Not a Lot of Knitting, but a Whole Lot of Thinking

If it's Wednesday, we're talking about reading and knitting along with Ginny. Since last week, life has moved along at a very quick clip. The relentless activity, together with the fact that I'm stalled until I learn to pick up stitches has left my Baby Surprise Jacket mostly unchanged since I shared it with you Saturday.

Yesterday, in a mental health move, I did cast on for Girl's Cap Sleeved Shirt, like the one Carmen made Sarah. I love that shirt--it's a great layering piece and she wears it and wears it and wears it. So, I set about to make her another one, in a pinkish (of course)  Rowan Amy Butler Belle Organic Aran yarn. I have cast on twice now. I'm beginning to think that every time I start a new pattern, I will have to start more than three times to get it right. Pretty sure I'm going to pull this all out and start again.

So, enough about knitting. I have been reading this week, in odd moments here and there. Several weeks ago , when TLC book tours contacted me to ask about The Jesus Prayer, they mentioned that The Council of Dads would also be on tour. In a moment of recklessness, I abandoned my twenty-year tradition of never reading books that even make reference to cancer. (Yes, I even abandoned The Penderwicks a few pages in because the mother--named Elizabeth--died of cancer. My children have read it on their own.) Lately, I am recognizing that I can't run from this disease and I can't deny that it is part of who I am. Better then, to learn about living with cancer and after cancer from wise people who have traveled that journey. And who write phenomenally well.

This book is a page turner. It's the exceptionally well-written story of Bruce Feiler, young man, husband, and father of three-year-old twin girls, who is diagnosed with a rare bone cancer. When face with the possibility that he might not live to raise his daughters, Feiler chose six men who--through their friendship-- had helped shape him and asked them to be there for his daughters in the future. Throughout the book, Feiler intersperses the story of each man's strength and gifts with his own observations on life and with a record of his treatment. It's a truly extraordinary read.

I'm amazed at Feiler's depth and at the articulate men he has befriended. These are men who truly talk--the relationships are deep and strong and meaningful. True, Feiler had cancer. And true, the idea for a council of dads was conceived as a protection and provision should he die prematurely, but at its heart, this book is about living, not dying. It's about living intentionally. Frequently, Feiler refers to his year of chemotherapy and surgery and rehab and misery as "The Lost Year." That year was anything but lost. Indeed, it was lived full of meaning and full of love. He grabbed the gift and the grace that comes with the diagnosis and he lived that gift with grace for all it was worth.

The book stands as an instruction manual for life, a legacy for his daughters. As much as those men in the council will be there for Feiler's girls, Feiler himself will be there, too, in his own written voice, sharing with them the extraordinary insight afforded him by his year with cancer. A life-threatening illness sharpens one's perspective and lends an air of urgency and discrimination to what gets done and what gets said. With the gift of that insight, Feiler is uniquely able to guide other people in establishing their own councils, not necessarily because their lives are threatened, but because life itself is precious and all too often we take it for granted when instead we should live it with a purposeful sense of meaning and mission.

Bruce Feiler isn't dead. He's a survivor. As such, he has left a legacy to all of us who have lived "The Lost Year." He invites us by his example to reflect on the meaning of that year and to honor the struggle it was by always, always living the second chance life with purpose, and always, always investing wholeheartedly in relationships that give life meaning. Personally, he challenges me not to run from the history that is cancer, but to see that in its horror, there is clarity; there is the invitation to live fully.

{comments open}

Yarn Along Ramble

I've done very little knitting or reading since the last Yarn Along. I've done a lot of driving to the airport, some very brief hellos and way too many goodbyes. And the Triduum. That lack --ahem-- isn't going to stop me from posting a too-long Yarn Along;-).

I'm just little further on my latest Chloe (#6). I do have some plans, though. I met Ginny yesterday at Fibre Space, where a very nice guy named Micah was incredibly patient and showed me absolutely every non-animal yarn they had, all the while checking to be sure I wasn't going to go into anaphylactic shock just breathing the wool in the air. We had mixed success. I did buy a yarn to try and a sweet inexpesnive project bag to replace my Ziploc bag. I'm not really thrilled with the yarn yet, but we'll see what happens on the needles. If you are at all local, I encourage you to head to Old Town Alexandria and check out Fibre Space. It was just as I envisioned a neighborhood yarn store: warm, friendly, cheerful, everyone just happy to talk knitting. In addition to their kindness towards me, I heard them helping other customers during the time I was there. Just great folks! And a very nice selection--all those yarns I've spent hours researching online--right there to touch. (And how fun was it that they have a giant Mac right there on the counter, where I could log in to Ravelry and check a pattern? Very cool.) So well worth the trip. I drove over an hour and Ginny drove further. But I know we'd both do it again. Maybe we'll see you there.

It was a beautiful day in Old Town and Ginny and I had time to linger a bit over lunch. I thoroughly enjoyed my grown-up day out of the house. I didn't even get lost going or coming--truly I tell you, the GPS has changed my life:-). Patrick returned home late yesterday evening, ridiculously jet-lagged and dehydrated, and he flew out very early this morning. I had hoped to sit and knit while he told me all about Holland last night. But he was so tired he was incoherent. I have a sense that the next few months will be ones of intensity for him (and us). What do I bring to that this year that I didn't last year? I bring knitting. It's true that knitting is a stress-buster. Truly true. I admit to knitting through tears this morning as that early flight left the ground. Wet cotton doesn't move well. For me, all my knitting heretofore has been inextricably woven with listening to the the Word of God. Knowing that the only thing I know for certain is that there is much uncertainty ahead, I don't think I'll change my knitting rhythm even though Lent is finished.

With Paddy on his way back to Bradenton and Mike back out on the road, the bluebells all turned to green, and no plans for any further entertaining until late next month, it's time to settle into a new household rhythm. I'm reading --and applying-- Organized Simplicity. I'm also hoping to begin reading these three books on dyeing. (Just realized the links didn't work in the post on painting yarn. Sorry!). I've ordered a wee bit of alpaca to try to knit without itching. I'm really hoping that will work, because I do want to hand paint more yarn and I'd prefer an animal fiber. The books above address more than just animal yarns, though. I see some silk fabric dyeing and painting in the very near future.

I love to talk knitting and reading with you. Elizabeth, who nudges me out of my comfort zone on a regular basis, has me planning a knit-along. I wanted to knit a Chloe;-). She suggested the Baby Surprise Jacket. The pattern (which isn't really a pattern, but more like suggestions) for the jacket is available at Schoolhouse Press and in the video linked above. Included in the pamphlet is also a pattern for an adult one. My hope is to find my go-to non-wool yarn and one day knit a surprise jacket for myself. For now, though, I'll be knitting a baby jacket. If you're wanting to read an Elizabeth Zimmermann book (abundantly available at lots of libraries), the Baby Surprise Jacket is in Knitting Workshop. We're going to knit it together over the next few weeks, with Elizabeth assuring that I am successful. You know, Elizabeth has taught me that a mentor is an invaluable gift. So often women (and teenaged girls) are afraid to try new things, even though they really do want to know how to do it. We are so afraid to fail. And are we all perfectionists at heart, just a little bit? A truly good mentor, who can come alongside, and push a little while ensuring success? Unbounded blessing. Makes me stop to think about the ways we can blesss each other. Where can I mentor and help someone over her own doubts and into the sunshine of success?

Be sure to stop by and visit Ginny and see what other folks are knitting and reading.

{comments are open here for knitting and reading conversation}

Bloggity Bigday Giveaway

On April 6, 2006, this blog made its first appearance. I was a very tentative blogger who was really talked into it by a friend, who also did my first blog design. I was newly pregnant (and very sick) with my sweet Karoline. I couldn't imagine ever having enough to say here.

Lots of things have changed since then and I'm surprised nearly every day by the serendipitous, grace-filled  adventures this full life offers and the way that blogging gives them voice.  I'm grateful for the lessons I've learned here. I'm grateful for the opportunity to create and share here.

In all honesty, I've struggled with what to write today, how to capture what this space has meant the last five years. I'll never forget sitting in the hospital with Mike the night Karoline was born, reading so many kind words and sweet prayers, feeling an overwhelming sense of good and community and friendship. Praise God there have been many such days since this blog began. Nor will I forget nights in front of this screen with tears streaming so fast that the painful words blurred and I could not even see to read. I drafted this post weeks ago (so that I wouldn't forget the whole anniversary thing) and left this part to finish today. And what has come to mind, over and over again, is "all good." All of it. Even the painful parts.

All good.

All I've learned--about books, and cooking, and nature, and knitting, and friendship, and God, and myself--all of it is for my good. And I thank you from the bottom of my heart (and home) for that good. Thank you for caring about me, about my family, about this place on the 'net.

To celebrate five years of publishing here, I'm hosting a giveaway. Or two. Or three.

Because knitting is the new passion, I'm giving away this darling knit and read book, Spud and Chloe at the Farm.

And

Small Steps for Catholic Moms

And

 

Real Learning

Leave a comment and let me know which one I can send you (Remember, comments are moderated, so it might take a little while foryou to see your comment appear.)  Winners to be announced on April 10.

And hey, thanks so much for dropping by so often. I'm happy and so grateful to share my heart and home with you.

Much Easier to Give up Chocolate

I have thought and thought about a final sacrifice post; written a couple, actually, and left them in draft. Last night, as I was listening, these verses jumped out at me. I've quoted just below from the New American Catholic Bible on the USCCB site.

Avoid foolish and ignorant debates, for you know that they breed quarrels.

A slave of the Lord should not quarrel, but should be gentle with everyone, able to teach, tolerant,

correcting opponents with kindness. It may be that God will grant them repentance that leads to knowledge of the truth,

and that they may return to their senses out of the devil's snare, where they are entrapped by him, for his will.

~2 Timothy 2: 23-26

In the Revised Standard Version, which is the audio version, it reads:

    

Have nothing to do with stupid, senseless controversies; you know that they breed quarrels.

 And the Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kindly to every one, an apt teacher, forbearing,  correcting his opponents with gentleness.

God may perhaps grant that they will repent and come to know the truth, 

and they may escape from the snare of the devil, after being captured by him to do his will.

Stupid, senseless controversies are good things to give up. Sacrificing harshness and unkindness? Also good.

~~

"You didn't give up chocolate for Lent, did you?" my friend Becca asked Christian, as she presented him with some Belgian chocolate from her recent trip to Europe.

"Nah. I was going to give up chocolate, but this whole blood mess started the day before Ash Wednesday and with all the medicine, it seemed like a better idea to give up caffeine."

"Ahh, the Lents when we give up chocolate are always so much easier than the ones when we don't choose what to sacrifice."

Indeed. It's one of those "universal truths," time-proven by the faithful, that Christian is learning this Lent. Sometimes, God chooses our sacrifices and, not surprisingly, those are not the easy Lents, but they can be the most fruitful.

I had one of those fruitful --but not of my own choosing-- Lents one year.

For years, I was at the tipping point. Something's got to give, God, I'd whisper aloud. I have too much to do. Something is robbing me of the time and energy to live with grace and joy. And always, the same idea would present itself. And I'd reject it. No, not that. God doesn't want me to stop doing that. It's helping people. I'm surrounded by religious women. They're teaching me so much. Even my husband doesn't think I should give that up.

And then, one Lent, it was completely wrenched away. Painful Lent. Brutal in its glaring honesty. It was nearly a year before I could understand how kind God had been to me, how patient He was as He tried to show me. 

God knew. He knew the tangled relationships, the snares that fed my weaknesses, the way that this investment of time and energy was really robbing me, even as I thought I was growing in holiness. He knew the ways that I had sinned and sinned and sinned again. And the sacrifice had been forced. For my good.

I had been forced to let go and turn instead to Jesus Himself for support.

Mine is not a unique experience. We are social creatures and most of us fall into companionships and associations that at some time are not healthy for us. It's not even that the people with whom we are associating are bad. They are just not good for us. In hindsight, God has always warned me of such relationships before the wrenching. Sometimes, I've heard and listened. More often, there's been a wrenching.

As my children get older, I see them wrestle some of the same things (of course they do; it's universal). Particularly tricky are people who go through all the right motions: attend the right church, show up at the right activities, profess to believe all the right things. But they don't lead to God Himself. They don't bring their companions closer to Jesus. They don't walk hand in hand with the Savior while offering the other hand to you. They don't make you better for knowing them.

Not bad people, necessarily. Just the wrong companions for you.

Giving up those relationships, sacrificing the human comforts they bring, is undoubtedly difficult.

It would be much easier to give up chocolate.

There is someone in my life today who has brought me closer to Jesus just by allowing me to be in her presence. And she is pure gift. A gift I didn't seek, a gift I never expected.  She is the embodiment of "let the children come". And she teaches with utter gentleness.

Just yesterday, I told her that I want to be her when I grow up. That is, when I am a mature woman of faith, who lives with the love of Christ, I think it will look and sound a lot like her. At least I pray it will. I told her I want to speak to children the way she does, with genuine respect and honest encouragement and profound appreciation for the gifts they are.

Come to think of it, I want to speak to everyone like that.

Time with her is time well spent. Lessons she teaches me are God's lessons. Gift. Grace.

My friend is struggling. Every breath is effort.

She doesn't get to choose what to sacrifice.

Please pray for God's most tender merices for her.

Please join us in prayer. If you'd like to post this reminder on your blog, the code is

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that {our} hearts may be encouraged as {we} are knit together in love, to have all the riches of assured understanding and the knowledge of God's mystery, of Christ,
in whom are hid all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge

~Colossians 2:2-3

So much more than just a basketball game.

I'm in a comfortable chair in the coffee shop, Stephen delivered to a frosty field on this early Sunday morning. I volunteered for the early shift, even though sleep was ridiculously short last night. I want the time to sit here to put it all in words, to give thanks, to actually count. It doesn't matter the hour or the weather. I am warm-- basking really--in the afterglow of the nearly Perfect Day that was yesterday. So, I sit here in this familiar chair and I hope I can write without spilling tears all over again. No matter, this chair has seem me cry before.

Friday night, Christian's team won a semi-final game to land itself in the ODACS State Basketball Championship. The rest of the team spent the night in Fredericksburg, but we all hauled it back home because Christian wears many hats during basketball season and two of them are coach of his little brothers' teams. He was up very early to coach 9-12 year-olds through two intense nail biters. Both boys came away victorious, ensuring that the next week will be a whirl of playoff games and unpredictable schedules.

We had a few brief moments at home and then we got back in the van, Granddad riding shotgun, and drove south again. I felt sick the whole way. At first I thought it was just that I'd tried to knit and knitting in the car has the same effect on me as reading. Then I recognized that I was over-the-top anxious about this game, crazy worried about the boy next to me, the one with the heart of gold. The one always seems to just have things harder than everyone else. Please God, please, something good for Christian.

It's been my incessant prayer really, for as long as I can remember. I used to itemize, but somewhere along the way, I just asked for something--anything--that would make him smile. Really, really smile effusive joy. Smile the way he used to when he was a little boy and we could keep his world all safe and quiet, control all the things that are so hard. I want this, worry this, so much. Please God, just something good. This, this day, this would be good. Please. Before we left, I had recognized that Christian had slept in the interim between coaching and heading to his game. He didn't eat with everyone else. I had offered him pretty much everything a refrigerator and pantry can hold. He wanted none of it. Even though he has grown to manly heights, this child still has all the sensitivites he had as a little boy. Food has to be just so. We didn't have time for just so.

In desperation, I had grabbed four pieces of fresh bread from the bread box and warmed them, then threw them on a paper plate. Riding next to him I noticed that he was indeed eating the bread, headphones firmly in place, blocking the rest of the world, just chewing and thinking and listening.

What was going on in that head? How could I climb inside? I remembered the night before, the noise in that place. Noise! Christian's nemesis is noise. We've known this from his infancy. He was the child who cried and fretted through his baptism and the party folllowing. As soon as the last guest left and quiet returned, he was content. I remembered that there, sitting in the midst of the other team's fans Friday night, as the guy behind me kept yelling "Get in front of 24. Just stop 24! If you stop 24, it's easy!"

My son is number 24. All I could do not to turn around and beg the man to please stop yelling. Instead, I remembered 5-year-old Christian in the blazing sun, crumpled in the middle of the soccer field. "I can't do this! I hate this game! All these people yelling! And it's hot! I can't do this. I hate people yelling." And really, he never did play youth soccer again.

 

He wanted basketball. A little more climate controlled. Not necessarily quieter, but all his. He didn't want to be stuck in the middle--between the golden-haired boy four years older who would always get there before him and the boy who has already achieved more than most young athletes dream. He wanted his sport. His own. Funny thing, it's not really his, though. This family began with a first date: State Basketball Championship In Charlottesville thirty years ago. His hand slipped in mine. On the way to forever. Basketball was daddy's game long before soccer. We are, really, a basketball family. And in the winter, we go to four or five games a weekend, cheering for each of them as if the game is that first championship so long ago-- from the biggest, to the very littlest (newsflash: Katie scored SIX baskets last weekend). And Christian coaches. He is the leader, fair and square. His are the eyes those little boys seek when they look for praise or guidance on the court. He is their hero. He is the coach known throughout town for winning, and for never yelling.

We traveled on, getting closer to the game. I wanted to talk to him--to tell him that even if this comes so close and ends in disappointment that there is  much good here. But I couldn't really disturb the bubble he created for himself. Please God, something good for Christian. I noticed that the bread is nearly gone. Bread. These days, bread always brings to mind Eucharisteo. I wondered how I might convey Eucharisteo to Christian in the van, with all these people around. And then, Colleen called. "Hey," comes the sweet, southern drawl of dear friend, "I just wanted you to know that I know that this is so much more than a basketball game and I'm dropping my boys off and then going to church to spend game time in front of the Eucharist."

Eucharisteo. Tell him.

I tapped Christian on the knee after talking with Colleen and told him how she was going to spend the afternoon. A slow smile spread across his face. He was pretty sure no one else had that kind of prayer in his corner. Back to chewing and listening. I took my phone in my hands and sent two more messages--out to dear friends who would pray the blessing of thanks with me. Now, how to give that blessing to Christian now, so that thanksgiving might fill the moments with grace and keep him in the present? Could thanksgiving help him before the whistle even blew?

I sent him a text as he left the car:

Notice all the moments. Really live them. God is in those moments and no matter what there will be moments where you can give thanks. That's where He loves you. In the "Thank God" moments. I'm so, so proud of you. I'm praying you through every moment. There will be glorious ones today!

I could give you a play by play of the game, but honestly, I'd have to have Nicky here to help me remember stats. It was close. Really close. From the first time he held the ball, I prayed. At first, I called upon his saints, his great cloud of witnesses--John Paul II, John Bosco, every saint I could think of with a heart for boys. Then, I remembered that this prayer (something good for Christian) has been a St. Andrew's intention for years. I asked Andrew to pray, too.  Every time he touched the ball, every time he defended, I asked. And every time the basketball went through that hoop and caused the basket to sway with grace, I thanked. I held my fingertips to my chin and signed "thank you." I needed the gesture of the moment.

Thumb frantically spinning that prayer ring, I couldn't keep the prayers straight. That great cloud of witnesses, they were cheering-- but the noise was distracting me. I called to mind a verse sent to me the day before, for an entirely different intention.

For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives,

{Colossians 1:9}

This boy is the one I held after those begging prayers of cancer. Since the day I heard about him, I have asked God to please, please bless him and protect him. Please, please help know how loved he is. Sweet Jesus, he is named for you. Please, please, bless him with joy. I settled into a rhythm of my own. A simple rhythm. When he held the ball, I begged Bless him. And then, Thank You. He didn't always have that ball, though, and sometimes it was in the hands of the boy who has spent much of this basketball season sleeping on the couch in my basement. Could I bless and thank for him, too? The boy who had no mama or daddy here to pray him through these moments? I could. And I did. And though I doubt I will see that child again, he will forever be in my prayers.

The game played on. Me spinning and blessing and thanking. On and on and on. I briefly tried to remember how I got here, a Catholic mom of nine, sitting on a Saturday in a Baptist church. Christian brought me here. The child who is too shy to order pizza walked into a gym one day a few years ago and asked to play. It was the only place he could play and he wanted to play. The Baptists welcomed him. And I found myself sitting next to the pastor's wife as the mintues ticked on. She saw my mama-heart. She knew how much more than a game this was. And she was praying, too. I was grateful. Grateful for her. Grateful for open arms.

With 2:17 left on the clock, my boy smiled. He smiled a smile I haven't seen in way too long. Not the shy, slow smile we coax from him. A big, wide little boy grin.  He smiled and he leapt and he shouted joy!

"Do you think we're safe now?" asked the pastor's wife. No, not yet. I couldn't smile just yet. This child has been disappointed too many times. Even he believed it now. But not me. Because the thought of him hurting now was more than I could bear. Keep praying. Keep thanking.

The final buzzer. The explosion of happy!

Mike texted Patrick, who was sitting in airport, waiting to hear, no doubt praying his own prayers, remembering his own moments, calling on the saint he knows so well. And he texted Michael, who was heroically following the day's activities via cell phone, while coaching second grade girls. Then he turned to celebrate with me. He found me in a puddle, tears falling faster than I could wipe them away. Not quite sobbing, but close. Little boy, grab that joy. All of it. Grab it and hold it forever. That man, the one whose voice endeared him to me first at a basketball game, pulls me close, and says as his lips brush my ear, "It's his moment. All his. He has his moment. It's good."

He is the State Champion

He is the Tournament Most Valuable Player

His moment.

All his. God knew. He knew that Christian needed a moment that was all his.And He blessed.

Something good for Christian.

~

Counting gifts:

~Chapter 7

~praying friends, who never think it's just a game

 ~Granddad fist bumping Nicky

~Little Maggie, baby daughter of the Athletic Director and of the coach, granddaughter of the pastor, sitting in her grandma's arms, entertaining my little girls. I can watch, really watch, the whole game.

~Delph's dad. Wise words. Heart touched.

~Boy without family to watch. Playing for his team, looking to Christian's father for both nods and admonition.

~Mike. Every play. Every call. Every buzzer. His heart calls his son.

 

~Pastor's wife. Praying, too.

~I look up in the stands to find my dad and Barbara in the moments after the buzzer. Do they know? Do they know how much more than a game this is? My dad is looking-- at me. He knows my heart.

 

~Clean house when we get home; Michael soothes when Mama is worried.

~Little girls who napped on the long ride, wide awake to greet Paddy well past bedtime.

~Patrick and Christian in the kitchen at midnight. Quiet grace.

~All nine children asleep under my roof. All nine children happy.

~Words I whisper to Christian in the morning when I wake him: It really happened. It wasn't a dream. He smiles that big smile into his pillow and sleeps on.

~Something good for Christian.

{photo credit: all photos by Mary Beth except the one of me. My dad took that.}