A small adventure

Last week, I met a new friend, only now I don't know how to reach out to her.

LC (the toddler who is growing up much too fast) and I were walking home from big sister's volleyball game yesterday when we spied an elderly resident trying to push a full grocery buggy up the curb. The wheels were caught on the irregular pavement.  I helped her pull her cart up onto the sidewalk. She was grateful, but refused any further help and carried on down the sidewalk very, very slowly with her heavy load, after she assured me that pushing cartfulls of groceries a mile was her way of maintaining health and vigor in her eighties, the proof being that she had not been to the doctor in thirty years.

So LC and I continued home, but I couldn't stop thinking about her. I had noticed an address sticker, the kind that comes free in the mail from organizations that want a donation, on the handle of her cart, so I put walking shoes on LC and the two of us walked to her house a few blocks away from ours and found her just unlocking her gate.

For a brief moment, I hesitated at the corner.  Dare I step into the life of another person? Should I leave her to her independence, or just pretend I happened to pass by? Do I turn away from engagement with another human being or do I involve myself in someone else's story?

I finally turned the corner and called out some platitude about making it home safely. Although at first my neighbor again asserted her independence, she seemed delighted to see us, and finally accepted our help unloading her full load of groceries, almost entirely bottles of Ensure and cranberry juice, out of the cart onto her front step.  The step was not to a door she used, though, so she was going to have to carry them, practically bottle by bottle to the house. I offered to carry them to the kitchen for her, but she declined my help. Then she launched into a long story about how she had built the house herself after her husband died and her contractors ran away with $80,000. First she told me about applying the stucco, then about digging six foot holes for concrete reinforcement for the fence posts, themselves reinforced with one inch rebar.  Next she told me about building her bedroom. "Do you want to see it?"

An invitation was offered that felt rude to refuse, and she wanted to give us some dried fruit from her many trees. Noting some fig trees, I was tempted. (little did I realize the fruit was so old as to be practically mummified.) So we followed her in.  When she locked the gate behind us, I felt a little like I was stepping into a Hansel and Gretel story.

The inside of her house felt even more like a haunted house. Dark and musty. Boxes and stacks of books and magazines everywhere. Ancient furnishings. Odd statues and tschotskes, some pretty, some not so pretty, things from a tourist kiosk or a grandchild's gift.

She did not seem embarrassed by the clutter. She might be called a hoarder, because the kitchen counter was covered by recycled plastic yogurt cups, reused plastic bags, plastic lids, and paper towels drying to be used again. On the floor in front of all the cupboards were stacked boxes of Ensure, several more of which had just been purchased.

Her hands were young and strong looking. Maybe she did build the house and lay the tile and smooth the stucco.  She showed me the stairs she built and the bathroom she tiled and the floors she laid. She showed me pictures she brought from Europe and pictures of her only son. He always went to private school because she knew what was in public schools - sex and drugs. She told me how her mother just died at 104 in the Netherlands and that she had had 18 children.  She said she had a daughter, but she thinks her husband killed it as an infant when she was sleeping. She gave me a bag of dried fruit and told me about her dehydrator, but I am guessing it was dried out years ago. She told me how she loved to read history and how she loved gardening and leaned out her upstairs windows to pick the fruit. A tour of her backyard led me to guess that she hadn't harvested fruit for a year or two because the trees looked thirsty and withered, long past bearing. She told me she wanted to sell her house for 2.5 million dollars and move to Fatima because she had such a feeling of God's presence and peace when she visited there, as opposed to Lourdes.  This was the day before the 100th anniversary of Fatima.

I finally had to go home to make dinner, and she walked me halfway back to my house. I asked her for her phone number, but she couldn't remember, so she told me to leave her a note, which I did the next day, but her gate was locked so that I could knock on the door.  I haven't seen her out.  Now a week has passed since I've seen her - very quickly for me, perhaps not so for her -  and I am worried that she won't remember who I am or that I forgot her.  Today is another busy day, but I am going to walk by and leave another note. Maybe she will answer if I call out. Another friend at church knows her, but not well and doesn't see her out much anymore.

I wonder how many of these houses here have a lonely person living inside. With this being a tourist area, it is easy to assume that most of the houses belong to the upwardly mobile or real estate investors. But there are some people who perhaps have been forgotten, and soon their stories will be lost, too.

A testimony

The mother's rosary group that I attend at our new parish is hosting a Lenten reflection program. Each week we are reflecting on a different Work of Mercy. Someone does a reading from Scripture, we have a small group discussion, then someone gives a testimony, we listen to a song, and close with a prayer.  Last week the lady who was going to talk backed out, so the facilitator asked if I wanted to give a testimony.  Something I've never done before! Sure, I love to talk.

It was harder to write than I thought, partly because I didn't want to give a lecture - half the women are a generation older, wiser and more experienced than me. Partly because I don't really have a lightning bolt moment of conversion or a life-changing experience of mission work or unexpected life tragedy. Below is what I came up with . The work this week was "Clothing the Naked," which naturally made me think of babies. I edited it as I talked, so it was shorter and little less detailed, but here is the gist. Figured I might as well post it here, even though I have already written about these feelings.

Clothing the naked -

James 2:14-17

When Shannon asked for volunteers to help with this study, I raised my hand willingly. I was happy to offer to do something - bake, bring some fruit, do a reading. There's no better way to get to know people in a new place than to offer to be a laborer. But here I am giving a talk.  I didn't realize how hard writing a testimony would be. I am happy to give a lecture - I lecture my kids all the time - but I don't have a life changing experience or lightning bolt moment to tell you about.   I'm from Indiana, my parents are converts, I grew up in a tight-knit family with all my extended family nearby, I've been married for 20 years, have 7 kids, moved to Coronado last August, and have lived at 12 different addresses prior to this one.  Those are the bones of my story.

I originally thought I would tell you about some ways that I've tried to make acts a mercy a part of our family life.  It is providential that the scripture verse from James this week is one that motivated me when I first began taking ownership of my faith. Around the time I was preparing for confirmation in high school, I had a friend from a fundamentalist church challenge my faith, telling me that I was not baptized because I wasn't immersed in water, and that Catholics believed works would save their souls, worshiped Mary, and were going to Hell for having statues and drinking in church. On the other side, I also had a skeptical friend who called me a hypocrite for not living more like Christ while dwelling in suburban ease.

So I started to read and research, and came across this passage from James that seemed to speak to both criticisms.  It continues with the line: ” Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by my deeds.”  Motivated by the desire to know more about my faith and to put it into practice, I began to look for ways to serve, to love my neighbor.  Like Betty said last week, I wanted to do all the right things. I tutored at a homeless shelter in high school and worked at a day care center for highly impaired adults in college. I spent a summer at a camp for kids with a variety of disabilities.

After I married and  my own kids came along, I took them to visit the local nursing home during recreation hour. I wanted them to experience inter-generational relationships because my grandparents had been so integral to my growing up.  When we lived in Virginia and Indiana, I signed up for Meals on Wheels. It was something I could do with the kids since we were homeschooling.  This experience was a treat for us.  We got to know the people we delivered lunch to, which was a lesson in how love and loneliness are manifested at the end of life. There was the hoarder with newspapers lining every wall in his house, and the man with hundreds of cats and a kitchen so dirty we had to hold our breath to go in, but there was also the cheerful woman who always had a snack for the kids, and the couple in their late 90s who had been married 70+ years. One lady made the kids scarves.

Then in Mississippi we had an Irish priest who assigned me the penance of taking the Eucharist to the nursing home on Sundays after church. I won't tell you want my sin was, but I couldn't refuse.  This was the best penance ever, even though at first the kids - and I - somewhat dreaded it.  Here were all these people hungry for attention, longing for a few moments of being clothed by a hug.  Some of the residents didn't remember us from week to week, but a few did.  And soon it was a real highlight of our Sunday morning - donuts afterwards sweetened the deal.

We continued to find ways to serve in Guam - helping with a foster care support group.  We didn't provide foster care, but did special events - school supply shopping, a Christmas toy drive and party, an Easter party, a shoe drive, etc.

Between serving my kids and others, I saw myself as a provider, independent, resourceful, eager to work.  But as I've gotten older, and the kids have gotten older - I discovered sometimes it is me who needs the help.  Preteens and teens have different needs that are harder for me to fix with a hug or a treat.  They sometimes needed more than I can give.  Life became more complicated, and I began to realize I was in need of help - so the second part of my story is how I became a recipient of mercy. 

Accepting help gracefully has never been my strongest asset.  I didn't know anyone when I had my first child far from family and friends.  It was harder to admit I couldn't manage on my own when my husband deployed to Iraq for almost a year, right after we moved to MS.  The community there jumped in with assistance, though, maybe because they are used to giving and receiving a helping hand.  I learned that most people are happy to be asked to help when needed - help with a carpool, people who stay with your kids when you go to the ER for stitches, people who give you a ride to the auto mechanic, etc. 

That was a hard year, but we muddled through and came out stronger. The event that really humbled me was getting pregnant with baby 7.  We were in the process of a painful PCS coming back from Guam (what PCS isn't?). I was already resentful of having to move a year early, leaving behind a job I loved teaching at the community college, a friendly running club, supportive friends, a beautiful island, happy kids, a good church and home school community - another home.  We spent almost a month traveling to see family, then had to live for a month in a 2 br apartment, while struggling to find housing for 6 kids and a dog in a price range that would allow us to pay school tuition. We finally found a house that was very small and dated. It had old bathrooms, an  old kitchen, and was an old neighborhood - what the landlord called it a "transition" neighborhood - but we were determined to make it work.

After all of the sadness saying goodbye in Guam, the inconvenience of living out of suitcases while having reunions across America, and then the anxiety of school shopping and house hunting, I found out I was pregnant.  Not part of the plan. We were already uncertain about how we were going to make private school work and how we were going to shoehorn everyone into this house.

I was shocked by my negative reaction to the positive pregnancy test. I still have a hard time admitting just how much I didn't want to be pregnant again. I didn't want to start over.  I felt like I had done my share, and I was ready to start a new season of life. I didn't want to be the 60 year old mom at graduation. I felt like giving up. Running away.  Locking myself in.  I couldn't leave my room for three days.  I lied to the scared kids about being sick. Looked up what causes early miscarriages. I was horrified at myself, but unable to cast off the wretchedness I felt, part of which arose from guilt.  I had always been pro-life and pro-NFP and even almost expected a surprise baby. But now I felt like I was an 18 yr old unwed mother caught in the act, but I was old enough to know better. (Don't you know what causes that? people used to ask my husband, and he'd reply, Yes, and I enjoy it!)  I was embarrassed to tell the kids because they were old enough to know, too.  I was embarrassed at having to join a new community and make new friends as a pregnant 40 year old.  Why? One of my best friends from Great Lakes was a 40 yr old pregnant woman when we met (and I was 30 and pregnant).  Here I was, someone who loved babies and being pregnant, but I was distraught over my failure at NFP, at self-control.  I had been good at following rules, but now my spirit was broken, and it needed to be.  I needed to let go of my pride and grow in humility and compassion.

Before we told anyone, my husband called my mom because he was worried.  Even though I was 40, my mom still had the gift of making me feel better.   She went with me to my first dr's appointment - I hadn't even been able to talk myself into going to the doctor until the first trimester was almost over because I was afraid of being lectured. The doctor was wonderful, but sent me right off to a specialist, since I was late coming in for pre-natal care and old.

So it was a true gift that when we finally told the kids, they responded with joy.   Their excitement eased my worries. They love babies.  They were thrilled we were having another and started planning for number 8 because this one would need a sibling close in age. They started a list of names, planned who would get to hold the baby first, and became more compliant than usual.

As the pregnancy went along - God's plan for nine months lets mothers grow in acceptance and love for their unborn child - I slowly moved from anger, denial and rejection to acceptance, anticipation and love.  I finally quit going to the prenatal specialist, who offered some new test each month, because even though I had not planned for this child, I wanted her. She was mine and I was tired of being warned of everything that might go wrong.  I had already wrestled with the idea that my life would be different from now on.  

My mom, a veteran labor and delivery nurse, came back for the delivery. After 6 births all natural, I had to be induced because I was overdue and at high risk because of my age and gestational diabetes.  I was terrified of a c section. But there were no complications; the labor was just long. The doctor finally went home for dinner, and 30 minutes later, I was holding a beautiful, naked baby girl, delivered by her grandmother.  She was practically perfect in every way.  

Something about newborns washes away all other worries.  This child was a sign of God's mercy - here I was so undeserving, so ungrateful, and I had been given another soul to love. Another soul to love me, to bear witness to life, to God's image.  Newborns, in their helplessness and need for attention, teach us the art of contemplation - an art that may be lost while parenting a toddler - but nonetheless, the whole family could sit for long stretches just watching the baby move and breathe.  Baby TV, we called it.  Admiring a baby is a form of contemplation, a way of looking at God's face in human form.

On top of the grace of falling in love with this new person, I was completely overwhelmed by the generosity of the community.  We had only lived in Ventura 9 months, but people I barely knew - or didn't even know at all - came knocking at the door with dinners and lunches. The mother's group and Navy spouses set up a meal train that lasted almost 2 months.  My kids wanted me to have another baby so they could eat so well again. We had given away all of our baby stuff, but we didn't end up having to buy very much.  Navy friends gave us their crib. My sister-in-law still had our old car seat.  Another sister-in-law sent me a stroller as a gift.  My sister and cousins sent clothes. Another mom gave me three bags of barely worn girl stuff up to size 18 months. This child had more clothes than she could wear.  She need never be naked except when she wants to be, now that she can undress herself.

In my weakness, these new friends clothed and fed me in mercy.  They welcomed my new child, my other children, our whole crazy family.  And I don't think there is anything uniquely special about that community, or that unusual about our story.  This generosity is poured out everywhere .  Sometimes when I feel overwhelmed by bad news, I remember how we have experienced so much goodness:  So many wonderful people, so many beautiful places. One gift of the universal church is finding instant friendships everywhere we go.  Somewhere I read that we all drink from the same cup.

Being on the receiving end of an act of mercy has helped me see the face of God in others.

This experience also helped me grow a little in understanding the desperation some unwed mothers feel.  It was a lesson in how important the pro-life message is.

[I skipped this quote and ended with the one I found on Melanie's blog, copied below: Just recently I finished reading Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, which, even though it is written from a secular perspective, speaks to the inherent dignity in each and every human person.  Writing 50 years ago, Frankl critiques the modern utilitarian outlook on life:  "But today's society is characterized by achievement orientation, and consequently it adores people who are successful and happy and, in particular, it adores the young. It virtually ignores the value of all those who are otherwise, and in so doing blurs the decisive difference between being valuable in the sense of dignity and being valuable in the sense of usefulness.  If one is not cognizant of this difference and holds that an individual's value stems only from his present usefulness, then, believe me, one owes it only to personal inconsistency not to plead for euthanasia along the lines of Hitler's program,, that is to say, 'mercy' killing of all those who have lost their social usefulness, be it because of old age, incurable illness, mental deterioration, or whatever handicap they may suffer. . . . .Life's meaning is an unconditional one, at least potentially,.. Just as life remains potentially meaningful under any conditions, even those which are most miserable, so too does the value of each and every person stay with him or her, and it does so because it is based on the values that he or she has realized in the past, and is not contingent on the usefulness that he or she may or may not retain in the present."

Frankl writes about how man finds meaning in life, even in suffering, not by looking in within, but by looking out and in giving of himself to others especially in love, a message that reiterates JPII's message in his Theology of the body talks.  We can only know another person by loving him as an image of God's love and as a brother or sister in Christ.]

I want to close with a quote about mercy from The Noonday Devil: Acedia, the Unnamed Evil of Our Times by Jean-Charles Nault, O.S.B. Abbot of Saint-Wandrille (from Melanie's blog post.). Acedia is another name for sloth, apathy, state of not caring - meaningless activity or listlessness.  It applies to laziness in practicing our faith, spiritual apathy, more so than physical slothfulness. But this quote [found on Melanie's blog] eloquently captures our need for mercy during times of suffering.

Nault writes that tears have two meanings. The first meaning of tears is that they are an acknowledgement of our helplessness in the face of salvation:

“... To weep is to acknowledge that one needs to be saved. ...

But tears have a second meaning: they are like water that falls on a hard rock and, over time, manages to penetrate it. They are like water that flows over the shell of our stony heart, so that it might become a heart of flesh. Little by little they will transform our heart so as to make it docile to the Lord. They will make a notch so that mercy might pour into that gap, into that wounds, just as the mercy of God was engulfed in Christ’s wound of love on the Cross.”

We are saved by faith, but our works reveal the mercy that flows from that faith and love. 

Wisdom at the BBQ

The other night my husband and I went on a mini-date to our parish's men's ministry BBQ supper, which was being headlined by our parish's new pastor who will be coming from a teaching job at the seminary in a month or two. He has never been a pastor, but he has been in charge of human formation for fifteen years, so he has a sense of humor.

Our parish has had an interim pastor for a couple of years, who has had the hard job of bringing the parish accounts back into the black.  He followed in the footsteps of a very charismatic pastor, beloved by all, energetic, a missionary leader.  That priest was called to work in the vocations office at the Archdiocese Headquarters, probably based on his record of recruiting 8 deacons, a great youth minister, a marriage and men's ministry full time employee, and other parish employees. Apparently, he was generous and always said yes if parishioners came to him with a request. His generosity, though, left the church in the position of having to make some cutbacks.  Our current priest was brought in to be the belt tightener. He has not won many friends because he has let people go, he has not expanded ministries, he has eliminated positions at the parish, and he was done away with a perfectly awful Gloria arrangement.  We have liked this priest, but he hasn't made many friends.

So a huge crowd showed up to meet the new guy. He said it was like meeting the parents in an arranged marriage.  Since it was a men's ministry event, it was casual. Everyone was jovial. Beer was served, and lots of meat. 

Before we arrived at the BBQ, my husband and I were talking about some of the challenges of life lately. We have big decisions to make, we have some family issues, we have had some difficult email exchanges with teachers and student employers, we've had to negotiate some other unforeseen business issues, in particular a dispute over a parking lot fender bender in which the other party won't admit mutual fault. In sum, we have had the difficult experience of being let down by inflexibility, carelessness, thoughtlessness, selfishness; all those peccadilloes of human nature that we exhibit regularly ourselves.

Earlier in the day, just when I had been mulling over a wound inflicted by an unkind email, or a thoughtless word, I read a passage from Pope Francis's The Church of Mercy about how people always let us down.   We cannot put our trust in others, even those - or especially those - closest to us, who sometimes fail us in radical ways.  We can only trust God.  If we find our joy in God, we can forgive others more easily. Only if we recognize God's mercy to us, can we in turn have mercy.

The new priest seemed to speak directly to me when he announced he was going to talk about mercy.  In the context of his talk, he read off the corporal and then the spiritual works.  The corporal works of mercy are easy for me, as a mother, to remember - clothing, feeding, sheltering, incarcerating...  oh wait, visiting the incarcerated we don't do so often.  ... But I sometimes forget to think about the spiritual works. Plus they are hard.  Sure, I regularly admonish the sinner and instruct the ignorant in our house.  Not so often outside of the house.  More difficult to do is to bear wrongs patiently and forgive all injuries. 

One of my big weaknesses is a tendency to lick my wounds, to keep them fresh, to make them worse, especially those I think are caused by someone else.  But I only hurt myself when I dwell on my frustrations with others.  My fretting and stewing does nothing to heal the relationship.  Being angry is the opposite of being merciful. Being hurt and bitter is not being merciful.

The new priest mentioned that mercy is a translation of the Greek word "eleos."  He said it can also be translated as "to take delight in."  Now I am not finding this translation online, but the idea that mercy flows from delight is a fruitful one. It is easy to have mercy on our children. They fill us with delight, love, joy.  Poor Baby is likely to be spoiled because her siblings and parents only smile at her stubbornness.  But having mercy on the stranger, on the acquaintance, on the people who let us down, is harder.  How do we take delight in those we barely know?  We have to see the face of Christ in them, like Mother Teresa.

Only by loving God, attaching to Christ, is it possible to detach from the world's opinions, to forgive injuries, to bear wrongs patiently.  We are going to be bruised by the world, but, as Pope Francis writes, it is better to be bruised by going out and trying to love the sinner, than to be ill by staying shut up inside all the time.

One thing our interim pastor has done that the congregation does appreciate is add at the end of the prayers of the faithful "And for those we love and those we have difficulty loving."  Sometimes that person is the person closest to us.  Sometimes it is the person in the parking lot.  Sometimes its ourselves. 

In my English class, we just spent a class talking about good and evil.  I assigned, "Young Goodman Brown,"  "A Goodman is Hard to Find," "Batter My Heart" by John Donne - and then two other sonnets that allude to it, Benjamin Alire Saenz's "To the Desert" and Mark Jarman's "Unholy Sonnet," which goes like this:

Unholy Sonnet
by Mark JarmanAfter the praying, after the hymn-singing,
After the sermon's trenchant commentary
On the world's ills, which make ours secondary,
After communion, after the hand-wringing,
And after peace descends upon us, bringing
Our eyes up to regard the sanctuary
And how the light swords through it, and how, scary
In their sheer numbers, motes of dust ride, clinging—
There is, as doctors say about some pain,
Discomfort knowing that despite your prayers,
Your listening and rejoicing, your small part
In this communal stab at coming clean,
There is one stubborn remnant of your cares
Intact. There is still murder in your heart. 

Murder in the heart. The fruit of free will. But to forgive is another fruit.  To have mercy. To take delight in the land and the people. To love and bear wrongs patiently.  Hypocrisy haunts us. It makes us human. But to forgive, to have mercy, makes us like God. The new priest ended his talk with a reminder that God loves us because He sees Himself in us, just like as parents we see ourselves in our children. If God is in each of us, we all share a likeness.  I need the reminder to see myself, the part of me that is in the image of God, in others, and have and seek mercy. 

Mercy

Over the weekend, my husband's youngest brother came to visit. This is the third week in just over a month that out-of-town company has come to warm up on the sunny Southern California coast. This evening my mother arrives, and ten days later, my father will show up to admire his newest granddaughter.  Of course, they aren't coming for the sunshine, but to meet the baby. And since all these guests are family, I don't feel any pressure to make the house sparkle, more than the usual cleaning, or to cook to impress, other than the usual cooking, or to plan site-seeing outings, other than the usual haunts.

It's wonderful to live close enough to have family visit. My in-laws are talking about coming in May. Another cousin may show up for spring break. And we'll head back to the Midwest in the summer to see all the cousins.

Since my brother-in-law stayed at my other brother-in-law's house ten minutes away, we weren't really the hosts, although we hosted dinner one night and lunch another day at our house. Our kids love their uncle, who is young and fun-loving.  There was golf, surfing, music. It was a great, albeit short, visit.

It gives me a lot of joy that my kids know their extended family and love them, even though this is the first time we've lived in the same town with family since we were married.  We've always tried to make an effort to spend time with family or call or send birthday cards. My husband and I both feel like our best friends growing up were our siblings and cousins, and as I've mentioned before, we want our kids to feel that rooted connection to family that we had, even though we're transients.

In some ways, though, it's easier to live far away and only have idealistic thoughts about the relationships with siblings and parents. What living closer to family and having family visit reminds me is that when you are close to someone or spend much time together, you inevitably are going to rub each other wrongly every once in awhile. There were a couple moments during his brother's visit when my husband and I found ourselves bickering about "the plan" or lack thereof.  We were trying to coordinate the activities of our kids with the desires of my brothers-in-law. There were a couple times when their ideas about what to do next changed suddenly. And there was some uncertainty about the times our older boys were going to finish up what they were doing or where they were going.  In the end, everything worked out, but I fretted about trying to be three places at once, so needless to say, I got a little irritable.

I feel badly now that I griped to my husband needlessly.  I made him feel guilty. Perhaps I was more irritable than usual because I'm pregnant, but also because I had to sacrifice what I wanted to do. Once everything fell into place, I could see how I was being inflexible, and I apologized to my husband, but not before my edginess had rubbed off on him, making him grouse at the kids. Ruffled feathers have a way of reproducing.

The fact that irritability is contagious is one of the reasons why "I'm sorry" is one of those three important phrases mentioned by Pope Francis that I'm trying to use more often during Lent: "Please, thank you, I'm sorry."   "I'm sorry" is perhaps the most important of the three statements, and perhaps the most difficult to say.  How many times do we let anger or fear or passion cloud our judgement so that we make poor decisions, or say hurtful things, or seethe in silence that is intended to wound those around us?  Is there a day that passes that doesn't call for some kind of apology?

This minor little incident during a weekend that was supposed to be all sunshine and smiles reminded me yet again that family relationships - and friendships - aren't guaranteed to be free of conflict. In fact, they shouldn't be. We shouldn't hope to be in conflict-free relationships, but in relationships in which conflict is endured, discussed, forgiven.  We work out our salvation in marriages and families in order to cultivate the humility of apologizing, the generosity of forgiving, the peace of forgetting.

When we were kids, we fought with our siblings all the time, just like our own kids do. We hurt each other's feelings, we blamed each other, we hoarded stuff, we punched and pinched, to the point that I'm sure that our parents wondered, like we do, whether what is being cultivated in family life is selfishness and insensitivity. We used to play that game "Mercy" where you tried to bend each other's fingers back until the pain made you cry for mercy. "Winning" was both enduring or causing the pain.

But thankfully, at some point in life, with the help of grace, we realized that winning is about giving and receiving mercy, not inflicting pain.  I almost like the word "mercy" better than "forgiveness." How close is the linguistic relationship between the French "merci" - thanks - to mercy? (Wikipedia answer: both from the Latin for "wages paid" or the root of "merchandise." Something given, accepted. Benevolence, kindness, forgiveness. Mercy is a "work.")  As our siblings and we have aged, we have been able to move beyond that state of self-centeredness to more adult relationships of really enjoying each other's company, caring about what happens to each other and our families, and to loving in-laws and cousins because they belong to the clan. We learned to recognize that people have bad days, or weeks, that we all still have selfish sides that want our own way, that we are still learning how to be understanding adults. Those lapses happen and then pass.  The better self reemerges. We learn to forgive each other for giving in to the childish self and to give each other space to grow and change. Mercy is practiced.  Love is just as contagious as irritability. And it does mean having to say sorry, despite claims made in sentimental movies.

At one of his Angelus addresses, the Pope said:
The joy of God is the joy of forgiveness. It is the joy of the shepherd who finds his lost sheep; the joy of the woman who finds her lost coin; the joy of the father who welcomes home his lost son,” the Pope said.
“This is all the Gospel, here; this is Christianity! But this is not sentimentalism or bland 'do-goodism'; on the contrary, mercy is the true force that can save man and the world from the 'cancer' of sin, from moral and spiritual malaise. Only love can fill the gaps, the negative abysses that evil opens up in our hearts and in history. Only love can do this, and this is the joy of God.

Thankful for siblings, in-laws, aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents who bring so much joy and opportunities to practice forgiveness and to experience being forgiven.

The Pope is even celebrating a "Celebration of Forgiveness" around the world, from Dallas to Scotland to Mumbai this Friday.  Time to hit the confessional.



Benefit of the work of giving/receiving of mercy: beach life:

Thank you, gracias, merci

After the preterm labor scare and receiving the doctor's recommendation to take it easy for a couple of weeks, I spent days thinking the baby was going to arrive any time. Any twinge around my belly was a cause for concern.  Now here we are almost 38 weeks along and still no real labor. So the past few days have filled up with activities, and since the sun has been shining and the weather beautiful, I've been thankful to be able to fit whatever works into the schedule. Each day seems full of potential - Maybe today will be the birth day! - and full of graces.

A catalog of recent blessings:

• Saturday night was the school dinner dance/ auction fundraiser.  I wasn't sure if we would be able to attend this event, but since we missed the Seabee Ball, I was glad we still had an opportunity to go out on a dressy date once it became clear that Baby is taking her sweet time.  It wasn't formal, which could be why it was one of the most upbeat and sociable school fundraisers we've been to in awhile. Or is it just that Californians love to drink wine and dance? We got to visit with some other families who have interested me but whom we haven't really met, and we met some families we didn't know at all who were interesting. The crowd made it fun night, but the absolutely best, most exciting part was that we won the raffle for free tuition for one of our kids! Yahoo! We never win anything! I want to tell everyone, hey guess what! but I don't want to gloat. Several people came up to tell us how happy they were for us - and probably they are a little glad that the same family with one kid who has won the last three years because he (his parents) sells so many tickets (entries are based on how many tickets for the cash raffle you sell) didn't win yet again. Still glowing with gratitude. 

• Sunday night was a different kind of event - Pam Stenzel came to give a chastity talk to the confirmation classes. My eighth grader is in the class, and my two older boys are peer leaders, so all three teenagers were in attendance. Parents were requested to attend, so the gym was overflowing. I have been grateful for the active youth group here - over 300 kids are enrolled in the two years of confirmation class. In the summers the leader, who is a Steubenville grad, takes kids to Steubenville conferences, mission trips to an Indian reservation in New Mexico, and a weeklong urban service project in LA.  She's got a lot of charisma and dedication to the kids. So I'm grateful for her spiritual leadership, I'm grateful that my boys want to be involved, and I'm grateful for the message that Pam conveyed.  I haven't been as outspoken about chastity and theology of the body teachings as I thought I would be.  It's nice to have someone else who is witty and knowledgeable spout off statistics about STIs, anecdotes about lost and preserved virginity, and motivational messages about being chaste for your kids to hear. Half the parents were in tears by the end, I think. It's a scary world out there. But there is also a lot of hope, especially amongst the kids in that gym.  I tried to re-emphasize to my kids in the car on the way home that while it may seem like the hardships of your teen years are more suffering than you can stand, they are a very short period of time compared to a lifetime of marriage and an eternity with God.  I pray they can keep the distant future in sight as they navigate the difficult choices of their immediate future. 

• Another thing that stood out to me in Pam's speech was when she told how she was adopted. Her mother was raped as a young woman and put her up for adoption. She was an unwanted child, but her life has not been purposeless. I think about all the people her crusade has touched, and pray for unwanted children everywhere.

• I'm also grateful I'm no longer on bedrest. The past few days have been beautiful, and I've been taking walks again. The weekend was full to brim - a track meet, soccer games, the fundraiser, a birthday party, a St. Patrick's Day parade two days early.  I let one of the teenagers drive to the track meet along the back highway that runs along beautiful corridor of agriculture property.  The drought out here may be scaring the owners of these properties, but their lemon trees and strawberry fields still look lush.  We pray for rain at Mass, but I am thankful for the cheery sun nonetheless.  (And I'm thankful for getting to go to the track meet. I love track season! I felt nearly as tired after cheering for the runners as if I'd run the race myself.)

• I'm grateful we had time to help at ManyMeals again on Wednesday. This is a once-a-week dinner program our parish provides to the community. We try to go once a month. It is primarily for the homeless, but not limited to just homeless people. One table is full of elderly friends. At another table sit a group of mentally challenged adults, a couple of them were born with their disabilities, one suffered a stroke, another was in a car accident. They have homes, but they come for the meal and the fellowship.  Some of the attendees are regulars. One man, new this week, asked if I knew where he could get cash. I mentioned St. Vincent de Paul Society or Catholic Charities. I had no cash myself and the volunteers are not supposed to give handouts. Then the man told me he had only been homeless a few weeks since he lost his job. He lifted his shirt to reveal a huge scar where he had been shot in the abdomen. Now he was disabled and was still waiting for his paperwork to be processed so he could receive government benefits. One of the regular volunteers, an older woman who comes with her husband every week, told me some of the stories she has learned while serving these meals.  We also learned, through another source, that her husband, who quietly rolls plasticware into napkins and twist-ties them together, refills the butter baskets, and stocks the salt and pepper, is a retired two-star Admiral.  We knew he had been in the military on ships, but he was so humble about his jobs.  My husband was ready to salute him this weekend.

So you never know. Through the grace of God, we have been blessed with bright, healthy kids, supportive extended family, my husband's dependable job, a multitude of friends, and wonderful experiences.  We could lose any of it, any minute.  Still, I can be ungrateful. I can mull over lost opportunities and impossible dreams.  I can bewail my selfishness and sacrifices. I really want to eat cake, not diabetic diet foods.

As I have mentioned, Pope Francis has repeatedly reminded us to be grateful to our families, to our fellow human beings, to God.  To say "Thank you" is also to say "I love you."  When Lent first started, I resolved to more aware of what I have to be thankful for. I have started and abandoned gratitude lists. I have written multiple times about gratitude and giving thanks.  But still I fall back into the habit of selfishness and self-pity: What about me? That's mine!  I don't want to! Sometimes I am as grabby as my kids. It's a bit discouraging how often I have to turn again, and turn again, and turn again.

It is a good thing that Lent is not called a time of change, but a time of conversion.  Conversion takes a lifetime, as this quote from Pope Benedict XVI on Ash Wednesday of 2007 reminds us:

"Conversion ... is not something that happens once and for all, it is a process, a journey, that cannot be limited to a specific period but must embrace all existence. ... "In this light, Lent is an appropriate spiritual moment to train ourselves more earnestly to seek God, opening our hearts to Christ. Conversion means seeking God.  It is not an effort of self-realization. Self-realization is a contradiction, and it is too little for us. We have a higher destiny.  Conversion consists precisely in not thinking that one is the 'creator' of oneself, and thus discovering the truth."

And from Pope Francis's homily for Ash Wednesday this year:

Lent is a time to recover the capacity to react before the reality of evil,” the pontiff emphasized, adding that it is also a time “for personal renewal” and for “community” that “brings us closer to God.”

Highlighting the importance of “confidently” adhering “to his Gospel in order to look at our brothers and the needy with new eyes,” during this season, the Pope observed that it is “a suitable time to convert to be able to love our neighbor.”

This love, he explained, is “a love that generates an attitude of gratitude and of mercy with the Lord, who 'became poor to enrich us with his poverty.'"

If we have a Creator, we have someone to thank. One of the first and easiest prayers our kids learn is "God is great, God is good, and we thank Him for our food." If we are filled with love for the things, and more especially, for others created by God, it is even easier to feel gratitude.  And so thank you, God.

From Pope Francis' Easter Vigil homily last year:

To remember what God has done and continues to do for me, for us, to remember the road we have travelled; this is what opens our hearts to hope for the future. May we learn to remember everything that God has done in our lives.
Dear brothers and sisters, to all of you who are listening to me, from Rome and from all over of the world, I address the invitation of the Psalm: “Give thanks to the Lord for he is good; for his steadfast love endures for ever. Let Israel say: ‘His steadfast love endures for ever’” (Ps 117:1-2).

Please and Pleases During Lent

In church yesterday, my thoughts went wandering a bit, but at least they were focused on Lenten themes.  I remember that the readings were about temptation and sin and the homily focused on three types of sin: sins of resentment,  "I know what is wrong, but I'll do it anyway" sins, and one other type that I can't remember because my mind drifted (sins of neglect?), but instead of paying attention I was thinking on  about the Pope's recommendation to use the words "please, thank you, and sorry" often. Thinking about the several ways we use the word "please" reminded me of ways my heart needs to be converted this Lent.

First, there is the courteous please that expects what follows will be accommodated, such as "Please pass the butter" and "Could you please pick that up?" It's a polite request, or, in the case of the parental please, a polite command.  Because the demand is tempered by courtesy, the hope is that the person to whom the please is directed will be more compliant. Civility and courtesy are forms of respect and ways of acknowledging the freedom of our peers and children to decline our request, but the expectation is that they will not.  So using the word in this way during Lent is a reminder to treat everyone with dignity.

Then there is the "please" that is really sort of a thank you - the response to "Would you like me to get that for you?" is "Yes, please."  Probably a foreshortening of "if you please," or "if it pleases you," this please is more closely related to the root word pleasure - as in "it would give me pleasure to accept that dessert." This usage reminds me that we are dependent on the kindness of others.  During this past week of modified bedrest, I have had many offers for help from well-meaning friends. While I don't feel incapacitated by the doctor's orders - I have only had to back out of events that would require a lot of activity (and fun: like the Seabee Ball); I don't have to refrain from doing laundry - I know that people, myself included, like to be of service to others.  I don't like asking for help or admitting that I need help, so accepting these offers of assistance when the baby is born will be a sort of Lenten penance to acknowledge my neediness, my inability to do everything I want to do. I am trying to think of ways to accept help from those who offer. I'd really like someone to come scour my bathrooms or fold and put away laundry, but that would require real sacrifice on my part and theirs.  Something that would genuinely be useful is if someone would entertain my younger children for a few hours away from home.  Another idea I had is if, instead of making a dinner because my husband likes to cook and because I hate to ask someone to cook for a family of 8 including 3 teenage boys, someone would make a stack of sandwiches to send in the mornings for the kids' lunches because I'm sure the mornings will be more chaotic than ever if Baby wants to nurse or has a diaper explosion right before we have to walk out the door.

Back to please: The next usage I thought of relates to the verb form: "It pleases me to eat chocolate." This usage does not seem to be very Lenten in spirit. To recall some of my past interest in language, I remember that please comes from the Latin "placere" - to please - and perhaps is related to "placare" - to placate or satisfy. To gladden, to prefer, to wish, and to provide contentment are synonyms with varying shades of meaning. Pleasing ourselves is one of our basic instincts.  What things give me pleasure? That's a relatively easy question to answer: aside from sensual pleasures like chocolate, wine, and coffee, the things that please me are things like free time by myself, doing well at a job or at making something or at running - success, in other words; or having a really stimulating conversation or attending classes or reading a really good book - mental stimulation.  These things all center around me and my wants and my pride.  What things should give me pleasure? The idea of "ordering our desires" seems sort of archaic but would perhaps be a good focus for Lent.  One of my weaknesses is mourning what I lack or am prevented from doing rather than being grateful for what I am able to do or have. Lent is a good time to refrain from desiring the pleasures I don't have to taking pleasure in the bounties I do have (which relates to the next phrase, "Thank you"). But even more during Lent, I should reorder my desires and actions from doing what pleases me to seeking to please others - for isn't that what pleases God?  Little things that are mortifications for me, like cleaning off the counters and table before my husband gets home, sitting down to read with the youngers instead of reading my own books - or the internet, or agreeing to transport the teenagers to some social function that requires getting into the car at 11:00 pm, are easy ways to please my family.  It would please me to find some way to serve the community, to do some good work for those who need help, but I need to discern if that is something that I should postpone in order to keep up with the demands of the family right now.

Finally, there is the please of supplication, the "please" of a dying man, the "please" of the beggar, the "please" of the petitioner who fears his prayer will not be answered.  Actually, this was the "please" I was thinking of  during Mass.  "Please, thank you and sorry" are basically 3/4s of the types of prayer in the ACTS acronym that I used with the kids when they were younger: Adoration, Contrition, Thanksgiving, and Supplication. Contrition was part of the emphasis of the homily on Sunday. Only Adoration is missing  -- and perhaps Pope Francis should have added it explicitly to his speech to families, but I think his intent was to say that using these words is how we show our adoration, our love, for others. As someone who appreciates "acts of service" as my love language, I can justify the omission of "I love you" from his list of words.  But having family members who thrive with those words of affirmation, I sometimes need to be reminded to use them more often, along with other words of appreciation and praise.

The connection between asking, "please help me," and love is the faith that someone you love is going to answer your request because he will want to please you. This Lent, I want to use the word "please" as a trusting supplicant, not only if I need to reach out for the assistance my helpful friends have offered, but also in faith.  How often do I offer up petitions that I really don't expect to be answered? Or how often do I fail to petition God to help me with struggles because I don't really believe my little concerns are worth his care? Or because they are selfish concerns? How often do I forget to petition God for intentions I've promised to pray for - for that friend's sick grandmother, for the family member who lost a job, for another family's adoption procedure, for my godchildren, for my own children?  Some people are naturals at being prayer warriors.  Were I to be a nun, I would never enter a contemplative order; I'd be something active like a Dominican or Benedictine. Work, then pray, might be my motto.  "Beseeching" is not something I think to do often.  I know people who have a list of prayer intentions that they bring to the labor and delivery room, and then they offer up their contractions for all these needs of others.  I rarely have the composure of mind to think about offering up labor pains. But to remember to pray for these intentions is both an act of love for these people and an act of trust in God's care.  I suspect my weaknesses in petitioning stem from a lack of trust, a weakness of faith, that these prayers will be answered favorably.  My faith suffers from a kind of stoicism - or deism? - that perceives God as uninvolved in the here and now sufferings of the world. I believe He is grieved by our sins and pleased by our sacrifices, but rarely do I trust that He is going to work miracles because of my prayers for help and intercession.  But part of the message of Lent is to put on the sackcloth and ashes and become like a beggar for God's mercy and intervention in our lives.  Repent and believe. Convert me, O Lord, help me to "turn away from sin and be faithful to the Gospel." Please hear my prayers.

Pessimism/Optimism

My husband came home with news the other day that a friend from college was in a rehab center for alcoholism and anorexia.  Wait a minute. I thought I got a happy-looking Christmas card from that family with photos of their four cute kids...

Turns out our friend's husband has been managing for a few weeks with the help of a babysitter and family members to work and run the house.  I don't know how long she'll be in rehab or how long after that her real recovery will take.

And what I really don't know is whether or not I write to her. "Hey I heard this about you. Just wanted to let you know you're in my thoughts and prayers!" Would it be a comfort or proof that the gossip network spreads far and wide?

I can't say I'm surprised that this friend suffers from anorexia.  All of my college friends had weird eating habits. We were high achieving college student-athletes.  The alcoholism part is a bit of a surprise, but I could certainly understand how anyone in a similar situation could drawn into a substance abuse problem. There are a number of our friends/acquaintances who probably also need to cold turkey quit some substance or another. I tend to think most people have secret vices they barely have under control.  So it doesn't surprise me that much to hear about abuse, infidelity, addiction, etc.

My husband and I have an ongoing discussion about whether this makes me a pessimist. I like to think I'm a realist - Sin exists and everyone sins.  War, poverty, disease and criminal behaviors are never going to disappear.  We're at the age when marriages start falling apart.  Not as much fun as the post-college "Everyone's Getting Married" stage, or, a few years later, "Everyone's Having Babies" stage.  Now it's the "Who's Next in the Line for the Counselor" stage.  Unfaithful spouses, substance abuse, children getting into trouble with the law, parents getting sick and dying.  The next decade is when we earn our wrinkles and gray hair. The future sometimes look bleak.

While it doesn't surprise me to hear about people having problems, usually of their own making, I'm not sure this makes me a pessimist. I also have this sort of expectation that people are usually more fascinating - more intelligent, more talented, more together - than they usually are. Easy to assume about people in the internet world: everyone presents their best side to the camera.  But I also assume it about the people we meet. And sometimes it's true - we've met some people with really great stories and experiences.

Nonetheless, usually people are a lot more normal than I anticipate. Their houses aren't always perfectly clean. They forget things, they lose their cool with their kids, they may have had a homebirth but they feed their kids McDonald's. And sometimes they are alcoholics or embezzlers or unfaithful.  No matter how often I witness or experience failure, I still don't think I expect it as a pessimist would. It's not surprising that most of our efforts fall short of our goals or that sometimes we fall into deep pits of despair and disappointment and disillusionment, but rather than throw up our hands and quit trying, we dust ourselves off, try to crawl out of the pit, and try again to live a faithful life. Even better is when we try to help each other up.

Besides, there would be no stories without conflict or suspense or impending disgrace, without a potential redemption in sight.  That is the end of the story, right? That's why it's not pessimistic, but Christian, to expect failure and shortcomings and disappointments, as long as you equally expect people to survive, to endure, to be broken and then healed.  I do believe my friend and her husband will endure this difficult time.  Maybe it will take years. They won't be the same people. Their children will suffer, too, but they will, hopefully, learn about forgiveness and mercy and the need for grace.

The need for grace is why we get married after all - not because we believe in fairy tales of happily ever after, but because we believe life is a struggle and we need a companion who holds our soul's sanctification dear, someone who will be Christ to us, someone who will forgive us over and over and over. I admit, I was perhaps more optimistic about marriage as a newlywed, but I also knew that marriage was not just about the pretty pictures - plenty of people warned us about the "work" of marriage.

Here's Pope Francis from last October's pilgrimage of families:
And that is what marriage is!  Setting out and walking together, hand in hand, putting yourselves in the Lord’s powerful hands.  Hand in hand, always and for the rest of your lives. And do not pay attention to this makeshift culture, which can shatter our lives.

With trust in God’s faithfulness, everything can be faced responsibly and without fear.  Christian spouses are not naïve; they know life’s problems and temptations.  But they are not afraid to be responsible before God and before society.  They do not run away, they do not hide, they do not shirk the mission of forming a family and bringing children into the world.  But today, Father, it is difficult…  Of course it is difficult!  That is why we need the grace, the grace that comes from the sacrament!  The sacraments are not decorations in life – what a beautiful marriage, what a beautiful ceremony, what a beautiful banquet…But that is not the sacrament of marriage. That is a decoration! Grace is not given to decorate life but rather to make us strong in life, giving us courage to go forwards! And without isolating oneself but always staying together. Christians celebrate the sacrament of marriage because they know they need it!  They need it to stay together and to carry out their mission as parents.  “In joy and in sadness, in sickness and in health”.  This is what the spouses say to one another during the celebration of the sacrament and in their marriage they pray with one another and with the community.  Why?  Because it is helpful to do so?  No!  They do so because they need to, for the long journey they are making together: it is a long journey, not for a brief spell but for an entire life! And they need Jesus’ help to walk beside one another in trust, to accept one another each day, and daily to forgive one another.  And this is important!  To know how to forgive one another in families because we all make mistakes, all of us! Sometimes we do things which are not good and which harm others. It is important to have the courage to ask for forgiveness when we are at fault in the family. Some weeks ago, in this very square, I said that in order to have a healthy family, three words need to be used. And I want to repeat these three words: please, thank you, sorry. Three essential words! We say please so as not to be forceful in family life: “May I please do this? Would you be happy if I did this?”.  We do this with a language that seeks agreement. We say thank you, thank you for love! But be honest with me, how many times do you say thank you to your wife, and you to your husband?  How many days go by without uttering this word, thanks! And the last word: sorry. We all make mistakes and on occasion someone gets offended in the marriage, in the family, and sometimes - I say - plates are smashed, harsh words are spoken but please listen to my advice: don’t ever let the sun set without reconciling. Peace is made each day in the family: “Please forgive me”, and then you start over. Please, thank you, sorry!  Shall we say them together? [They reply “yes”] Please, thank you and sorry.  Let us say these words in our families! To forgive one another each day!

Please, thank you, and sorry.  Again and again. To each other and to God.

I also started reading Evangelii Gaudium, finally.  Pope Francis begins by acknowledging the darkness in the world:

 2. The great danger in today’s world, pervaded as it is by consumerism, is the desolation and anguish born of a complacent yet covetous heart, the feverish pursuit of frivolous pleasures, and a blunted conscience. Whenever our interior life becomes caught up in its own interests and concerns, there is no longer room for others, no place for the poor. God’s voice is no longer heard, the quiet joy of his love is no longer felt, and the desire to do good fades. This is a very real danger for believers too. Many fall prey to it, and end up resentful, angry and listless. That is no way to live a dignified and fulfilled life; it is not God’s will for us, nor is it the life in the Spirit which has its source in the heart of the risen Christ.

3. I invite all Christians, everywhere, at this very moment, to a renewed personal encounter with Jesus Christ, or at least an openness to letting him encounter them; I ask all of you to do this unfailingly each day. No one should think that this invitation is not meant for him or her, since “no one is excluded from the joy brought by the Lord”.[1] The Lord does not disappoint those who take this risk; whenever we take a step towards Jesus, we come to realize that he is already there, waiting for us with open arms. Now is the time to say to Jesus: “Lord, I have let myself be deceived; in a thousand ways I have shunned your love, yet here I am once more, to renew my covenant with you. I need you. Save me once again, Lord, take me once more into your redeeming embrace”. How good it feels to come back to him whenever we are lost! Let me say this once more: God never tires of forgiving us; we are the ones who tire of seeking his mercy. Christ, who told us to forgive one another “seventy times seven” (Mt 18:22) has given us his example: he has forgiven us seventy times seven. Time and time again he bears us on his shoulders. No one can strip us of the dignity bestowed upon us by this boundless and unfailing love. With a tenderness which never disappoints, but is always capable of restoring our joy, he makes it possible for us to lift up our heads and to start anew. Let us not flee from the resurrection of Jesus, let us never give up, come what will. May nothing inspire more than his life, which impels us onwards!

Without Christ, I would be a pessimist. But although my faith waivers often because I am so frequently caught up with my own "interior life" that crowds others out, including God, I know I have witnessed healing and redemption, and the reality of these "resurrections" confirms my belief in the goodness and grace of God.

I don't know if I'll write to my troubled friend or not. Perhaps I lack courage, though I tell myself I don't want to embarrass her. But I have thought and prayed for her. And I'm optimistic about her recovery.

Not very grand thoughts on gratitude

Made a shopping list for Thanksgiving yesterday. We're sharing the feast prep with my sister- and brother-in-law, and we each have invited some strays to join us -  friends of our in-laws and a couple of young sailors from the school on the base.  It will be a smaller group than our dinners the past couple of years, but it will be nice to have some family members at the table, along with some strangers.

I've wasted a lot of time recently thinking about how much better life was six months or a year ago.  Now is the season when you are supposed to shed all those gripes and miseries and think about how great every thing is.  Instead, I had a few bouts of envy over the weekend - one while talking to a friend about her job and future plans while we rode in her nice car. I was glad I hadn't volunteered to drive us in our little claptrap. Another moment occurred at a dinner party Saturday night held at a really nice house, about which the owner was complaining. Glad she hasn't seen our tiny place. Very materialistic, vain jealousy. But then there was that other attack of the green monster when I was looking at Facebook photos of happy friends and another when I was reading that well written article, and another when ...

All this jealousy and self-pity is a weakness of faith in the year dedicated to faith that ended yesterday. Perhaps this was the year meant to test faith. We tried to have a celebratory Christ the King dinner last night, but the older boys were exhausted from a weekend retreat with the confirmation students, the younger kids were worn out from a day with the cousins, and my husband and I were just worn out, so the dinner table conversation seemed a little forced - "Be happy, gosh darnit!"

We all went to bed grumpy, dreading the thought of getting up early again in the morning.

But morning came, and once the thought of coffee lured me from the warmth of bed, I forgot about being grumpy, what with the rush to make lunches, get dressed, find books and shoes, jump in the car and speed to school. In the chaos we forgot the gripes of the day before and looked forward to the Thanksgiving play the next day, tried to cram in a couple more minutes of studying for a science test, planned the afternoon pick up schedule. Although the morning was a bit manic, it was a sort of buzzy, hopeful mania, compared to the gloom that clouded last night's meal.

This is why sometimes I think it is good to stay busy.  And I'm kind of excited about the busyness of the holidays, even though we don't have anything big planned.

On the other hand, I really, really love the moment I can sit down in front of the computer and write something down because I don't have anything else on my schedule for the next couple of hours.  Too bad I don't really have any insights or news to share.  I thought about commenting on the NY Library's list of 100 best children's books (love those book lists) or on weightlifting pregnant ladies (whatever works for you, lady), or the burden of NFP, or some other topic floating around the internet, but I don't have anything new or heartfelt to add to those conversations.

I also thought about writing about how yesterday after Mass we dropped off Thanksgiving boxes from the church to a family in need.  The address was in an apartment complex that smelled liked artificial cherry air freshener. The carpets were stained. A young lady with three little kids watching TV answered the door. For some reason, I was expecting an older person to answer, an expectation perhaps left over from the days when we delivered Meals on Wheels. We didn't exchange many words in the awkwardness of the moment and a language barrier.  But I left feeling much more repentant about my jealousy of the day before than I felt during the Confiteor at Mass.  Why should I complain about our cramped living quarters when we are eating grilled tri-tip steak and a salad with fresh local strawberries, almonds, and goat cheese for dinner instead of canned ravioli or ramen noodles?

But it is no heroic feat to feel grateful when confronted with poverty.  It would be better for my soul if I could feel grateful - or at least satisfied - when confronted with plenty, whether that plenty is material, or spiritual, or intellectual, or familial. Despite having glimpsed briefly and self-consciously into the home of someone who has so much less than us, none of us really showed any gratitude during our delicious, nearly gourmet dinner last night.  It wasn't until that moment when we were finally all in bed and the house was quiet that I really felt any thankfulness, but it was that kind of self-berating awareness that happens at nighttime - why can't I be more content with what we have and where I am? - rather than true gratitude.

But daylight brings clarity.  In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for quiet moments for thoughtfulness and contrition. I'm equally grateful for busy times that keep us from mulling over slights and disappointments.  And perhaps I most grateful for forgiveness and the opportunity to start over again and again and again. No new revelations here, just one foot in front of the other.  Good thing the holidays and liturgical feasts are cyclical to knock us over the head and remind us of this year after year.