A Glitch or Two

Any moment now, there will be a post here with a podcast with Auntie Leila and the grand kickoff of our Summer in the Little Oratory book study. Any moment. Just as soon as we get past the technical glitch. Stay tuned. I promise to be right back.

And any moment, I'm also going to tell you all about Sarah's ebook all about Teaching From Rest. She actually, truly has a guide to unshakeable peace. Imagine that?

After that glitch is unglitched. 

I was up way too late last night, fussing at glitches. But His mercies are new every morning and so, today, I'm greeting the dawn determined to bring you something beautiful very soon. And not to throw my computer across the room and turn into something that rhymes with glitch. 

Prayers appreciated;-)

{Also, when the glitches start crawling in my ear and taking up residence in my head and I'm really, truly struggling to find a state of rest, I limit my online time to creative blogs. They are usually the breezy breath of fresh air that forces its way into my lungs and propels me into the sewing room where my fingers take over and my head gets a rest. This post moved me to tears. It's a fabric line introduction--likely won't do a thing for you. But for me? Well, I just get it. I really do. }

In Praise of the Babymoon

It was one of those days when I’d ventured out into the world and wondered, wished, really, for the seemingly impossible. It was an “in the world, but not of the world” kind of day, only the world was winning. If only the whole world operated on a Catholic mindset. If only everyone understood that the primary purpose of a marriage is to create and nurture a family. If only they understood that this work — this blessed, beautiful work of welcoming and raising precious souls entrusted to the care of parents — is the best, most important thing. If only they’d quit heaping assignment upon assignment and deadline upon deadline.

As I moved from one earthly demand to another, trying (and often failing) not to rush, not to stress, not to bend and break under the pressures of our culture, I wished that all those frayed edges could just be woven together into a simple weekend at home. I wanted to tell all the people, the ones who were pushing and pulling and tearing away at the fiber of peace and order at home, that this isn’t the way we are all created. This isn’t how it was meant to be. We are Sabbath people. We need rest. Further, we need time together as a family to learn all those important things that people in families teach one another. Things like prudence and temperance and justice and fortitude. It is my considered opinion that the world is sorely in need of more families committed to virtue, so that as we move in the world, the world is a little more sane.

I rushed through that day, from doctor to grocery to dance school to a hurried piling in the car of one young soccer player and a drive at sunset to goalie training. Just as we got there, the heavens opened up and lightning crackled overhead. “Go!” said his coach. “Go find shelter and sit out the storm for at least a half hour.” Nick and I looked at each other and grinned. Just seven minutes away was a shelter like no other in its warmth and light. As the lightning continued to crackle while we drove, Nick grinned victorious — he knew that the 30 minute clock reset with every latest lightning flash. Now we can stay until 7:37. Now 7:40. Now 7:44. If we get to 8:00, maybe they’ll just cancel the whole training.

We stepped into the pounding rain and ran up all 35 steps, and there, there in the warm, dry glow of evening at home, was Lucy. Nick didn’t even ask, but scooped her up into his damp arms and settled happily against the quilt-strewn couch. For the next hour and a half (practice was canceled after all), we were privileged to enter into the haven that is a newborn baby.

Lucy is my first granddaughter. I suppose I could gush at great length about how amazing she is and how wondrous the last week has been since she came into our world, but I think I’ll just mention instead, that a “babymoon” is a very good thing.

A babymoon is that time when a new mother and father wholeheartedly devote themselves to learning all about their baby and, even more, to dancing together as a family. It’s a sleep-deprived, hazy existence that centers around the very basics of a child’s eating and sleeping. It’s ridiculously simple and at the same time all-encompassing and uniquely demanding. It’s one of the few times in the life of a family that all the world stands a bit apart and affirms the need a family has for quiet and rest and understanding and unwavering support. A miracle happens in a home where there is a babymoon, and those of us who can stop, even for a few moments, and bask in the glow of the good are blessed beyond compare to even stand on the periphery.

Like every other family, this little family will one day juggle schedules and carpools and missing ballet slippers. They will worry about budget and books. They will seek that elusive “balance” between work and leisure. For now, though, they are granted the great gift of seeing clearly that the only important thing is right before them, that a baby sees most clearly the eyes of the person who loves her when she’s held at the lover’s heart. Close. There is no doubt that something happens to the one who beholds a child held there. He becomes a better version of himself.

The storm outside clears, and we must leave, going down all those steps and into the night, going out into traffic and faulty defoggers and cell phones that don’t stop ringing. The scent of the newborn still on our hands, we reach up and rub weary eyes. Inhale. We take her with us — the very essence of the best of us.

Perhaps a babymoon shouldn’t be reserved only for families with newborns. Perhaps, like second honeymoons, it would benefit families to revisit the babymoon on occasion. The art of raising holy children — the work of becoming our Creator’s best vision of ourselves — takes time and careful attention. It cannot happen in the constant rush to get somewhere else with maximum efficiency. It cannot happen when a smartphone screen is the first impulse in the morning and the last touch of the evening. Maybe it’s time to come in out of the storm and gather into our arms a precious soul — no matter how old — who longs to be held just for a while at only a heart’s distance.

 {All photos credited to Michael and Kristin Foss}

Doing Mother's Day in a Big Way

When we were little, my sister and I played "House" all the time. We'd have our dolls and put our imaginations to setting the scene. She'd page through the Ethan Allen catalog and always pick the best rooms for herself. She'd assign me the other rooms (and really, there were no bad rooms). Let's pause here: what does it mean that we couldn't play house without the imaginary interior design element? We'd pick our husbands. She always got Donny Osmond and I got Jay. And then we'd scoop up the dolls. I always got more. I was willing to give on the house and the husband but I didn't relent on getting the most babies.  

When my little girls play House, they don't call it "House;" they call it "Babies." I think I like that better. But whether you call it House or you call it Babies, I have noticed that rarely do little girls pretend to be the mother of teenagers. Nor do they pretend to be grandmothers. I don't think I spent much time imagining what this stage of life would look like. Never, in my wildest imagining could I imagine what the last week looked like.

On Wednesday, Nicholas played a State Cup game about an hour away. It was a big game against a big team. Patrick and some friends came up from Charlottesville to cheer him on. Because that's what we do in this family; we show up. So, Nick was no doubt the only U-13 player ever to be warmed up by two members of the U-17 National Team, a 2nd team college All American, and the High School Player of the Year. Best of all was a little huddle in the goal before the second half--Patrick and Stephen offering last minute advice. Nick was just coming back from being sick. He didn't play the first half and his team was down 3-1. They came back to win 4-3. Very big deal. 

On Thursday, we went back to the eye doctor. I'm grateful that our twice a week appointments at the opthamologist will be scaled back to once a week.

Back at the dance studio and home in my dining room, I sewed and sewed and sewed. Costumes that were too big. Costumes that were too small. I found my happy place in a dressing room at the studio, stitching a little love into a lot of lace and tulle.

And I stole some time to go over and just hold Lucy. She changes every day and it's hard to stay away. I'd really like the world to stop so I could just sit and inhale her. But I remind myself that she's got a mama for sitting and inhaling and I try to avoid being overbearing. I knew we'd be gone for the weekend, so I hopped over there with the little girls, brought dinner, tidied up, folded sweet tiny pink clothes and got to have a little snuggle.

On Friday, the plan was for Mike to take the boys to Delaware for soccer and me to take the girls to Baltimore for a weekend dance competition. Just as I crossed the threshold of the hotel, Bobby called. When Bobby was 16, he was drafted by Major League Soccer to play in DC. He was living far from home, pretty much on his own, and MLS had never drafted a kid in high school before. Everyone was sort of making it up as they went. Bobby came and schooled with us--actually, Bobby became one of us. So, now, 14 years later, when his wife was pregnant, he reminded me that I missed his wedding because I was on bedrest and he pretty much begged me to be there for the birth of his son. He didn't have to beg. I wanted to be there. But I was really worried about the details. Sloane was due smack between two out-of-town dance competitions and State Cup.

Where would I be when he called? How would I get there in time? Could I go to him and not let anyone down at home? 

So, I'm walking through the hotel lobby and my phone rings. I see it's Bobby and ever calm and gracious, the first thing I say upon answering is, "No way. Really? Now?" 

Really. Now. She's in active labor 4 hours north in New Jersey and it's just rush hour in Baltimore. 

I checked my girls into the hotel and I called 3 dance moms. 

You know all the things you think you know about dance moms? Let me share something different.

Dance moms are good friends who know the minute you send the text "Sloane is in labor" that you are leaving and you are entrusting your children to them for an undetermined amount of time. And they are fine with that. 

Dance moms will settle them into their room, buy them dinner, and go to the drug store to replace the eye medicine tucked safely in your purse on the way to New Jersey. 

Dance moms will call their parents (who happen to live in New Jersey) and get you up-to-date traffic and construction information. They will coach your drive, knowing full well that you hate to drive and New Jersey terrifies you.

Dance moms will make sure the girls get up and out on time, feed them breakfast, text you updates, and all around ensure that you know your girls are in good hands. 

Mary Beth is an honorary Dance Mom.

I arrived in New Jersey without getting lost even a little bit. I managed to talk my way into Sloane's room. And I knelt down in front of her and talked her through the last half hour. I was there to witness the most amazing thing on the earth.

Shower upon shower upon shower of pure grace.

I stayed with them and enjoyed the glow of those precious hours right after the hard work is done. 

Then, I drove back to competition. I got there in time to see Karoline dance all her group dances. 

I got there in time to catch Katie and pull her on to my lap and let her sob her heart out after she improvised her whole solo because she was so sick she couldn't remember her choreography.

I got there in time to sleep a little before Mother's Day.

And on Mother's Day morning, I walked with my friend Nicole to get a quick breakfast for the girls (no breakfast in bed;-), and then I settled in around 7:15 AM for this:

If only.

Please God, I want to be who she sees me to be. 

It's wilder than my wildest imagining.

 {Many thanks to Riley Stadick, dance brother and backstage videographer.} 

The Catholic Church Oppresses Women?

I’ve written countless times about my deep love for John Paul II. He was the wise father of my childhood, the only pope I really remembered being pope. Then, he was the guiding presence of my newlywed years, my pregnant years, nearly all my childbearing years. I was 39 the year he died, right on the brink of turning 40 and embracing all the changes that come with midlife. It was as if he’d taken me that far, and then there was a changing of the guard. I had walked the path of early adulthood, knowing that the Holy Father had a vision for what I could be. I heard his voice throughout my growing years, and I knew his expectations of me as a young woman.

The reality is that I had two more babies in my 40s, so the demarcation between childbearing and midlife wasn’t sharp and crisp. And the reality is that, contrary to what many people seem to think, John Paul II wasn’t just a pope for women who were mothers with children at home. He saw the grace and the beauty and the genuine, sweeping gift to humanity that motherhood was, but that was not the full extent of his appreciation for the feminine genius. Please read the rest here.

Shhh. It's a Secret (but tell everybody)

Hey, come close! Let's hatch a secret plan;-). My sweet friend, Colleen Mitchell celebrated a birthday yesterday. It was kind of a lonely affair down on the mission field in Costa Rica. Today, she and her men are off to the jungle for three days, bringing gospel joy to the indigenous folks who are their neighbors. They will be far from internet access. While they are out, might we send some birthday love her way? An anonymous donor has promised to match donations made to The St. Bryce Foundation, up to $500. Wouldn't it be *grand* for Colleen to see $1K in the St. Bryce account in honor of her birthday when she returns to the mission house for Easter? As we set to walk the days of the Triduum together in the comfort of our parishes, can we offer alms to this mission and to a family we dearly love? Nothing is too small a donation. There's an easy peasy button at the St. Bryce site. (You can even wish Colleen a happy birthday in the notes section). Please party plan with me! And share, share, share this post. She's in the jungle--she won't see it until we've all shown up to share the love. 

Go here to donate, please, please, please!

(and thank you)