Teach Me Love

In the depths of my soul,

In the quiet of my heart,

Teach me Love.

Teach me love that cannot be shaken

Not by frustration

Not by anger

Not by exhaustion

Not by guilt

Not by ingratitude

Teach me love,

That the words on my lips,

That the work of my hands,

That the path of my feet

Will be ever clothed

With grace,

With gentleness,

With wisdom,

With truth

Teach me Love

So fully, so deeply, so purely,

That seed scattered will be reaped in joy,

Bearing Love in due season.

Teach me Love

Boundless and full,

Poured out in abundance

Teach me Love!

**With gratitude, to JL, for taking the step. I'm honored to walk with you!

Waiting....

December 23...we're in the "home stretch," as it were, of Advent. Shopping is being finished, gifts are being wrapped and stashed away, kitchens are working overtime, and it's all a whirl of preparation for the celebration of Christmas. There's no shortage of expectation at our house, either. With five children, a busy church organist-husband, and my protruding middle, the sense of anticipation is extraordinary. What perhaps is lacking is quiet and reflection. Not that it's not understandable, but in this early morning quiet before dawn, I am grateful for a bit of peace and a moment to think before the day runs away with me.

It's easy, in the hubbub, to lose sight of why we're doing all of this. But the expectation is not supposed to be for opening presents, visiting family, meals and sweets, and all swept away on the 26th. It is to reflect and remember that without feast and fanfare, without trees and paper and ribbons, Eternity breached time. Wrapped in the complete dependency of a newborn infant, redemption and hope for a fallen world lay among common farm animals in the arms of a teenager. I find the wonder of that reality not in the shopping, baking, and wrapping that await me this day, but in the aching of my arms to hold my own little one. I've held my other five newborns in their first moments, and been swept away by the immense promise that wakes in their wide eyes as they gaze at me. I've been humbled and overwhelmed by the enormity of what lies there. The anticipation of the months before fades away in the anticipation of what is ahead. And there is the true challenge of Christmas.

In every new Advent, we are called to anticipate and embrace a new Incarnation. We are summoned again to the manger to behold with fresh eyes the simple, humble beauty of a newborn child and be drawn into the vastness of grace that is our salvation. Advent is to waken our longing, so that we can gaze at Christ with wonder, and be reminded to guard and cherish His presence in our lives just as we would a tiny child. My prayer is that January 25 will not find me cold - distanced from the warmth of this Christmas celebration, but still gazing into the eyes of my Redeemer, basking in the wonder of his Love and the gift of His presence in my life, and grateful that He chose to come to us so that we could come to Him.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin and enter in,
Be born in us today.
We hear the Christmas angels
The great glad tidings tell;
O come to us, abide with us,
Our Lord Emmanuel!

What does it mean?

I was asked a question this afternoon. Someone just figured out that we are expecting another child. While I was surprised that she hadn't known already, I was even more stunned at the way the conversation unfolded. She asked if it was a boy (it is), and looked sympathetic (a response that irritates me, but I'm getting used to). Then came the kicker: "So you are going to keep it?" She looked genuinely concerned for me. Worried, even. It seemed that she wanted me to say "no" so she could be relieved and tell me that she understood, and that 5 boys was certainly enough. I didn't know where to begin. I've heard a lot of ridiculous responses to my pregnancies over the last 12 years, but this one was a first. The fact that anyone would look at me and think that I could terminate a pregnancy at all, especially on the grounds of the baby's gender, is unfathomable. The fact that this little one is less than two weeks from clinical viability only makes the question that much more shocking.

Trying to clear my head and gather a response that didn't include asking if she might be out of her mind, I said "what else would I do? It's a boy! I can't change it now!" She sighed, looking resigned and so sympathetic for my plight (!??!), and repeated "you will keep it." To be fair, there is a significant language barrier in this relationship, and a cultural one, and to a lesser extent, a religious one. But I couldn't help but search my mind and my heart after she had gone, seeking to articulate what began as stunned silence and a whirlwind of thoughts too numerous and rapid to pin down.

What does this child mean? There are some answers that apply to every life begun, and some that only touch the intimate center of our lives as man and wife, and our family as a whole. In every life begun, there is hope. There is possibility. There is purpose. No matter the circumstances of any given conception, life is never an accident. It is always ordained, set forth in the image of God, unique and perfect. Even if we pervert the climate in which that life begins with impropriety, impurity, or violence, it does not pervert the miraculous integrity or worth that is God's fingerprint on humanity. We all come to exist out of nothing because the heart of our Heavenly Father desires us to be. How can we imagine that is it our right, even when it is in our power, to interfere?

What does this child mean to us? My husband and I took sacred vows 13 years ago. We entered into a covenant with one another and with God. In coming together, we pledged ourselves fully to one other and vowed to be open to the natural outcome of celebrating and renewing that covenant. This child, like his five older brothers, comes from our love. He is a precious gift. He is my husband, he is me, and he is uniquely and perfectly himself. It is a miracle and a mystery, and an unspeakable privilege to carry and nurture this life! For my other children as well, this child is a gift. They already love him. They talk to him, reach out to feel his movement, kiss my tummy good-night, and talk about what they will do when he comes. They are eager to see him, to hold him, and to play with him. He is, in their minds, already a part of their family.

Perhaps there is a blessing in the suggestion that I could end the life of the little one who is, as I type this, practicing his dance moves on my ribs. I've stopped and thought about what a blessing it is to be his mother. The woman who posed the question meant no offense, I'm sure. I don't think it occurred to her at all that offense could be taken; it was simply a practical consideration for a family that already has five children, all of them boys. If ever the opportunity presents itself, I will certainly give an answer for the hope that is within me. I will, I pray, be the one with the breathtaking and audacious question. Until that time, I will simply be grateful, anxiously awaiting the day when I will see my little son, cradle him in my arms, present him to his father and his brothers, and kiss his sweet forehead. Because I am his mother.

The Status Quo

The status quo...the way things are. We go to extreme lengths to preserve it, or at least the appearance of it. What I find interesting, though, is that over periods of time, the status quo can shift pretty dramatically. Then we may find ourselves preserving an image that is no longer real because it's what a given person may expect of us. I never would have thought about this had it not been for the magical world of social networking...Facebook.

It's a funny thing about my Facebook friend list: there are people there that represent some very different phases and areas of interest in my life. High school, college, married life; marching band, choir, church; former teachers and former students; knew me when, know me now...it's almost surreal to see these different circles meet and cross in one place. People who knew me as a mixed-up, rebellious, distrustful teenager might be surprised to see a friend's comment about faith or religion. People who knew me as an unapologetic Pentecostal with no plans for married life might be utterly shocked to see me as a married, Catholic mother of six. People from college might be startled to learn that I've set aside all my career plans, and those who only know me from my writing might not recognize me in "real life." It's almost enough to inspire an identity crisis!

As I've reflected over this, one simple reality draws it all together: it's all been steps on a journey. In the course of the journey, there have been some pretty dramatic shifts in my opinions, my philosophies, my priorities.... What is sometimes frustrating is that a dramatic shift in the mind only produces incremental shifts in the behavior. It can take a long time for a seed to really take root and bear fruit. And in the meantime, I maintain the status quo...a predictable pattern for a given relationship.

I suppose it is the way of things. In any given relationship, you at least start with the common ground. And I suppose there are no apologies to be made for growth -- for moving forward in the flow of our lives. Chances are that my high school math teacher will never meet my college music history professor, and my friends from church growing up will never cross paths with my current group of mommy friends. My half sister in Florida won't meet my youth ministers and Sunday school teachers from way back when, and my writing partner from English class won't meet the crazy girl from college. That's the status quo -- the way it is. It will grow and change through the years until it hardly looks the same, but it will be the same. It will be my path, graced by friends and family, teachers and students, knew me whens and know me nows. I will pray to be content with the status quo if it is but an honest picture of the journey, if not the destination.

Refresher Course on Grace

The summer days are waning. The kids are back in school, DH has returned to a “normal” work schedule, as crazy as that is, and I’m settling into life at home with just my littlest boy during the day. This summer, like all others, came with its familiar challenges. Financial matters are trickier in the summer, and life with all of us here brings more bickering, more chores to be done, and fewer willing hands (“but it’s summer vacation, Mom!”). I’ve also found that I am unsettled – there are principles I absolutely desire to live, but they are at odds with my tendency to be distracted and to avoid facing difficult situations. It puts me in mind of a cat chasing its tail – not actually achieving the goal, but creating a bigger mess in the chase.

When I stop to evaluate these times in my life, a common theme always emerges. My prayer life has become less consistent, and the stress I’m feeling comes from believing that I need to fix, juggle, figure out, and manage everything. There’s always the sense that the disorder in our home can only be put right if I can suddenly don my magic "SuperMom" cape and be what I have never managed to be: able to rise early and stay up late, single-minded and ever diligent in keeping peace and order, able to easily step aside to tend to children and visitors, always temperate and modest, always keeping my attitudes in check, always keeping the deadly poison from the “restless evil” in my mouth…. Funny. That magic bullet hasn’t yet struck.

Somewhere in the harried madness of life, there’s a lesson that I have to revisit over and over: His grace is sufficient. It takes courage and strength to face my fear and my weakness and let God be God. It requires a daily choice – daily submission to grace – choosing my bridegroom and the choosing the willing surrender of the bride. I need to take time to reconnect with the truest longings of my heart rather than the loudest clamorings of my world. I need to take a refresher course on grace from the author of grace. And then we’ll do it again tomorrow….

Blessed Encouragement in Due Season

I can't take credit for this post, as it appeared in my inbox recently. I can, however share it, because I was so blessed by it. As moms, we get caught up in the minute-to-minute realities of life with kids, and it's easy to lose sight of what we're working so frantically for. So read, enjoy, and be encouraged!


The Invisible Mother.....

It all began to make sense, the blank stares, the lack of response, the way one of the kids would walk into the room while I'm on the phone and ask to be taken somewhere. Inside I'm thinking, 'Can't you see I'm on the phone?!' Obviously not.

No one can see if I'm on the phone or cooking or sweeping the floor or even standing on my head in the corner because no one can see me at all. I'm invisible; the Invisible Mom. Some days I am only a pair of hands, nothing more: "Can you fix this? Can you tie this? Can you open this?"

Some days I'm not a pair of hands; I'm not even a human being. I'm a clock to ask, 'What time is it?' I'm a satellite guide to answer, 'What number is the Disney Channel?' I'm a car ride to somewhere 'Right around 5:30 please.'

One night a group of us were having dinner, celebrating the return of a friend from England. Janice had just gotten back from a fabulous trip, and she was going on and on about the hotel she stayed in. I was sitting there, looking around at the others all put together so well. It was hard not to compare and feel sorry for myself. I was feeling pretty pathetic, when Janice turned to me with a beautifully wrapped package, and said, 'I brought you this.'

It was a book on the great cathedrals of Europe . I wasn't exactly sure why she'd given it to me until I read her inscription: 'To Charlotte , with admiration for the greatness of what you are building when no one sees.'

In the days ahead I would read, no, devour - the book. And I would discover what would become for me, four life-changing truths, after which I could pattern my work:

1 – No one can say who built the great cathedrals - we have no record of their names.

2 – These builders gave their whole lives for a work they would never see finished.

3 – They made great sacrifices and expected no credit whatsoever.

4 – The passion of their building was fueled by their faith that the eyes of God saw everything.

A legendary story in the book told of a rich man who came to visit the cathedral while it was being built and he saw a workman carving a tiny bird on the inside of a beam. He was puzzled and asked the man, 'Why are you spending so much time carving that bird into a beam that will be covered by the roof? No one will ever see it.' And the workman replied, 'Because God sees.'

I closed the book, feeling the missing piece fall into place. It was almost as if I heard God whispering to me, 'I see you, Charlotte. I see the sacrifices you make every day, even when no one around you does. No act of kindness you've done, no sequin you've sewn on, no cupcake you've baked is too small for me to notice and smile over. You are building a great cathedral, but you can't see right now what it will become.'

At times, my invisibility feels like an affliction. But it is not a disease that is erasing my life; in fact, it is the cure for the disease of my own self-centeredness. It is the antidote to my strong, stubborn pride. I keep the right perspective when I see myself as a great builder. As one of the people who show up at a job that they will never see finished, to work on something that their name will never be on. The writer of the book went so far as to say that no cathedrals could ever be built in our lifetime because there are so few people willing to sacrifice to that degree.

When I really think about it, I don't want my daughter to tell the friend she's bringing home from college for Thanksgiving, 'My Mom gets up at 4 in the morning and bakes homemade pies, and then she hand bastes a turkey for three hours and presses all the linens for the table.' That would mean I'd built a shrine or a monument to myself. Instead, I just want her to want to come home. If she says anything at all to her friend I would like it to be 'You're gonna love it here.'

As mothers, we are building great cathedrals. We cannot see if we're doing it right. And one day it is very possible that the world will marvel not only at what we have built, but at the beauty that has been added to the world by the sacrifices of invisible women.

Tearful Day

Mother's Day

Call me a sap, a sentimental fool, an emotional what-have-you -- but I've spent most of today in tears or on the verge of tears. It's Mother's Day, after all, and and I was greeted this morning by sweet kisses from my monkey boy, hugs from the others (sniffle!), and off to mass I went. The book I referenced in the last post is still on my reading list, and I am learning to see a very human Jesus, and recognizing in newer, broader ways just how miraculous the incarnation is. All that new, fresh awareness bouncing around in my head is particularly overwhelming at mass, when the reality of that incarnation is staring me in the face. (Tears again.) Not only that, but our esteemed music director chose to use the Regina Coeli chant and an Ave Maria based on on the 13th century chant of the same text. (Sniffle, gulp!)

A quick trip home, get the boys all spit-shined and polished, then off to mass again. Three sweet boys in the pew with me, and my two fine young men serving at the altar. What proud Mama wouldn't cry? Just a little?

After church and a wardrobe change for everyone, we all piled in the van again to go to my nephew's first communion party. There was no shortage of tears in the reminiscences scattered through the day -- my mother-in-law and my grandmother are both three years gone this year. We stopped at the cemetery on the way home to leave a rose for Mom. There were tears all around, and more tears at bedtime from our two oldest, who have the most vivid memories of Grandma Mary.

Off to the chapel at midnight, and there were tears to offer there, as well. Tears of thanksgiving, joy, penitence. Tears of grief and petition, some for me, some for others. Then into bed with one more tear as I sigh, content, that my dear husband sleeps beside me, my sweet boys dream in their own beds, and my Father has ordered it, just so, in his abundant mercy.