On hydrangeas and moving and aging...

It was the hydrangeas that got me first. When we moved into this house on the last day of June, the mophead hydrangeas were in bloom. Every time I walked out the back door, I was struck by the sheer extravagance of them: giant blooms worthy of any flower arrangement right there, ready and waiting for me do whatever I wanted with them. It seemed like something from a beautiful novel, not at all my real life.

The garden was my sanctuary that summer because I was so dismayed and frustrated by the house. The house was dusty and dirty and smelled like someone else’s life. Paint was chipped and peeling and dingy; I could not make it all look clean to save my life and I could not afford to fix it all. So I stayed outside. And I identified and labeled all the plants. And I walked barefoot all the time, willing my very being to connect to this piece of land.

In late July, the limelight hydrangeas began to bloom. They were gorgeous— huge white flowers on hedges outside the back door and literal tree out by the garage. At first tinged with green, they became a pure white. From the window above the washing machine and dryer in our hall bathroom, I could appreciate the grand splendor of the the limelights. Extravagance. The absolute breathtaking generosity of the Creator.

Moving at midlife is so different from moving earlier in life. When we moved to our last house in Virginia, all my children were still under roof. We had barely crept into the teen years with the first one. I had a baby in my arms. Three more babies would be born there. I thought of it as my forever house, and I knew we’d settle in to stay a long, long time.

This new house (which is 250 years old) seemed very temporary right from the beginning. It is a physically demanding piece of property and Connecticut is unrelentingly expensive, so we had no illusions of staying “forever.” At times, I couldn’t really see the point in investing in something temporary. (Even though it’s all temporary, right?) That summer was melancholic, for sure. The big kids came, played for a weekend in the pool and on the porches and then left—off to their “real” lives. No longer was my house home base for their real lives. Even the college-aged ones kept “home” in Virginia.

This was the most unexpected thing of all. This was the reckoning that a certain stage— a long and beautiful stage—was over. I wasn’t a big family mom with a swinging door of my own children and their friends coming and going all the time. I wasn’t living out the legacy of many years invested in community building and watching babies—my own and others—grow. The recognition was abrupt. I didn’t see it coming. And I didn’t really know what to do with it. I liked my old life. There, I was living the life I knew I wanted to live. But here we were, far away from that, and I began to recognize that we’d made an irreversible decision.

I love Connecticut. I love my small town. I love inhaling the smell of this historic village. Our homeschool group is alive and my girls have such good friends. We are incredibly grateful for a lovely community of Catholics committed to raising families in faith. We have truly awesome neighbors. There’s a lot to like here if I just let go of my notions of what I thought life would look like when most of my kids were in their twenties, and if I stop worrying about what this abrupt shift means when they’re mostly in their thirties…

In late August, the limelights began to fade. Not fade exactly, but change. They began to turn a lovely shade of antiqued blush. I looked at them in wonder every single time I passed by. And that was all day every day. This beautiful rosy hue—my favorite color, really—this was what happened to the crisp, glorious flowers as they shifted to the new season. To be sure, they were most definitely heading into a harsh New England winter. They were on their way to dying. But first, they’d have an extended season of exquisite beauty, a season longer than their white season, in reality.

An extended season of exquisite beauty.

I’ll take it.

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Responding to World on Fire

I have lost count of how many times in the last couple days I’ve read the words, "the world is on fire." We pivoted quickly from discussing COVID-19 vaccines and the delta variant to grieving and despairing and crying out over Afghanistan. One thing remains constant, though. An awful lot of energy is being expended judging how other people are responding to the grave issues of the day.

As the school year begins, I have to stop and ask myself: Do I really have time to spend evaluating other people? Do I really have time to read all the things and to respond in quick order?

I don’t. These are heavy days. I want to meet them with grace and strength. I want to discern what my role is in managing crises with maturity and peace, regardless of whether that crisis is global or under my own roof. To do that, I need to nurture my physical, emotional and spiritual health. Judging how other people respond robs me of the precious margin I need for my own well-being.

I need to slow down, to refuse to rush to judgment, to decide not to enter into the fray. I don’t need to consume or produce a constant bombardment of information in order to be an informed and responsible citizen of this world and, more importantly, a co-laborer with the Lord in the kingdom of heaven on earth.

In order for me to respond well to a crisis, I have to give myself time and space to acknowledge that it exists. Sometimes, I think this first step gets lost in a cry of indignant anger that the problem is a problem. Sometimes, it gets lost because I want to just pretend it’s not there and hope it goes away. But what I really need to do is look the problem in the face, see it for what it is and maybe notice that it breaks my heart. This is a quiet, private movement.

Then, it is critical to lay that brokenness at the foot of the cross and wait for God’s response. There is a certain pouring out involved here, an unburdening, if you will. That is good and holy; God wants to hear. When I am finished saying it all in the presence of the Lord, I am called again to the quiet. I ask to hear his wisdom, and then I still myself and listen intently.

What is he guiding me to do specifically? How does he want the Holy Spirit to work through me in response to this crisis? How can I bring God’s peace to my life and to the lives of the people within my sphere of influence? This is a critical step in the process. What is within my control, and what is not mine but solely God’s or God’s call to someone other than me?

We are all called to service. In troubled times, we all have places where we can serve by bringing peace. Where are your places? Where are mine? I want to heighten my sensitivity to the needs of the people God has placed in my life — the people who are obviously "mine" and the people I may have missed at first glance because they are in places that might be a little (or a lot) uncomfortable for me at first. What are the stories of the people who hurt? How can I listen more intently to understand their pain? How can I serve them?

Can I serve without judging or comparing or condemning? Judging people does not often persuade them. People do not change their minds — about COVID-19, about Afghanistan, about abortion, about much of anything — when they are scorned or shamed. Contempt is the surest way to end communication.

Finally, when it feels as though the world is burning, it isn’t a cliche to take the time to give thanks. Not for the burning, of course, but for the grace. It is helpful to truly have a gratitude practice. That is, practice noticing the presence of God. It helps to intentionally articulate how good God is and to give thanks for him — all of him. Gratitude nurtures humility. Humility makes us sensitive to the fragility of the human condition and the needs of the people with whom we walk this earth.

We were put on this earth to know, love and serve God even when — especially when — it feels like the world is on fire. The kingdom of heaven is not burning out of control. It is here, now. Live in it, and let the Lord direct the pace and purpose of life here on the earth that he keeps spinning.

Learning together this summer

There’s something crazy happening out there in summer camp world. It’s as if everyone is making up for lost time. Camps are filled to overflowing with waiting lists for the waiting list. And parents are worried. How are we going to keep kids occupied this summer? After more than a year of being cooped up together at home, moms in particular seem to have fallen into despair. Never mind magical or manageable or meaningful, they are asking how will summer be mine? How will I navigate having all this time with my kids without losing my mind or my sense of self or my sanity? 

Maybe it’s time to reframe the question. Maybe instead of asking how we can keep them occupied and out of our hair, we need to ask what we can learn together this summer. Maybe instead of buying (literally) into the culture’s insistence that we have to go to great lengths to orchestrate a summer apart, we surrender to the idea that we are going to be together, whether it’s because camp is full or because we see a better vision than long afternoons playing Minecraft. What if instead of pushing them out of the way so we can pursue our own agendas, we ask ourselves what we can learn together this summer?

Have you always wanted to learn to make pasta? Maybe instead of hiring a sitter so you can go off to a class, you buy a simple pasta machine and you and your children watch YouTube videos and then practice together until you have something edible with which to celebrate? Setting a personal goal to run a 5K in the fall? Why not do that alongside your preteen daughter? Run together, working your way through each step on a training app. Kids too little to run alongside? Let them ride a scooter or bike or push them in the stroller. Take them along. You won’t lose your sense of self, and you won’t forgo the endorphins that come with exercise and fresh air. You’ll gain some things, though. And so will they.

The Lord sets us down in families so we can grow together in virtue. It’s up to us to seize the opportunities family life presents. Sure, we can acquiesce to the entirely secular assurance that screens make great babysitters and there’s no shame in the Blippi game. But let’s do that with our eyes wide open. For a moment, let’s not worry about what that screen time is doing for (or against) the child. Let’s just look at how it’s limiting you.

We are here for holiness. We are here to grow closer to Our Lord and to become more like him every day until we are reunited in heaven. Don’t let anyone distract you from that truth. Your whole purpose here on earth is to love the Lord, serve your people and get ready for heaven. Everything else is a distraction from that purpose. Our families are vehicles for growth — not just a child’s growth, but a parent’s growth, too. Maybe parents grow the most. 

The very thing God provided to teach you patience might be a loquacious 4-year-old who never stops asking questions and telling very long stories. The mom-coddlers are here to tell you that you matter most — not your soul: your temporal satisfaction. No need to delay your own gratification or stretch your ability to be compassionate, empathetic or attentive to another. The advice is to go plug in her iPad instead of patiently answering all her questions and listening to her story without picking up your phone to distract you.

Before you take that advice, ask yourself how it will help either of you become holier. Ask yourself how focusing on your wants (because truly, I’m not talking about "needs" here) will teach you to lay down your life. Ask yourself if you are missing the thing that is most needful for your salvation.

How can this summer be a beautiful, productive, glorious one for growth in virtue? By recognizing all the many opportunities life at home with children offers to become more virtuous. I know that sounds old-fashioned. What about a woman’s right to time and space and personal enjoyment and enrichment? Go for it. Spend as much time as you like by yourself. Just be sure you hold it up to this test: is this a good way to redeem this time on my way to eternity? Sometimes alone time is exactly what you need for holiness. But often, what you need is to lay down your life and pick up a child. 

Maybe that simple test question will yield more messes in the kitchen, walks in the park and fabulously long little girl stories.

Self-help and the Holy Spirit

I noticed it first in the bookstore. A brightly colored table full of self-help books interspersed with flip flops and beach blankets promised readers that this would be the summer they’d finally become the best version of themselves. If only they’d crack open the books and do the right things and change the wrong thoughts, all would be well. Later that day, as if to beat me over the head with the message, I saw it as a meme on social media. 

"Your self-image is the force that changes your life."

Our relativistic culture encourages us to decide for ourselves what our best self is. The quote above is a lie. It shuts out the Holy Spirit. It glorifies and magnifies the absolute power of self. It boldly asserts that you have to stop measuring yourself by external standards in order to heal, tempting us to make ourselves the measure of what is good. It tells us to rewrite the script in our heads so that we give ourselves unconditional positive praise and positive self-talk. If only we do that, the hype promises, we will be healed of those things that keep us from being the best version of ourselves. But that’s not true. It’s a lie that’s often cloaked in "church talk."

What we need to be the best version of ourselves is to see ourselves the way our Creator sees us and then become — through the power of the Holy Spirit — what God intended us to be all along. 

In Acts 2, St. Peter clearly delineates what we need. He tells the early church in Jerusalem, "Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of your sins; and you shall receive the gift of the Holy Spirit." 

The sacrament of baptism instituted by Christ and conferred here by his apostles forgives our sins and brings us into the shared life of Christ by infusing us with sanctifying grace. Further, we receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit. That’s what we need.

Yet, certain temporal consequences of sin remain in the baptized, such as suffering, illness, death and such frailties inherent in life as weaknesses of character, and so on, as well as an inclination to sin that tradition calls concupiscence, or metaphorically, "the tinder for sin" ("fomes peccati"). Since concupiscence "is left for us to wrestle with, it cannot harm those who do not consent but manfully resist it by the grace of Jesus Christ." Indeed, "an athlete is not crowned unless he competes according to the rules" (Catechism of the Catholic Church, 1264).

So, there we have it — precisely why we aren’t the best versions of ourselves. What to do to become our best selves? Well, simple positive self-talk isn’t really going to get it done. 

There is a root wound that makes us easily susceptible to the psychobabble that tells us that we are the force to change our lives. That wound is likely different for each of us. Hunker down in prayer; bring your Bible.  And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God. (Eph 6:17). Armed with the knowledge of Scripture and the understanding of what God has been trying to convey for generations, ask the Holy Spirit to use the word of God to slice you open to see your root wound. No matter what the wound, Peter’s wisdom is for all of us.

If we buy into the culture’s notion, we miss the beauty of the glory of God's grace in forgiveness. Take care not to confuse relativism with graciousness. It sounds magnanimous to say that God simply wants to affirm our best visions of ourselves without commandments or expectations for holiness on his terms. But if that were so, there’d be no need for forgiveness. 

And we need forgiveness. We need the law and the standard of holiness that God clearly set forth in Scripture, and then we need that Scripture to slice us open and show us where to repent, to root out what festers in the wound and keeps us from being healthy. Then we need the healing power of grace poured over all those wounds. That is the force that changes our lives. 

We have crucified Christ. We are out of step with his character. We are living according to our own constructs of reality. And thank God, St. Peter didn’t simply affirm us for doing our best and loving ourselves well. We have offended God and we need to cry out for forgiveness, not talk hype to ourselves. Now, it’s not all up to us. What a relief.

We are not the vine

Sometimes, especially as parents in times of trial, we can feel very much alone. We can feel as if the world — or at least our children’s small worlds — depends entirely upon us. We feel as if we are the vine and they are the branches and their very lifeblood runs through us and only through us. Of course, this isn’t true at all. 

As we approach Pentecost, the daily Mass readings speak truth into the frazzled, overstretched minds of mothers everywhere. You’re not the vine. You’re a branch and so are your kids. Your Father, the creator of the entire universe,  and your Savior is the vine. It is from him that you draw strength and grace, from him that you gain sustenance. Wait, there’s more.

He’s the vine for your children, too. The greatest thing you can do for them is to teach them where to draw strength. Parents can be the very best providers and encouragers for our children, but we can’t be their whole world. We can’t ever be everything they need. Because they — like us — need God. They need to see how the branches abide in the vine and the vine feeds them. 

Children grow up. They strike out on their own. They still touch base. If the relationship is a good one, they’ll always seek counsel and wisdom from their parents. But we do them a grave injustice if we don’t point to a truer source of strength and grace and joy. Further, we take on far more burden than we can bear if we behave as if we are the vine, the source of their strength.

At first, it seems like a good idea. If we can just control enough, contrive enough, we can guarantee their success and their happiness. Maybe even if we can abide closely enough in the Lord, we can be sure our children will, also, grafting them to us as we graft ourselves to him. But that’s not how this works.

Instead, as our children head out into the world, we take comfort in the words of Jesus, who left his disciples — and us — with far better than a human parent. 

"But I tell you the truth, it is better for you that I go. For if I do not go, the Advocate will not come to you. But if I go, I will send him to you" (Jn 16:7).

This promise is one that gets even better as we drill down on translations. An advocate will come to you (New American Bible). A counselor will come to you (Revised Standard Version). A friend (The Message). A helper (New International Version).

Rooted in the vine who is Jesus, we are given the Holy Spirit. He advocates for us. He counsels us with wisdom. He is a friend even when no other friends are around. And he is our greatest source of strength and help. The Holy Spirit infuses us with grace so that we can live here on earth in communion with God in heaven.

That means that we don’t parent alone. We don’t have to provide for our children what good parents do without the help of Our Lord. It also means that when we are gone or when our children are far from us, or even when we’re all trying to live together peacefully, the Holy Spirit can do the heavy lifting. He is here and he will prove the world wrong about sin and righteousness and judgment.

Take a deep breath; you don’t parent alone, not even close. Abide in the true vine and listen to the counsel of the Holy Spirit. God’s got this.