to a lady about my threatening behavior. I was so confused, mom. I felt yucky and really embarrassed. I cried, but I don’t think the other kids saw me.”

“Is this Mrs. P?” I asked, all anxious-like and edgy, “I am Molly Sabourin, Elijah’s mom.” And I was ready to defend with a vengeance my tender, squirmy, and verbally precocious child until the counselor cut me off with just a hint of irritation in her otherwise calming demeanor:

“Oh my goodness, Mrs. Sabourin, this whole situation is just nothing but ridiculous. I have three boys of my own and they are forever destroying each other and their fictitious enemies. Yes, we have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to threats against the school, but in this case it was obvious that your son had no intentions of hurting anyone. He was horrified, quite frankly, and I did my best to help him realize that the entire affair was just a huge misunderstanding. I’d advise you not to question Elijah unless he brings it up himself. I promised him that it was over and not worth fretting about.”

But what if she hadn’t, hadn’t promised him or appeased me? What if someday Elijah, or his siblings, or even Troy and I are pegged as a threat to peace and democracy - not for a foolish mistake, for crossing a line inadvertently, but rather for purposefully adhering to our Orthodox Christian beliefs at the expense of evolving American values keeping time with dangerous whims born of self-enlightenment. I worry for my kids; this world is changing rapidly, growing increasingly hostile towards Truth. There will come a day when opportunities are lost, freedoms restricted, reputations tainted by a refusal to compromise or espouse what was once viewed as sin but has now been gussied up and repackaged as open mindedness. It is highly possible that when such a day arrives, justice will elude our “bigoted” family. So, what then?

Imagine. Can you imagine being a witness to the torturing and the murder of both your son and supposed savior? The despair would be immeasurable, unfathomable, unbearable. After all she’d already surrendered to play a part in the restoration of man’s communion with the living God, her burning hope, which had kept her focused on the bigger picture, was inexplicably snuffed out with Jesus’ final declaration of “It is finished.”

“So, what now?’ she must have wondered in misery.

Not too long ago, I’d felt justified keeping Mary in her place as but a shell whose flesh was pre-ordained to house temporarily the incarnate God-man who alone was worthy of all my praise and reverence. As far as I knew, there were only two options: either ignore Mary or commit heresy by exalting her to the same level as Jesus and by doing so, deflect from His salvific work on the Cross. Knowing what I know presently, however, what I’ve been privileged to discover through Orthodoxy concerning a third choice, (one so sound and logical and compelling that every other alternative now seems to me to be lacking in fullness and substance when viewed in light of it) it makes perfect theological sense that the continual remembrance of Mary’s faithfulness to her Lord, throughout trials more straining and demanding then any other human being has ever encountered, is absolutely necessary for a complete experience of the Faith as was originally lived out by the apostles. Archbishop Dmitri of Dallas and the South wrote the following concerning the veneration of Mary:

The Orthodox Church honors and venerates the Virgin Mary as "more honourable than the Cherubim and more glorious without compare than the Seraphim.........." Her name is mentioned in every service, and her intercession before the throne of God is asked. She is given the title of "Theotokos" (Greek for "Birth-giver-of-God), as well as "Mother of God". She has a definite role in Orthodox Christianity, and can in no way be considered an instrument which, once used, was laid aside and forgotten. … The Virgin Mary in the Orthodox view is not regarded as a mediatrix or co-redemptress. She is an intercessor for us, and the content of prayer addressed to her is a request for her intercession. The Orthodox concept of the Church is the basic reason for the invocation of the Theotokos and all the saints. The Militant Church on earth and the Victorious Church in heaven are intimately bound together in love. If it is proper for one sinner to ask another sinner to pray for him, how much more fitting it must be to ask the saints already glorified and near the throne of God to pray for us. Surely, they know something of what goes on here, for else how could there be rejoicing in heaven over the conversion of one sinner? (Luke 15:10) The saints in heaven are equals of the angels (Luke 20:36), who are used by God in the accomplishment of His purpose (Acts 12:7).

There are many lovely hymns in the Orthodox Church; my favorite is sung to Mary during the Paschal Divine Liturgy. For three days she mourned, for the whole of her life she remained obedient in the midst of ridicule, prejudice, and persecution. I get chills when the time comes to travel with the angels to our grieving Theotokos, to share with her the glorious news of our triumph over death through Her Son’s Resurrection:

The Angel cried to the Lady full of grace
Rejoice! Rejoice! O pure Virgin!
Again, I say rejoice!
Thy son is risen from His three days in the tomb!
With Himself He has raised all the dead.
Rejoice, rejoice, O ye people!
Shine! Shine! Shine, O new Jerusalem!
The glory of the Lord has shown on thee.
Exult now, exult and be glad, O Zion.
Be radiant, O pure Theotokos,
In the Resurrection, the Resurrection of thy Son

I am forever on a quest to replace fear with courage, doubt with assuredness, my own agendas, for both myself and for my children, with the exact same pliability and submissiveness the Virgin Mary displayed when stepping up to embrace a role that would open for everyone one of us the door to redemption, eternal life, and freedom from the hell of our own transgressions. I am determined, but awfully impressionable, dependent upon a community of believers both in heaven and on earth to stay the course. As a woman, I am thankful for my newly acquired intimacy with femininity in its purest form, with an example of sacred nobility that in every possible way outshines the dullness inherent in vanity, insecurity, and self-gratification - with the righteous, victorious, and most honorable Mother of Christ Jesus.

O Holy Theotokos, pray to God for us!

Photo Opportunity

Well, it is time for my quarterly Handmaiden plug as the Summer 2008 issue, focusing on Miracles and Pilgrimages, is due to arrive in the mailboxes of subscribers any day now. Again, I want to encourage you to find out more about this phenonminal publication containing faith inducing, soul strengthening articles designed to address concerns specific to Orthodox Christian women, if you have not already done so. Below you will find my own latest Handmaiden contribution enititled "Photo Opportunity," which can also be heard as a podcast on Ancient Faith Radio beginning sometime on 8/19.

It began with an invitation from a cyber friend of mine to join an online photo-sharing group called “People with Icons,” which was inspired by a lovely set of photographs entitled, “Women with Icons,” created by the photographer Jocelyn Mathews. The idea being we would all take a picture of ourselves with an icon of our patron saint and upload it for others to look at. After viewing some touching contributions from my fellow group members, I was inspired to submit something of my own and so I walked upstairs to our prayer corner to find our image of the holy prophetess Anna. Upon approaching the far wall, however, adorned liberally with heavenly reminders of what truly represents the “one thing needful,” I looked her square in the eyes and then not without shame, retreated. I wasn’t yet ready, I discovered, for such a project.

When we were joining the Orthodox Church, my husband and I were told to choose a saint, a patron saint whose name we would take as our own, whose identity we would try our best to emulate. We felt drawn to Saint Simeon and the Prophetess Anna; I liked that they’d met the Christ child simultaneously and it was special to me to have an icon featuring both of them together. These patron saints would pray for us, a concept that was new to me yet intriguing. I was at a loss, however, as to how to form a more intimate relationship with mine in particular. For the past ten years, I had heard St. Anna’s name when I went forward to receive the Eucharist; I closed my nightly prayers with, “through the intercessions of the prophetess Anna” …and all the other patron saints connected with our various family members. I revered her - I believed wholeheartedly in her dedication to all of us on earth trying to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, but at that moment, standing face to face alone in our second story hallway, the idea of posing with her for a photograph such as I would take with my best of friends, my mother or my Aunt, seemed inappropriate. I was long overdue in putting forth a concerted effort to better understand this most pious individual and through that acquired awareness, become more Christ-like. Thus began my mission to both uncover information and then meditate on its relevance to my life. I began to seek a way that I might soften the formality a bit and close the gap between us I had created through a lack of communication. Who are you, Anna? Which of your traits can I imitate and draw strength from? It would be well worth my time to find out.


The most obvious place to start were the Scriptures. In the book of Saint Luke I found the following summarization of Anna’s life:

And there was one Anna, a prophetess, the daughter of Phanuel of the tribe of Asher. She was of a great age, and had lived with a husband for seven years from her virginity; and this woman was a widow of about eighty-four years, who did not depart from the temple, but served God with fastings and prayers night and day. And coming in at that instant she gave thanks to the Lord, and spoke of Him to all those who looked for redemption in Jerusalem. (Luke 2:36-38).

When I explain to you what struck me immediately upon combing that passage like a detective searching for clues, you will accurately assess that I am, unfortunately, somewhat pessimistic and in need of a faith infused backbone. At a relatively young age, Saint Anna lost her first and only husband to death. This is beyond significant to me as I waste a lot of energy being afraid of that very scenario, at times to the point of emotional paralysis. “What would I do?” “How would I go on?” I wonder, blinking back tears during a bout of insomnia while watching the chest of my own beloved spouse rise and fall steadily with sleep. Anna was once a wife, as I am a wife. It is probable she loved with the same intensity that I do, the partner whose identity had fused together with her own and whose unexpected absence ripped a throbbing and open wound within her heart. Anna grieved, I am sure, she was most likely nervous about the future but notice that the sorrow was not, by any means, the end of her story.

“Oh Holy Prophetess Anna, you endured my greatest of fears, yet through the grace of God were not crushed and beat down ever thereafter. Please pray to Christ that I might take courage in your resilience and trust with all my soul in the wisdom of His plans.”

It is hard for me to imagine, with all the breeziness and comfort I’ve grown accustomed to, being married to the Church, spending every waking moment suppressing the urge to forget that I am called upon to be perfect, just as God Himself is. Anna prayed, we are told, and fasted with fervor unknown to me. Her unrestrained commitment is like a mirror revealing the chasm between what I currently am and what I could be. But rather than taunting our weaknesses the Prophetess Anna provides a respite from mediocrity, beaming like a lighthouse that leads away from the dangers of blindness and into safety.

“St. Anna, I am tired, so very drained from fighting impulses to lie down and rest, to wallow in self-pity. Teach me, by your example, how to weather the tumultuousness of my passions until at last I find the peace achieved through sacrifice.”

My neighbor is depressed about finances, her moody children, and she and her husband’s strained marriage. And what do I have to offer her? A lot more than I actually give, which is usually a nodding head and a sympathetic expression. It’s always sitting there on the tip of my tongue, the conversation about love--Christ’s love specifically--and how it transforms even the grimmest of situations. But what would she think of me if I unleashed that un-neutral bombshell? I suppose it shouldn’t concern me, and in all actuality should probably spill from my lips because my spirit cannot contain it - my gratitude and joy at having found the sacred pearl of great price (Matthew 13:45, 46). How can unashamed convictions and impartiality walk hand-in-hand? Why am I so timid about openly speaking the Truth? The Prophetess Anna, my holy namesake, was defined by her enthusiasm, her message about God and the imperativeness of repentance that never wavered, never fluctuated, never watered itself down to appease the masses.

“I need words and motivation, I want to share with others what I’ve experienced through the Church in terms of clarity, mercy, and a sense of purpose. You, O Prophetess Anna, were a mouthpiece until your last days on earth for what was and still is the very crux of all creation… for God. May your zeal get under my skin like a splinter that persistently irritates the normal goings on of my daily routine. May I never settle for “good enough” when before me shines your tirelessly impeccable standards so bright that anything less than a total commitment to the Faith I am trusting to save me feels only dull, cloudy, and unsatisfying.”

How fortuitous, don’t you think – that I was linked for all eternity to one whose spiritual muscle’s bulge where mine hang soft and limp and in need of some serious weight bearing? Or is nothing coincidental when it comes to salvation? Here’s the honest truth – I need all the help I can get and praise be to God for the tools He’s set before us including Eucharist, confession, and the earnest intercessions of His saints. Can I afford to take for granted any one of these pulsating lifelines through which nourishment is provided like a cord attaching a baby to the sustenance of his mother, before labor and delivery finally free him from the flesh restricting access to his source for all security and satisfaction? Well there’s a no-brainer…I think not. So how do I proceed in my quest for friendship and closeness with someone who’s journeyed onward from out of this life and into another beyond it? I suppose with her Troparion - the hymn sung in Saint Anna’s honor on her day of commemoration, February 3rd:

In the Temple thou didst embrace as an infant God the Word Who became flesh,/ O glorious Elder Symeon, who didst hold God in thine arms./ And also as a Prophetess the august Anna ascribed praise to Him./ We acclaim you as divine servants of Christ.

I should know this, I should recite it on a regular basis; I should anticipate our Name’s Day instead of scratching my head two days after its passing asking, “H-m-m, now when was that again?” I should maintain an ongoing conversation, sharing my thoughts and insecurities along the way. I should remember that she is watching and witnessing my progression from a spineless observer to what I pray will be a bold and obvious beacon for Christ’s glory. I should remember her utter joy at having met her God incarnate and be stimulated to likewise rejoice. Pray unto God for me, O Holy Saint Anna, well-pleasing to God: for I turn unto thee, who art the speedy helper and intercessor for my soul (antiochian .org).

I’ll have my mother come over to give me a hand, to hold the camera while I position myself in such a way that will visually, artistically represent my forging of a connection with a reality that binds heaven to earth, sinners to saintliness, me to an ancestor who has completed her race and now stands at the finish line compelling me to press onward. I will feel within my grasp the painted wood, a very touchable representation of that which blows my mind if I think about it too logically, instead of mystically or innocently like a child. I will use this opportunity, this invitation as a springboard to dive ever more deeply into the mysteries of the Church, into Her bosom of magnificence and righteousness. I’m a slow yet willing learner who admits to a habit of feet dragging but is now quite good and anxious to get started.

Holy Prophetess Anna, I implore you to bring my burdens, all my baggage and my blunders before the exact same of Son of God that you held with such reverence in your aged arms. Please beseech of Him that my vision be enhanced, that the scales on my eyes be lifted, that I might see you, know you, venerate you, and be wiser, braver, more confident because of it.

Forgive me for not asking this of you sooner.

Brightness

It is difficult to recreate the relationships made in those late teen/early twenties years, when there was plenty of time and opportunity to pour your energy into developing friendships. The bonds I formed in college were tight and sturdy. My friends and I lived together and affirmed one another no matter what the real truths may have been (“He totally still has feelings for you,” “That haircut is perfect for your face shape,” “Your professor is way too demanding!”). We were loyal and invested and aware of every minute detail in each others’ personal dramas. Sure, there were squabbles and painful periods of miscommunication but overall, the permanent impact our indelible connection had on each of us was overwhelmingly positive and fortifying.

After graduation, we physically dispersed into marriages, full-time jobs, and various dingy apartment buildings. We spoke often and got together as much as possible. I longed for the security their comforting presence provided me – me, the new wife insecure in her role as an adult. We laughed mostly, at ourselves and the embarrassing debacles we all seemed prone to stumble into. They were my safety net beneath a tenuous transformation from a silly and self-indulgent girl into a woman with consequential responsibilities. I missed them fiercely when, after having a baby, I was sucked into the timeless abyss of motherhood where phone calls, lunch dates, and rented movies are near constantly interrupted and the attention required for keeping up and staying entwined must be conserved for meeting the needs of husbands and children. Although frightening, a break was necessary if I was ever to take ownership of the very isolation that would draw me into the totality of parenthood. I had to reconfigure a self-appraisal that read, “I am actually just like you, all ambitious and culturally relevant…only with a kid” until it accurately represented my irrefutable reality: I was first and foremost (as unromantic as it sounds) a “mom.”

Eventually, I let go - or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that over time, my restlessness was forcibly pried from out of me by way of countless frustrating scenarios involving trantruming toddlers, long and lonely afternoons, an insurmountable amount of chores, and sibling rivalries, all wearing down skewed expectations. Eventually, I accepted my life for what it was and in doing so found purpose and meaning within it. All was quiet for a while; we drifted off, my friends and I, into unexplored new challenges we could only take on solo. But in the aftermath, when we finally resurfaced after months and years of diving deeper, and deeper still, under shallow preoccupations, we were able to reconnect on a whole new level. We met again, ready to share and encourage, within the context of our strengthened faith, layered and tested. We knew, of course, the answers lay outside of us and so we pointed one another in the direction of Christ Jesus. I, who once reserved all of my public references to God for Sunday mornings, found His name in my mouth during most of my conversations, on random weekdays, and in reference to everyone and everything because everyone and everything I now viewed in light of our salvation.

Last Saturday, Kara flew in from Arkansas and Jen drove up from Indianapolis. My sister-in-law, Paige, walked on over from the down the street and Beth, sweet Beth, her hands and her heart filled with three tiny sons, joined us in spirit. It had been seven years since all of us were last together. We made a pilgrimage to our alma mater where antiseptic hallways, dorm room windows, and the smell of textbooks brought back memories sharp and lucid- unearthed emotions we’d left buried in that urban scholastic hotbed of stress, pie-in-the-sky aspirations, and an intensive sort of camaraderie never again to be duplicated in the bigger world outside. Later that night, we laughed hard like we used to. Time froze on my living room couch. We were nineteen and thirty-four simultaneously, taken aback by the swiftness of a decade-and-a- half passing right under our noses, while we were busy trying to make good on at least a few of the promises we had made to ourselves when we were refreshingly, naively, idealistic. After we hugged and they departed, I began looking critically at my past; feeling pleased with some parts and disappointed by quite a few others. I wrestled with the fragility and temporalness of my existance on this earth. “Why am I so doubtful, so skittish, so pensive? Why did I bypass so many chances to bring hope and encouragement to others? Why had I been vain and selfish and cynical? Why am I still frightened and unnerved by a mysterious future?”

When my priest, known and respected for telling it exactly like it is, started his homily with, “You have to be patient with yourself,” I nearly wept. I had been all bunched up and in a tizzy over my already committed and potential failures and I wanted, oh boy, what I longed for, was rest. I needed to accept for myself what I was more than ready to recognize in my dear and true companions, taking two steps forward, three steps back, then dusting off and starting all over again: that there is grace and redemption to be found in just keeping at it, regardless of our foibles along the way. Return O Lord: How long? And be entreated concerning your servants, wrote Moses in the Psalms. We are filled with Your mercy in the morning, and in all our days we greatly rejoiced and were glad; Gladden us in return for the days You humbled us, For the years we saw evil things. And behold Your servants and Your works, And guide their sons; and let the brightness of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper for us the works of our hands. The notes in my Orthodox Study Bible reveal the following about these verses, so passionate in their entreaty for significance and substance within our transience:

Psalm 89 is a morning prayer designed to keep one focused on the Lord rather than on this temporal life and its hopelessness. For He exists outside of time, and is therefore our only refuge. Every morning is an opportunity to return to Him in repentance, and He is very patient, because a thousand years in His sight are like yesterday, which has passed, and like a watch in the night. He is very patient, because He does not will that anyone should perish. Therefore, when we focus on the Lord every morning, we look for His return at the Second Coming, and for His mercy, joy, enlightenment, and prosperity throughout each day.

You are patient, You are patient, life is fleeting. Be my refuge, my compass, my brightness. Amen.

Seven

Today you are seven-years-old. I will take you to the mall to get your ears pierced because that is what you asked for - because that is how old I was when I cringed from the heat of an ear piercing gun in the shaking hands of a teenager working the counter at a chain boutique selling lip gloss and cheapy jewelry. I can still feel the burn and exhilaration.

You like it when I tell and re-tell you about the morning when I had cramping, consistent and steady cramping that I ignored because it was early, one month too early for your arrival. You laugh when I explain how five hours later, I was rocking you in our living room while the home birth nurse filled out some paperwork and daddy and I tried to process the shock of your unexpected existence. I was tired but elated. I was perplexed, but relieved that it was over- my gosh, the labor was over before I 'd even had time to dread it or fear for our safety. No one had been prepared; nothing had been organized, and it didn't matter.

When you were tiny, I'd try to imagine what you'd look like when you got older; I wondered if I'd recognize your face with its skin pulled taut against your cheeks once so fleshy and doughy and irresistibly pinchable. I scrutinized your features, your hands, and knees, and toes hoping to find on your pudgy body a physical trait undeniably passed down from me, your beaming mother. Like the roses in our garden, you bloomed in an instant, so seemingly over night I was surprised that I hadn't captured with my very own eyes your pants getting shorter or your toes creeping out over the edge of your summer sandals. You've got your adventurous and ambitious spirit all set on tearing through the next decade knowing freedom and independence lie beyond it - but I'm not nearly ready for that, so please be patient.

I was timid and you are brazen. I was a follower, you're a leader. I had frizzy auburn curls whereas your own locks are tame and smooth and the color of coffee with cream. We are opposites in many ways, you and I, and yet at times I swear I can read your thoughts or predict with perfect accuracy the next words that will exit your mouth. You are the sweetest, most affectionate, most stubborn little girl I've ever adored with all my heart. I know now, finally, contemplating you, just exactly how much my own parents loved me. Because you can't understand, you simply cannot imagine how intense is the connection between a mom and her daughter until you yourself are consumed by the enormity of such a miracle. From now until forever I will swell, deflate, shine, sink, rise on the coattails of your own joys and sorrows. "Will you please come and help me when I'm about to have my own baby?" you inquired of me just a couple of days ago. "Nothing," I assured you, "and I mean absolutely nothing could stop me."

We were talking about heaven, you and your brothers and I, and what we'd do first upon arriving. Elijah thought he'd ask some questions of his fiery patron saint; Ben thought he'd look around for the rest of us. But you sweetheart, cleared your throat and adjusted your facial expression until it represented appropriately the downright seriousness of your intentions. "I," you announced slowly, dramatically,"would find Jesus and wash His feet...with my hair." And we all had to concede that that was officially the best answer. I smiled in my soul but not outwardly lest you mistook my utter enjoyment for disbelief, because I honestly think that that is exactly what you would do and I respect you for it.

I hope, my dear, that you retain your passion and sensitivity, and I pray that adolescence will not rob you of your sprightly unselfconsciousness. May our Lord God override my own desires for a smooth and easy future and lead you, via whatever paths He deems best, toward salvation. In the meantime, let me bask in your creativeness and constant presence. Let me hold you, delight in you, and ask you for forgiveness when I forget to tune out the peripherals and really listen. On this day, seven-years-ago, we were formally introduced and life's been better, rosier, more spectacular ever since. You're a gift to us all, Priscilla.

Happy Birthday!

Boundaries

I can be good, maybe too good at setting personal boundaries. When things get hectic, I pull inward, zoning in on nothing else but the tasks before me. Being naturally introverted, my default reaction to stress or piling responsibilities is to cut myself off socially - no phone calls, no correspondence, no invitations, no volunteering to bring a meal, host an event, or clean up afterwards. I am not the type of woman who needs to curb for the sake of her household an excessive preoccupation with people, parties, or participating in anything other than in the lives of those living right here, under my roof, sharing my last name.

This would be fine and all, if my sabbatical from the outside world were a temporary solution to a temporary dilemma. The problem is that I'm always busy; I am always overwhelmed because, hello...I have four young children. My circumstances won't be changing anytime soon and I'm pretty sure it isn't healthy to keep burying my head in the sand without ever coming up for air - or reaching out.

A few weeks ago, we arranged a long overdue get together with two families very close to our own. They met at our house for an afternoon of barbecuing, beach frolicking, and uplifting conversation. All in all, we have fourteen children between us. I watched on with awe and fascination as these mothering friends of mine tended to the needs of their many sons and daughters ranging in age from four months to twelve-years-old. There was never a moment when their eyes were not scanning our crowded back yard for preschoolers known to wander. They moved fluidly from diaper changes, to nursing, to snack making to sunscreen applying.

They looked harried, much like I do right now, and stretched to their limits. There was no denying that motherhood has, at times, both suffocated and consumed them, has demanded more from them then they ever imagined possible. They talked honestly about their fears and insecurities, each of which sounded eerily familiar. They had more things and people to manage than I did. I had nothing on them in terms of workload or sleep deprivation. And yet, and yet they were able to step outside of it all and tune in to the quiet (and sometimes not so quiet) concerns of others, myself included.

I studied these women who never waited for a request to "hold my baby for a second,"or fill a plate, or pour lemonade into the cups of little ones not belonging to them. I observed as they asked questions of each other and really concentrated on the answers. I saw them laugh, embrace, and clean my kitchen. That evening, when only one of the families remained - the family with the longest drive home - I reached for a sweater in my closet and felt a gush of running water pouring down on all my clothes from out of a hole I had never noticed before in the ceiling. Without an ounce of hesitation, they decided to stick around and help to solve a potentially disastrous mystery that neither Troy or I felt capable of figuring out ourselves, especially at such a late hour. There was sawing in the garage, Home Depot runs, a toilet removal in our upstairs bathroom. Then at last, there was resolution. Even now I can't get over it, their thoughtfulness and generosity. It was all quite humbling, convicting, and very hopeful.

The other day, Elijah and I were talking on the couch. He had just finished reading to me from the July issue of a children's devotional booklet that several months back, he had ordered a free subscription to. "Shouldn't we be telling everyone in our neighborhood about Jesus?" he asked, and baggage I had buried years ago regarding "open-air" evangelism, scheduled "revivals,"covert operations involving plants with leading questions being placed in an audience gaping at mimes reenacting the crucification, resurfaced in an instant. I had to stop and collect my thoughts before I answered.

I knew that these were personal issues, irrelevant to my idealistic Orthodox Christian son. I know that I still have mixed feelings about "witnessing" and yet as followers of Christ we have been called to share our faith. Immediately I thought of our friends with their sacrificial offerings of time and empathy. I recalled how their natural referrals to prayer and Church were intermingled with the washing of my dishes, listening to my stories, and meaningful compliments about my kids. I remembered how after they left, I felt not guilty about my own shortcomings but rather thankful, thankful for all the goodness in my life; I felt not frightened about the consequences of my own selfishness, but rather inspired, inspired to pass along the kindness that had undeservedly come my own way via a hard working husband and wife. I remembered that our encounter with them had girded my soul.

"Well, Elijah," I finally replied, weighing each sentence carefully before proceeding. "Teaching people about Jesus, I think, should involve not as much telling as showing. If we keep our eyes and hearts open we'll see all kinds of ways to model Christ's unconditional mercy. Words by themselves, without a relationship, without trust that has blossomed within genuine friendship, can sometimes appear empty or inauthentic. An individual who has experienced first-hand the peace and love of God through us, will be much more likely to have a lasting desire to dedicate their whole entire existence to becoming like Him. Of course we should witness to our neighbors and we can start by making ourselves available to be of help to those in need."

He had long ago stopped paying attention - had lost interest approximately two sentences in to my lengthy soliloquy on evangelism. I fully realized that I was talking, talking, talking to myself but it was imperative that I come to terms with a commandment I was in perilous danger of throwing out along with the tacky religious t-shirt and doomsday-ish infused bathwater. There's no time, no room for cynicism; no possible justification for withholding from others the same compassion God bestows upon me daily. Let your light so shine before men, said Jesus in the book of St. Matthew, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.

The whorish woman at the well received forgiveness and lost her shamefulness. She was literally overflowing with a gratitude impossible to reign in or keep to herself. To say there was something different about her since her meeting with the Messiah would be an understatement. She was motivated by joy, undaunted by naysayers; she was on fire.

I am good, maybe too good at protecting my own modest flame from awkwardness, from unpleasantness, from darkness. I'd be wrong to think what I haven't done won't matter.

Photo by MrLomo on flickr.

Resignation

Dearest loved ones,

I am writing to let you know that I am sorry. I am sorry that I've spent so much, too much time agonizing over my own deficiencies when all you've ever wanted was my attention and for me to be at peace. It started when you were babies and I came home, stayed home all day. My own mother, and her mother before her, had been so very efficient at washing clothes and mending them, making savory and comforting meals from out of leftovers and pantry staples, mopping floors, weeding a garden - keeping house. So I waited, waited for the instincts to kick in that would help to control the chaos which had swallowed our small apartment; I waited and waited and waited but they totally stood me up - they totally stood me up and so I read.

You have no idea, my darlings, how much pressure there is on a young mother to keep everything in order: your behavior, the grocery list, our messes. I borrowed and purchased used manuals on bread baking, clutter clearing, schedule keeping, and discipline. I devoted myself to the process of transformation - to becoming my friend serving homemade granola and flax meal muffins to her toddler, my neighbor with the labeled bins and laminated chore charts, the woman in my Church with the hand sewn nativity calendar, to becoming everyone and yet no one in particular.

I apologize for the ruined laundry, the hundreds of resolutions I could never follow through on, for teaching you nary a handicraft or a foreign language; I apologize for shutting the garage door on our minivan. Somewhere along the way it ceased to be about your welfare and more about my own pride, insecurities, and envy. I wasted hours on treating the symptoms instead of the cause of my discontent. I'm a wreck, children, when I cease to nail my flesh to the fear of Christ- which is different, mind you, than talking about Him or making references to His goodness in conversation. When I reach the point where nothing truly matters but the obtaining of my salvation, when my only motivation for speaking, redirecting, beautifying, entertaining, forgiving, writing, sacrificing, spending, befriending, volunteering, educating, and worshiping is love for Christ, plain and simple, I will lose myself and then rid myself of the pesky expectations so irrelevant to the existence I was created for.

So here's the deal, my sons and daughters, your mother is not gifted in the art of domesticity, she is impulsive and somewhat flighty, quite capable of getting lost in her own neighborhood. Though I may serve the same five basic dinners to you over and over and over again, though your batman suitcase may always be stuffed with mismatched socks whose partners I've misplaced and will most likely never find, though I no longer have any idea what is molding inside the Tupperware containers in the refrigerator, there is still plenty I can offer you as a parent:

I promise that I will stay loyal, stay loyal and devoted and invested in your lives. I promise to own up to my own mistakes. I will talk with you about anything; don't be ashamed or embarrassed to approach me. I will enjoy you. I will try to be more patient. I will focus my energies on becoming less obsessed with the ever rotating, new and grandiose schemes promising to improve my experience as a homemaker and more consistent with our family prayers and my personal prayers and remembering those who are struggling with pain or loneliness. I will do my best to keep all of our daily frustrations in perspective.

I used to think that I just wasn't mom material, which was true I found out if by "mom material" I meant "Stepford Wife," but raising mute and passive offspring without the messiness of free will to make things complicated now sounds awfully morose to me. I am certainly no expert on child rearing but I do believe (finally!) that I am the best mother for you, Elijah, Priscilla, Benjamin, and Mary. I believe that I will one day be held accountable not for how successful I was at getting the poster paint out of your jean shorts, but for how much effort I put forth toward to your spiritual development. I believe you have revealed to me just as much, if not more, than I've passed on to you so far about faith and resilience and mercy - about the second, fifth, millionth chance we are given to get it right. Thank you for that and for everything.

I am here for you...always.

Love,

Mom

Marriage

My dress was off-white and perfect. Worn only once before, 28 years earlier by my mother, it reflected with its empire waist and flowing train a timeless elegance both simple and stunning. I fantasized about that dress and the sensation of its layered netting scratching my stockinged legs, the swishing sounds of taffeta serenading my every graceful step. I imagined myself as a princess lifted from the pages of a storybook; I imagined myself as a bride.

Just two months shy of my 23rd birthday, I walked arm in arm with my weepy father down the aisle of the church my future husband, Troy, had grown up in. I was thinking that he looked handsome and my bridesmaids beautiful in their coordinating mint green shawls. I was aware of my high-heeled shoes pinching toes more accustomed to flip-flops and of an impossible to reach itch beneath my carefully coiffed up-do, but that was the extent of my pondering. To be honest, I hadn’t thought much beyond this magical day at all. My wedding was the culmination, the happy ending, the grand finale of my inexperienced life. As a little girl, my daydreams had usually stopped here: in this dress and at this moment.

They always tell you (the already married women) that your wedding day will be a blur, and the bride-to-be smiles politely, secretly confidant that her wedding will be different, that she will remember every detail of that glorious occasion in slow, deliberate, motion. Never again, in all likelihood, will she ever plan any other event with the same degree of passion, drama, and intensity. I was no different, and was thus quite surprised when my wedding day was over as soon as it had begun - my memories but a swirl of camera clicks and kisses choreographed to the tune of clinking glasses.

I remember sitting at a restaurant with Troy just hours after our cake and finger food reception earlier that afternoon. With all the hullabaloo of planning and celebrating behind us we were at somewhat of a loss as to what to do next. The conversation felt awkward and forced (“Nice wedding uh?”). I was still in ideal mode, and worried a bit that the warm tingling passion I’d assumed would electrify us both from the moment we said, “I do” had not kicked in as expected. I was confused as to why in these first hours as a wife I still felt insecure, like I could say or do something stupid to make him love me less at any moment.

After a week in the Smokey Mountains, where we spent our honeymoon terrified by pitch-black skies, howling coyotes, and winding roads up to ear popping altitudes, I looked forward to starting life, real life, as a team; I looked forward to reveling in our intimacy. Without realizing it, I shifted all my hopes, my self-esteem, and my longings for contentment onto one imperfect man. A dangerous combination of wanting to please and yet of wanting to be pleased resulted in some initial passive aggressiveness on my part.

“Do you care if I go out with my friends tonight?” Troy asked me once early on in our marriage. I did care. I didn’t want to be alone on a Saturday. I didn’t want Troy to prefer their company to mine.

“That’s fine,” I lied, “…I mean if that’s what you want to do.” Knowing of course that he would read my mind and refuse to leave without me.

“Great! I’ll call them,” He’d said, pecking me on the cheek while reaching for the phone. I, in turn, pouted my way through the next two hours with grunts and one-word answers.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Oh … nothing,” I sighed, and then stood up dramatically and started to wash the dishes.

“Alright, then. See ya later!” Without batting an eye, he took off for his guys’ only evening.

As the door closed behind him, I sobbed in disappointment. I felt completely overwhelmed by loneliness. I had, essentially, put all my eggs in one basket, a basket Troy had dropped because it was altogether much too large for any human being to carry. When he came home to find me crying, he wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“What happened?” He asked alarmed.

“How could you leave, when you knew I had no plans? Why didn’t you want to spend a quiet night with me, your wife?” I blubbered.

Instead of an apology, Troy pulled back his arms and looked sternly at me. “I asked you if it was o.k. for me to go and you said yes. I asked if anything was wrong and you said ‘no’. It is not fair for you to say one thing and mean another. I need us to be honest with each other!” Ouch. The truth held up in front of you like a big old mirror in unflattering light is never pleasant to look at, but there it was, plain as day; I was wrong to think that Troy should bend over backwards to interpret my emotions. I was naïve to hope that marriage would fill a gap in my soul created for being stuffed to overflowing with adoration for God.

Two people trying to live by breathing in one another will find out soon enough that the oxygen is limited. Their love will inevitably fall victim to suffocation. Every married couple eventually gets to the point where the rose colored glasses, through with each of them had viewed the other, become shattered. It is highly common in this day and age to just assume, then, that the match was a poor one, that someone else is out there capable of saying and doing all the right things to keep you satisfied - all the things your old partner couldn’t. It is at this crucial stage that the difference between marriage as a sacrament of the Church verses marriage as an expression of affection between two individuals becomes most significant. It was at this crossroads within my own marriage that the death of romanticized misconceptions made way for the resurrection of a miraculous and unconditional love rooted in divinity.

There is no relationship between human beings, said St. John Chyrsostom in his homily on marriage, so close as that of husband and wife, if they are united as they ought to be. He goes on to say that:

Paul has precisely described for husband and wife what is fitting behavior for each: she should reverence him as the head and he should love her as his body. But how is this behavior achieved? That it must be is clear; now I will tell you how. It will be achieved if we are detached from money, if we strive above everything for virtue, if we keep the fear of God before our eyes. What Paul says to servants in the next chapter applies to us as well, … knowing that whatever good anyone does he will receive the same again from the Lord (Eph. 6:8). Love her not so much for her own sake but for Christ’s sake. That is why he says, be
subject … as to the Lord. Do everything for the Lord’s sake, in a spirit of obedience to Him.

Between the years of 1997 and 1999, I became a wife, an Orthodox Christian, and a mother; all three of these roles were challenging. My marriage went through several metamorphoses at break neck speed in order to keep up with the changes. By the end of that 24-month period, I was much too tired to be flawless. But in the midst of admitting I had no idea what I was doing, in the process of shedding old skin to make room for the new me growing and evolving with each trial, with the realization that my husband could not save me from the frustration of reaching my own limits, I found the desperation necessary to throw myself at the feet of Christ. I began to internalize the teachings of St. John Chyrsostom, and discovered that when my identity was wrapped up in my role as a Christian, when love for God was the source from which my thoughts and actions originated, I was more apt to support Troy with no strings attached. When I trusted in my own shallow resources, however, my love became possessive, manipulative, and self-serving.

With the onset of parenthood, Troy and I had to reacquaint ourselves all over again with each other, now as “mom” and “dad.” We had different backgrounds and different ideas about discipline and job sharing. I felt it unfair that his life did not change as severely as my own and he felt limited as to what he could give to a baby obsessed with its mother. Our words became poorly aimed arrows, usually missing their mark. I was too emotional to be taken seriously, I figured bitterly, and he was too removed from my existence as a lonely new mother to ever offer the right advice or comfort. Orthodoxy was the one common denominator in our lives. Communing together, fasting together, and standing as a couple before our icons in prayer, fueled our desire to keep trying, to keep giving, to keep sacrificing ourselves for the sake of salvation- to obey Christ by serving one another.

Troy and I each desired respect for the positive elements we were bringing to this marriage and to this family. I had to force myself to inquire about his day and really listen, asking questions that confirmed my care for and pride in his ability to persevere within a stressful job environment. I had to pause and mull over my grievances, determining while calm whether or not they were worth a confrontation. If so, I had to proceed with carefully constructed explanations (rather than loud, impulsively fired assaults on his character- assaults that would surely be regretted by us both) and remain open to the criticism I would receive in the process. I had to pray every morning for wisdom and correct thinking, for divine guidance on when to assert myself and when to hold my tongue. I knew that the natural outcome of a healthy marriage was healthy children who would not compromise for anything less than being treated with loving respect by their own potential partners down the road. I knew I wanted to show my kids that Troy and I were a united team, incapable of being divided.

Troy is a very attentive father; I have fallen in love all over again with this “new” older man beside me, transformed by the hardships and pleasures of providing for his family. I am especially sensitive now to the slow steady drifting due to inadequate communication, pouncing on the widening gap between us and stitching it back together with prayer, apologies, and forthright conversation. We invest ourselves in this marriage, making frequent deposits of affirmation, unprompted kindness, and extemporaneous hugs and kisses. Troy and I make it quite clear there are times when he and I are not to be interrupted. We teach our kids by example that the relationship between moms and dads must be cultivated with time and effort, that giving us space to bond and catch up after a long day apart is beneficial for everyone.

I am proud of Troy and he is proud of me, out of that mutual pride flows courage, stamina and a continuous yearning for improvement. The sacredness of our marrital covenant only deepens as the years pass by and as the obstacles of raising four spirited children test our faith and commitment to one another. Marriage is never static. This miraculous relationship must be nourished or it will wither and die of starvation. It must be watered with sweat and tears in order to bloom and bring beauty to its household. The healing effect of a sincerely offered compliment from Troy never ceases to amaze me, nor does my own power to return the gift of encouragement with reciprocated words of heart-felt appreciation. May we never, when our children are grown and gone, look upon one another as strangers who have lost their one connection, their only adhesive whose absence makes evident two separate hearts beating out of synch and shivering in the frigidness of love grown cold. May the sacrament of marriage purify our souls and always remind us that God is good.

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