Happy New Year! Yeah, I know. But it's the first week of Advent, which marks the beginning of the Liturgical Year. This year, we Catholics began using a new translation of the Mass...a bit of an adventure to be sure. It is a beautiful translation, though, and I'm looking forward to growing comfortable with it in the coming months.
I'm a little embarrassed to admit what I'm about to share, but I'm too excited to keep it to myself. I purchased a new Bible a few weeks ago. It's my first Catholic Edition Bible. I have continued to use my trusty NIV, even though I have been Catholic for nearly 16 years. I am using this Advent as a jumping-off point to re-discover scripture. It's been several years since my last "read-through" of the Bible. I've grown, and God has led me down some paths that I never imagined even existed. I've read, seen, heard, and experienced a lot during these years, and it has changed me. My companion resources are different now, and the actual translation is new for me, too. I can't wait to see what treasures I will uncover this time through!
So, in the spirit of expectation and new beginnings that Advent holds, I wish you a blessed Advent. Prepare ye the way of the Lord!
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
No Storm Can Shake My Inmost Calm
A week ago today, I began to face the possibility, now realized, that my seventh child would not be born into this world. As anyone might expect, I was scared. I prayed. I begged God to keep his hand on my little one -- to keep him safe. I began to dread confirmation of what, somewhere in my heart, I already knew: the life I had carried inside me was gone. But even as scared as I was of what was to come, there was a stillness inside of me. I knew that regardless of the medical outcome of the pregnancy, my little one was in God's hands, as was I. In the stillness, gratitude became my strength.
I am so grateful for my family. I have a wonderful husband who loves and provides for me and for our children. I have six beautiful, healthy sons who make me crazy, and bring me such joy. I have an extended family that has always encouraged, supported, and loved me, even when I have worked at being unlovable.
I am so grateful for all the women in my life who have had miscarriages, and have been so generous with their support. They have not tried to explain, distract, or comfort. They have simply acknowledged, and let their own silent triumph be my encouragement.
I am so grateful for kind words from sincere hearts.
I am so grateful that medically, this loss was a simple one: early, uncomplicated, and without cause to fear future complications.
I am so grateful that in all the ways this could have been worse, it wasn't.
I am so grateful that the sun is shining today.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging
Since Christ is Lord of Heav'n and earth
How can I keep from singing?
I am so grateful.
I am so grateful for my family. I have a wonderful husband who loves and provides for me and for our children. I have six beautiful, healthy sons who make me crazy, and bring me such joy. I have an extended family that has always encouraged, supported, and loved me, even when I have worked at being unlovable.
I am so grateful for all the women in my life who have had miscarriages, and have been so generous with their support. They have not tried to explain, distract, or comfort. They have simply acknowledged, and let their own silent triumph be my encouragement.
I am so grateful for kind words from sincere hearts.
I am so grateful that medically, this loss was a simple one: early, uncomplicated, and without cause to fear future complications.
I am so grateful that in all the ways this could have been worse, it wasn't.
I am so grateful that the sun is shining today.
No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I'm clinging
Since Christ is Lord of Heav'n and earth
How can I keep from singing?
I am so grateful.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Into Thy Hands...
I think I knew that something was awry. I haven't "felt" pregnant for a while. If what I felt in the early weeks of my other pregnancies was anticipation and joy, then is this not feeling...dread? Emptiness? And then when my body began to show the signs of what my heart already knew, there was no single event -- an infamous day from which I can move forward. There was a twinge. A sensation. And then days upon days in which every time I move, my body reminds me of the child I will never hold. There are familiar pains, but they have been soothed before by an infant nuzzled to my breast. With passing hours, my eyes see evidence not of a child brought to birth, but of what remains of the child I will never hold, slipping away, lifeless. How cruel, it seems, that they should look so much the same.
Truth remains, regardless of time or circumstance. And this is truth: Life is never an accident. No matter how brief, no matter if it is lived in full view or passes unseen by any eye of this world, it remains a testimony of love and of divine life. No life is without purpose. No human circumstance is beyond redemptive grace. No suffering is without value when surrendered to suffering hands.
I murmur these to myself, gritting my teeth as the piercing pain in my body rises to keep pace with the one in my soul, aching for the child I will never hold.
Let reason speak truth to silence the senseless ravings of grief. Let faith bind me fast to firm truth, lest I be engulfed by the sweeping tide of loss. Let wisdom bring vision to clear my eyes of minute, agonizing detail and soften it to a single remembered moment of my time on this earth, when a child I will never hold burst into life from love, and was caught away into eternity, held here always, if only in memory, by the love that gave him life.
Truth remains, regardless of time or circumstance. And this is truth: Life is never an accident. No matter how brief, no matter if it is lived in full view or passes unseen by any eye of this world, it remains a testimony of love and of divine life. No life is without purpose. No human circumstance is beyond redemptive grace. No suffering is without value when surrendered to suffering hands.
I murmur these to myself, gritting my teeth as the piercing pain in my body rises to keep pace with the one in my soul, aching for the child I will never hold.
Let reason speak truth to silence the senseless ravings of grief. Let faith bind me fast to firm truth, lest I be engulfed by the sweeping tide of loss. Let wisdom bring vision to clear my eyes of minute, agonizing detail and soften it to a single remembered moment of my time on this earth, when a child I will never hold burst into life from love, and was caught away into eternity, held here always, if only in memory, by the love that gave him life.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
The Long Answer
The question has been asked: "What's with the mantilla?" I've offered short answers, but here's the long one, at long last.
The notion of covering my head in worship settings has been with me since I was in Jr. High School. That was when I first encountered St. Paul's letters on my own -- apart from the topical use of them in sermons and Bible studies I had attended to that point. I remember being particularly interested in his "propriety in worship" teachings. Someone had remarked once to me that the church I attended at the time reminded her of "kids playing church," and it had bothered me. I felt a need to understand why we did things the way we did, and to understand why it didn't seem "real" to some. I won't say it was an obsession, but it was certainly the beginning of a long journey to understand my faith and the way I practiced it, and the way I wanted to practice it. Maybe it was my age, maybe it was the voice of the Holy Spirit already pulling me toward Catholicism, (probably both), but where I noticed things that the Bible directed that were not in practice in my church, I really dug to figure out why.
First Corinthians 11 was one of "those passages." But any woman who prays or prophesies with her head unveiled brings shame upon her head, for it is one and the same thing as if she had had her head shaved. For if a woman does not have her head veiled, she may as well have her hair cut off. But if it is shameful for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, then she should wear a veil...if a woman has long hair it is her glory, because long hair has been given [her] for a covering." I had never even SEEN a woman with her head covered in church. Imagine the fuss this discovery set off in my mind! German Baptists, Mennonites, and Amish women (who traditionally cover their heads all the time) were a rare sight where I grew up. There were plenty of unaffiliated Pentecostals around who all wore long hair, but none who covered. I wrestled with the point with all the wisdom I could muster at 13, and decided that WE didn't cover at church (or anywhere else) because we weren't "long-hair" Pentecostals. I made an uneasy peace with the explanation that Paul's words were a product of their time and culture and that they didn't really apply in our society.
Now, fast forward about 20 years. I hadn't set foot in a protestant service in 12 years or more, but that whole long hair/covered head thing was still with me. I even had a little secret wish in the back of my mind when I saw women with their heads covered in church: that I had always worn a veil so that I wouldn't have to figure out a way to start, or to explain myself if I did. I saw those women as "grandfathered (grandmothered?) in" to the veil-wearing club before Vatican II changed the whole world. Then one night, I was in the adoration chapel. It was late (my hour was 1-2 am), and I was alone with Jesus. It was winter, so the basement chapel was quite chilly. I had a wrap over my shoulders to keep me warm, and I was overwhelmed by the urge to cover my head. I pulled my wrap over my head, and something changed in me. I wrote to a Mennonite friend about it then:
I was immediately swept with a sense of rightness, and that passage of scripture came back into my mind. I was raised by some bull-headed, girl-power, no-man's-gonna-rule-me women, and so finding my right place in marriage and in faith has always had a taste of that rebellion in it. That night at the chapel, though, it was gone. I felt as much like a woman as I ever have. Not in a girly-girl kind of way, but in a truly, Godly-ordered kind of way. It was right and seemly, and I haven't cut my hair since. What's the point, after all, if it is covered? It has ceased to be a point of vanity because it is always up when I leave the house.
It took a few more years after that night, but I now cover my head at Mass and in the presence of the Most Blessed Sacrament. It is my testimony to what I believe about the True Presence, and about a woman's proper response to that presence. That bit of cloth is the difference between me coming boldly before the throne of grace and coming brazenly. I still struggle with being the woman I am to be before God, and I was worried about what others might say about my motivation in wearing a veil. Here's the thing, though: we do not wait to do things until we have mastered them; we master them by doing. From the time we are children until we leave this world, we practice to get things right, and then keep practicing to make them perfect and to sustain what we have achieved. I wear a veil, fully aware of what it symbolizes: humility, submission, reverence, and being set apart in a uniquely feminine way. I pray that by God's grace I will come more fully into those virtues, better living as Christ has called me to live.
The notion of covering my head in worship settings has been with me since I was in Jr. High School. That was when I first encountered St. Paul's letters on my own -- apart from the topical use of them in sermons and Bible studies I had attended to that point. I remember being particularly interested in his "propriety in worship" teachings. Someone had remarked once to me that the church I attended at the time reminded her of "kids playing church," and it had bothered me. I felt a need to understand why we did things the way we did, and to understand why it didn't seem "real" to some. I won't say it was an obsession, but it was certainly the beginning of a long journey to understand my faith and the way I practiced it, and the way I wanted to practice it. Maybe it was my age, maybe it was the voice of the Holy Spirit already pulling me toward Catholicism, (probably both), but where I noticed things that the Bible directed that were not in practice in my church, I really dug to figure out why.
First Corinthians 11 was one of "those passages." But any woman who prays or prophesies with her head unveiled brings shame upon her head, for it is one and the same thing as if she had had her head shaved. For if a woman does not have her head veiled, she may as well have her hair cut off. But if it is shameful for a woman to have her hair cut off or her head shaved, then she should wear a veil...if a woman has long hair it is her glory, because long hair has been given [her] for a covering." I had never even SEEN a woman with her head covered in church. Imagine the fuss this discovery set off in my mind! German Baptists, Mennonites, and Amish women (who traditionally cover their heads all the time) were a rare sight where I grew up. There were plenty of unaffiliated Pentecostals around who all wore long hair, but none who covered. I wrestled with the point with all the wisdom I could muster at 13, and decided that WE didn't cover at church (or anywhere else) because we weren't "long-hair" Pentecostals. I made an uneasy peace with the explanation that Paul's words were a product of their time and culture and that they didn't really apply in our society.
Now, fast forward about 20 years. I hadn't set foot in a protestant service in 12 years or more, but that whole long hair/covered head thing was still with me. I even had a little secret wish in the back of my mind when I saw women with their heads covered in church: that I had always worn a veil so that I wouldn't have to figure out a way to start, or to explain myself if I did. I saw those women as "grandfathered (grandmothered?) in" to the veil-wearing club before Vatican II changed the whole world. Then one night, I was in the adoration chapel. It was late (my hour was 1-2 am), and I was alone with Jesus. It was winter, so the basement chapel was quite chilly. I had a wrap over my shoulders to keep me warm, and I was overwhelmed by the urge to cover my head. I pulled my wrap over my head, and something changed in me. I wrote to a Mennonite friend about it then:
I was immediately swept with a sense of rightness, and that passage of scripture came back into my mind. I was raised by some bull-headed, girl-power, no-man's-gonna-rule-me women, and so finding my right place in marriage and in faith has always had a taste of that rebellion in it. That night at the chapel, though, it was gone. I felt as much like a woman as I ever have. Not in a girly-girl kind of way, but in a truly, Godly-ordered kind of way. It was right and seemly, and I haven't cut my hair since. What's the point, after all, if it is covered? It has ceased to be a point of vanity because it is always up when I leave the house.
It took a few more years after that night, but I now cover my head at Mass and in the presence of the Most Blessed Sacrament. It is my testimony to what I believe about the True Presence, and about a woman's proper response to that presence. That bit of cloth is the difference between me coming boldly before the throne of grace and coming brazenly. I still struggle with being the woman I am to be before God, and I was worried about what others might say about my motivation in wearing a veil. Here's the thing, though: we do not wait to do things until we have mastered them; we master them by doing. From the time we are children until we leave this world, we practice to get things right, and then keep practicing to make them perfect and to sustain what we have achieved. I wear a veil, fully aware of what it symbolizes: humility, submission, reverence, and being set apart in a uniquely feminine way. I pray that by God's grace I will come more fully into those virtues, better living as Christ has called me to live.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Remembering...
September 11, 2001. Ten years later, the images and sounds of that day, and the fear that I felt, and the sense that my world had changed forever are still with me. I knew before that day that there were people in the world who despised America and our way of life. I knew that in other places, I could be imprisoned, tortured, or killed for even whispering opinions I held about freedom, faith, and a myriad of other "normal" aspects of my life as I knew it. But never before that day did I feel unsafe. Before that day, "those people" were faces and names far away, in countries I never expected to visit. They could hate me from their world while I was safe in mine. My parents' Vietnam, my grandparents' World War II -- these had affected them in fundamental ways. The wars had affected their everyday lives and remained with them, but the bloodshed was far away, and the Americans lost, by and large,were lost in conflict. September 11, 2001, the bloodshed was here. Americans were lost not with guns in their hands, but with briefcases and serving trays and merchandise from their stores. They were ordinary people, leading ordinary lives, who had no reason to think that that day would be their last. So many had their lives taken that day, and so many more gave theirs away. We will never know all of the stories. We will never know just how many lives were saved because a police officer or firefighter stood in harm's way and gave others time to flee. We will never know just how many ordinary men and women ushered others to safety as their last actions on this earth. We will never know, at least not fully, the impact of that day on those who were there, on all of us who remember, or on the generations that follow us.
And so today, ten years later, we remember. We pray for the dead and for those they left behind. We pray for those who found joy in sorrow, and those who still suffer in bitterness. We pray for those who did what they could to protect then, and those who are doing what they can to protect us now. I am so grateful that, for all the possibilities that entered my awareness that day ten years ago, for all the vulnerabilities, for all the things I took for granted that could be used to harm me or my family, I am safe. There are men and women every day, here in our country and abroad, who are working to protect and defend us, our way of life, our ideals, and our freedom to live and speak as we choose, without the constant threat of harm from those who would take our freedom and our lives simply because we are not like them and do not live as they live or believe as they believe. I pray that we never, ever forget that freedom isn't free.
We cannot really ever give a voice to the unspeakable. I will chose silence today, as I am sure many others will, in remembering....
And so today, ten years later, we remember. We pray for the dead and for those they left behind. We pray for those who found joy in sorrow, and those who still suffer in bitterness. We pray for those who did what they could to protect then, and those who are doing what they can to protect us now. I am so grateful that, for all the possibilities that entered my awareness that day ten years ago, for all the vulnerabilities, for all the things I took for granted that could be used to harm me or my family, I am safe. There are men and women every day, here in our country and abroad, who are working to protect and defend us, our way of life, our ideals, and our freedom to live and speak as we choose, without the constant threat of harm from those who would take our freedom and our lives simply because we are not like them and do not live as they live or believe as they believe. I pray that we never, ever forget that freedom isn't free.
We cannot really ever give a voice to the unspeakable. I will chose silence today, as I am sure many others will, in remembering....
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Song of Joy
Our summer vacation is winding down. This time next week, I will be preparing to send four of my six little darlings (and their daddy) back to school for another year. Bedtimes will be decided by the clock, not by the sun. There won't be any more "late movies" where they all fall asleep and get left on the couches until morning. They will all have to actually wear shirts for at least a big part of every day. Yes, the day-to-day will change, but what a great "last hurrah" we had Sunday evening!
We were just getting ready to send the boys up to bed Sunday night, and DH was flipping through the Classical Channel on the Roku and found a recording of Beethoven's 9th symphony with Kurt Masur conducting the French National Orchestra. He told the boys that if they would sit still, he'd let them watch it. (!?!) Of course they agreed (they'd have agreed to watch the NYSE ticker if it meant they could stay up). And so it began....
It is helpful to offer at this point that I really like Beethoven, but DH is a passionate Beethoven devote'. He can trace the lineage of his piano teachers back to Beethoven, and has always felt a unique kinship with him. He plays Beethoven like no one else. No one.
The first, second, and third movements of the symphony were nice. The littlest kids were asleep, and the older ones were enjoying the music. Just before the beginning of the fourth movement, the wind picked up and it started to rain...it was a glorious summer rainstorm, with no thunder or lightening. It was a perfect backdrop to what is certainly among the finest musical finales ever written or performed. Beethoven was completely deaf when he composed what would be his final symphony. He had become a very reclusive, and was known for his explosive temper. His life was marked by health problems, personal struggle, and what, to most musicians, would be a devastating sensory loss. And yet, a poem he had carried in his notes since he was a young man finally bloomed in glorious expression, premiered less than 3 years before his death. I offer the text below, with a link to the video (just the last 10 minutes or so). Taking it in again, surrounded by our boys and warm summer rain, DH and I were wrapped in joy ourselves, so grateful for all we have been given.
Song of Joy
Joy, beautiful spark of divinity
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire into your sanctuary.
Your magic reunites What custom strictly divided.
All men become brothers where your wing tarries.
We were just getting ready to send the boys up to bed Sunday night, and DH was flipping through the Classical Channel on the Roku and found a recording of Beethoven's 9th symphony with Kurt Masur conducting the French National Orchestra. He told the boys that if they would sit still, he'd let them watch it. (!?!) Of course they agreed (they'd have agreed to watch the NYSE ticker if it meant they could stay up). And so it began....
It is helpful to offer at this point that I really like Beethoven, but DH is a passionate Beethoven devote'. He can trace the lineage of his piano teachers back to Beethoven, and has always felt a unique kinship with him. He plays Beethoven like no one else. No one.
The first, second, and third movements of the symphony were nice. The littlest kids were asleep, and the older ones were enjoying the music. Just before the beginning of the fourth movement, the wind picked up and it started to rain...it was a glorious summer rainstorm, with no thunder or lightening. It was a perfect backdrop to what is certainly among the finest musical finales ever written or performed. Beethoven was completely deaf when he composed what would be his final symphony. He had become a very reclusive, and was known for his explosive temper. His life was marked by health problems, personal struggle, and what, to most musicians, would be a devastating sensory loss. And yet, a poem he had carried in his notes since he was a young man finally bloomed in glorious expression, premiered less than 3 years before his death. I offer the text below, with a link to the video (just the last 10 minutes or so). Taking it in again, surrounded by our boys and warm summer rain, DH and I were wrapped in joy ourselves, so grateful for all we have been given.
Song of Joy
Joy, beautiful spark of divinity
Daughter of Elysium,
We enter, drunk with fire into your sanctuary.
Your magic reunites What custom strictly divided.
All men become brothers where your wing tarries.
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Monday, June 13, 2011
Jarring Juxtaposition
I love Facebook. I love that I can keep in touch with friends and family in one place, no matter when or where I knew them first. I love seeing the snapshot of their worlds spinning by and sharing little snips of my own life with them, and seeing so many different people, personalities, and lifestyles intertwining. This weekend, that interplay assaulted my happy little world with alarming poignancy, and threw a sobering lesson about gratitude in my face.
A friend from college posted the news about her nine-month-old son having a severe brain injury. I still don't know what happened; it hardly seemed appropriate to ask. I scanned back through the posts, searching for explanations, but there are only little updates. He was gone - they brought him back. May not make it through the night. Still here...no change. The longer he is unconscious, the less it is likely that he will wake up. Prognosis isn't good; we're leaving him in God's hands. We won't pursue any further intervention. We've decided to let him go...his breathing tube will come out sometime Wednesday. I watched these updates trickle out slowly against the backdrop of other friends' weddings, sports events, news commentary, work news, pregnancy updates...their lives. Their lives continued on while another family's came to a screeching halt. The sameness of their days was dizzying next to the picture of lives that are forever different. Then came the photos.
My friend posted pictures of her sweet little boy, alone, with his Mama, his Daddy, all three together, and with his grandparents. They were beautiful. In those images was the peace of a little one in the arms of those who love him, and the aching shadow of farewell. As I held my own little one last night, snuggling him to sleep, I realized that I was holding him in just the same way as my friend was holding her son. But I had no reason to believe that my baby boy wouldn't wake this morning, reaching out to be cuddled in the morning quiet. I had no reason dread his leaving my arms, because I had no reason to think it would be the last time. I wept with an unutterable mixture of grief and gratitude. I've spent nights in the hospital with sick babies, anxiously watching their breathing, fixing my eyes on the blinking monitors above their heads...but I've never had reason to fear their lives. They have never been beyond 'routine' medical care. They've never been unconscious...only asleep. The magnitude of that blessing is blinding just now. Even the bickering and whining has a sweetness in it today. For all their 'problems,' my boys are healthy and normal. I think my friend would remind me to embrace that, because it could change in a heartbeat.
I write this on a Monday evening. Unless God chooses to reveal Himself in a miracle, in 48 hours or so my friend will have kissed her little boy's warm, downy forehead for the last time. I will hold her and her family in my prayers as they travel a painful road that I cannot even fathom. I will praise God for the blessings of six strong, bright, healthy sons, and I will hold them a little longer and a little tighter when I kiss them goodnight. For today, He has not called me to trust Him in the midst of agonizing loss. I pray that if ever He does, I will be prepared to be faithful. What else can I possibly do?
A friend from college posted the news about her nine-month-old son having a severe brain injury. I still don't know what happened; it hardly seemed appropriate to ask. I scanned back through the posts, searching for explanations, but there are only little updates. He was gone - they brought him back. May not make it through the night. Still here...no change. The longer he is unconscious, the less it is likely that he will wake up. Prognosis isn't good; we're leaving him in God's hands. We won't pursue any further intervention. We've decided to let him go...his breathing tube will come out sometime Wednesday. I watched these updates trickle out slowly against the backdrop of other friends' weddings, sports events, news commentary, work news, pregnancy updates...their lives. Their lives continued on while another family's came to a screeching halt. The sameness of their days was dizzying next to the picture of lives that are forever different. Then came the photos.
My friend posted pictures of her sweet little boy, alone, with his Mama, his Daddy, all three together, and with his grandparents. They were beautiful. In those images was the peace of a little one in the arms of those who love him, and the aching shadow of farewell. As I held my own little one last night, snuggling him to sleep, I realized that I was holding him in just the same way as my friend was holding her son. But I had no reason to believe that my baby boy wouldn't wake this morning, reaching out to be cuddled in the morning quiet. I had no reason dread his leaving my arms, because I had no reason to think it would be the last time. I wept with an unutterable mixture of grief and gratitude. I've spent nights in the hospital with sick babies, anxiously watching their breathing, fixing my eyes on the blinking monitors above their heads...but I've never had reason to fear their lives. They have never been beyond 'routine' medical care. They've never been unconscious...only asleep. The magnitude of that blessing is blinding just now. Even the bickering and whining has a sweetness in it today. For all their 'problems,' my boys are healthy and normal. I think my friend would remind me to embrace that, because it could change in a heartbeat.
I write this on a Monday evening. Unless God chooses to reveal Himself in a miracle, in 48 hours or so my friend will have kissed her little boy's warm, downy forehead for the last time. I will hold her and her family in my prayers as they travel a painful road that I cannot even fathom. I will praise God for the blessings of six strong, bright, healthy sons, and I will hold them a little longer and a little tighter when I kiss them goodnight. For today, He has not called me to trust Him in the midst of agonizing loss. I pray that if ever He does, I will be prepared to be faithful. What else can I possibly do?
Friday, May 13, 2011
A Woman's Heart
I have such wonderful friends. Really. They share the best of themselves with the world, and they inspire me to grow in new ways and be a better person. I can never overstate the value of the people that I am so blessed to call my friends, or how grateful I am that the Lord has placed them in my life. And with that, I'd like to share a quote that a friend shared recently, and a bit of the journey that it has launched.
"A woman's heart should be so hidden in God that a man has to seek Him just to find her." -Max Lucado
There's so much truth in that one little sentence! There's conviction, challenge, encouragement, inspiration - all in one tidy statement from...a man. It got me thinking (further) about what men really want in their wives. There have been some discussions about gender roles in my house recently; about why men and women are different, what that means for them as individuals and as couples, and how those roles reflect Christ and His Bride. This issue is one that I have had to look at pretty seriously over the years. Growing up around lots of independent single women and with very few glimpses of healthy marriage skewed my expectations of myself and of my husband, and of the marital covenant that we entered into.
"A woman's heart should be so hidden in God that a man has to seek Him just to find her." -Max Lucado
There's so much truth in that one little sentence! There's conviction, challenge, encouragement, inspiration - all in one tidy statement from...a man. It got me thinking (further) about what men really want in their wives. There have been some discussions about gender roles in my house recently; about why men and women are different, what that means for them as individuals and as couples, and how those roles reflect Christ and His Bride. This issue is one that I have had to look at pretty seriously over the years. Growing up around lots of independent single women and with very few glimpses of healthy marriage skewed my expectations of myself and of my husband, and of the marital covenant that we entered into.
As life would have it, another beautiful piece of writing made its way across my computer screen. When Queens Ride By is a short story by Agnes Sligh Turnbull. As I read it, I saw myself. I saw a wife and mother wanting to serve her family, but feeling, in despair, that she had lost her way and was inextricably bound to exhaustion and failure despite all the best intentions. I thought of the days when I wake striving for a Proverbs 31 day, only to be in tears, overwhelmed and desperate by lunchtime. I thought of how often I miss the mark, how often I am drowning in frustration and a lack of direction, how often I feel like I'm trying to do what needs done - greasing the squeaky wheel, but in the end the wagon falls apart anyway. I don't want to be the wife who brings dishonor to her husband and her household. I love my family, and I want to be the woman. Not just the one who wears skirts on occasion and has long hair and a high voice, but a true woman, with a woman's heart -- hidden in God, true helpmate and crown of honor to her husband, love poured out, 'unique embodiment of the sacred.'. I want to live in the strengths and gifts of womanhood, not insert myself into the strengths and gifts of my husband. You can't be a helpmate when you're a stumbling block. What a hard lesson for me to learn, and how fortunate that my husband is a patient, dedicated man!
I am woman. Please, Lord, help me learn not to roar.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Music est totus
It's Good Friday. I've been trying to think of something to offer in contemplating Holy Week, but my mind keeps turning back to music. The Eucharistic hymns of St. Thomas Aquinas...the passion hymns from centuries of Christian devotion...these are swirling in my mind and spilling from my lips this week. So I'll leave you the "playlist" for my week in hopes that you will find a place to contemplate the Passion and death of the Lord, and truly celebrate His resurrection.
What Wondrous Love is This
O Sacred Head Surrounded
Were You There
Pange Lingua
Verbum Supernum
Ave Verum Corpus
What Wondrous Love is This
O Sacred Head Surrounded
Were You There
Pange Lingua
Verbum Supernum
Ave Verum Corpus
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Suddenly Anonymous
If I were suddenly anonymous, what would I do? When I started to stew on this post a couple of weeks ago, I made some notes in my little notebook. Then I started to string them together a bit. Then I went back to them a few days later and realized that this was starting to read a bit like the Red Hatter's credo..."When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple..." That really wasn't my intention, and it made me laugh, but on further consideration, I realized that the theme of the "red hat" poem and of my own thoughts for this post were not altogether different. They're both about a woman growing into herself...shedding concerns about appearances and social propriety in favor of the liberty that comes with truth. They're about a woman discovering what's most important, discovering what defines her, and letting the chips fall where they may for the rest. I am not old (unless you ask my children), I don't have much purple in my wardrobe, and I look ridiculous in hats. I do, however, have red socks...
I don't really get much time alone. In a busy household, there's always something going on close by, even if I'm not directly involved in it. Because of the constant noise and activity, I find my mind meandering at strange times - in the shower, at the grocery store, folding laundry - and moments of insight pop up wen they might be least expected. On a recent intellectual stroll, I started to imagine how I might be different if I were to be suddenly anonymous. After all, when you're anonymous, there are no expectations. There is no novelty in new behaviors, attire, habits, etc., because there is no history of anything else. So, then, what would I do? How would I be different than I am every day of my life now? And perhaps more importantly, if there would be some significant difference, what's holding me back now?
I don't really get much time alone. In a busy household, there's always something going on close by, even if I'm not directly involved in it. Because of the constant noise and activity, I find my mind meandering at strange times - in the shower, at the grocery store, folding laundry - and moments of insight pop up wen they might be least expected. On a recent intellectual stroll, I started to imagine how I might be different if I were to be suddenly anonymous. After all, when you're anonymous, there are no expectations. There is no novelty in new behaviors, attire, habits, etc., because there is no history of anything else. So, then, what would I do? How would I be different than I am every day of my life now? And perhaps more importantly, if there would be some significant difference, what's holding me back now?
The first thing on my 'anonymous list' would be a covered head in church. I already do this when I travel, but there are valid reasons to refrain in my own parish for now. This has been an area of conviction for me for years, and I am growing into it slowly but surely.
Next up, I’d like to think I’d hold my tongue more if I were anonymous. I’m very quick to open my mouth, even when wisdom would advise silence. Smart girl that nobody knows keeps her mouth shut unless her input is solicited!
This item may seem to contradict the previous one, but it’s just the other side of the coin. When wisdom says speak, I’d like to think that I could speak more freely and opt for directness over diplomacy. If I were anonymous. Hand-in-hand with this directness, I’d like to exercise more freedom in the words I choose about my faith and religion. Somewhere between the “Praise the Lord, I think I broke my foot” of my childhood and disdain for “wearing my religion on my sleeve” is an honest, free expression of the faith I try to live. I’m learning to breathe freely in this area again, but right or wrong, I’m hesitant to be different to those I’m with every day. I don’t want the open discussion about what is, for me, a very private journey. It’s hard to talk about it while I’m in the midst of it.
There are other things that have floated on and off of this list in the last few weeks. Some are whimsical, some very serious, some passing and some convicting. All of them, however, have challenged me to seek God, seek His call in my life, and seek His direction to answer it here, where I am known. Anonymity has its fleeting freedoms, but freedom sought and embraced in the midst of the familiar is true, lasting liberty.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Addressing my tendency to procrastinate...
...wasn't on my list of New Year's resolutions, and it's a darn good thing. I'd really feel bad about the timing of this post. It was meant to be a New Year's post. Then I figured that as long as I posted it before the end of January, it would be okay. But, well, life happens. And Lent is a great time for new beginnings and resolutions too, right?
It's no secret that I spend a lot of my days feeling overwhelmed and completely at a loss. There are so many things to do, limited time in which to do them, and a myriad of distractions that follow me. Such is life with small children...and large children...and husbands.... I feel pulled in so many directions, and none of them feel like a direction per se, but more like a tangent circle in which to chase my tail. And then I wonder why I'm exhausted, frustrated, and lack a sense of order in my world. In contemplating all the noble, idealistic, and heroic changes I was going to make in the new year that would make my house clean, my children behave, and keep me running on schedule with sufficient time to do all the things I want to do, I got bogged down. I got discouraged. Let's face it; there is no magic wand to wave, and that's what I was really dreaming about. Then I thought, "maybe I should resolve to make peace with the fact that I'm a lousy housekeeper, that I have a short temper, and that my household is in constant chaos. After all, we're not on the 6 o'clock news, no one's in jail, no one's flunking out of school...that's enough, right?" But it isn't enough. No matter how you look at it, to let that be enough is not a resolution but a resignation. It is giving up. And who makes a resolution to be a cop-out? Better yet, who would post such a thing publicly and pretend to be proud of it? Certainly not I. And so here we are, at Ash Wednesday, and my New Year's post is just appearing.
You might wonder what changed. What made me feel that I had something worth sharing? What resolution did I finally make that I could live with and work toward in the coming year? I realized that my point of origin for my actions is, most of the time, wrong. I take action because of fear, anger, or frustration. I rush around to get kids ready, to get meals on the table, and to keep at least some appearance of order. I want things to look, at least publicly, like I'm not desperately struggling just to keep a modicum of functionality in my home and family life. My point of origin needs a fundamental change, and that's a resolution I can make, work at, and feel good about sharing.
I resolve this year to make LOVE my point of origin for action and speech. I will care for my family not because they are clamoring to have their needs met, but because I love them. I will care for my home not because I have an image to maintain, but because I love my family and I desire order in our lives so that we can move through our lives more peacefully. I will discipline my children not because they embarrass me or make me angry, but because I love them and I am called to bring them up in the love and fear of the Lord. I will choose gentleness, I will choose calm, I will choose silence. I will get this wrong - probably a lot. But I will choose humility and begin again. I will choose love above all, for in love is the beginning, the sustenance, the redemption, and the end of all things.
And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.
--1 Corinthians 13:13
It's no secret that I spend a lot of my days feeling overwhelmed and completely at a loss. There are so many things to do, limited time in which to do them, and a myriad of distractions that follow me. Such is life with small children...and large children...and husbands.... I feel pulled in so many directions, and none of them feel like a direction per se, but more like a tangent circle in which to chase my tail. And then I wonder why I'm exhausted, frustrated, and lack a sense of order in my world. In contemplating all the noble, idealistic, and heroic changes I was going to make in the new year that would make my house clean, my children behave, and keep me running on schedule with sufficient time to do all the things I want to do, I got bogged down. I got discouraged. Let's face it; there is no magic wand to wave, and that's what I was really dreaming about. Then I thought, "maybe I should resolve to make peace with the fact that I'm a lousy housekeeper, that I have a short temper, and that my household is in constant chaos. After all, we're not on the 6 o'clock news, no one's in jail, no one's flunking out of school...that's enough, right?" But it isn't enough. No matter how you look at it, to let that be enough is not a resolution but a resignation. It is giving up. And who makes a resolution to be a cop-out? Better yet, who would post such a thing publicly and pretend to be proud of it? Certainly not I. And so here we are, at Ash Wednesday, and my New Year's post is just appearing.
You might wonder what changed. What made me feel that I had something worth sharing? What resolution did I finally make that I could live with and work toward in the coming year? I realized that my point of origin for my actions is, most of the time, wrong. I take action because of fear, anger, or frustration. I rush around to get kids ready, to get meals on the table, and to keep at least some appearance of order. I want things to look, at least publicly, like I'm not desperately struggling just to keep a modicum of functionality in my home and family life. My point of origin needs a fundamental change, and that's a resolution I can make, work at, and feel good about sharing.
I resolve this year to make LOVE my point of origin for action and speech. I will care for my family not because they are clamoring to have their needs met, but because I love them. I will care for my home not because I have an image to maintain, but because I love my family and I desire order in our lives so that we can move through our lives more peacefully. I will discipline my children not because they embarrass me or make me angry, but because I love them and I am called to bring them up in the love and fear of the Lord. I will choose gentleness, I will choose calm, I will choose silence. I will get this wrong - probably a lot. But I will choose humility and begin again. I will choose love above all, for in love is the beginning, the sustenance, the redemption, and the end of all things.
And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.
--1 Corinthians 13:13
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