When I Find Myself in Times of Trouble ...

A friend said yesterday (or maybe the day before ... who knows?) that she's alternating good days and bad days, and she’d like to be able to string two good days in a row.

That resonates. Yesterday was a pretty good day. It started out rough, as I was trying to coax (read: drag, kicking and screaming) my kids into some semblance of a home school schedule. We got over that hump, thanks in large part to my decision that Uno and Scrabble were satisfactory teaching tools, and that it was more than fine for the school day to end at 2 p.m.

The day continued to look up when my daughter “helped” me make dinner. To my surprise, she even ate it—despite having bitched and moaned all along the way that she wouldn't like that kind of chicken. (It was chicken baked in cream of mushroom soup covered in cheese—who doesn't like that?!)

After dinner, I even took a shower! What could be better?

The icing on the cake was a Zoom call with three dear friends I haven’t talked to properly in years. Over a bottle of wine (mine—not sure what they were having) we talked about what our lives look like in this brave new world and just generally caught up—it was a much-needed treat.

Just before bed, my husband initiated a discussion about the kids’ schedule for the next day. Let’s just say we were not on the same page. It was frustrating—I finally felt like I had a handle on this thing, and then it became clear that I did not.

Thus far today has been a struggle. To manage my frustration, I’ve looked to the tools and supports that have seen me through other dark days. Writing and journaling are my go-to practices. Prayer, too—seeking wisdom from people who have endured far worse than I usually puts things in perspective and offers new (or renewed) insights.

On bustedhalo.com’s Lent calendar today, I found this:

Which reminded me of this:

Unlike the Little Flower, I am not much of a mystic. I wish I could say that faith and prayer have the power to dissipate my every fear. Not so, for me. But it’s clear that each of us has been handed a challenge via this pandemic, and I'm not in a position to refuse it.

Saying Yes to this challenge does take courage. It also takes creativity and patience and, perhaps most importantly, it takes kindness. Yes, kindness with my kids and my spouse and whoever else has the misfortune to encounter me online or on the phone or across the bike path. But mostly kindness with myself. There is no roadmap for this uncharted territory, and I’m not going to get it right all the time or even most of the time. But there’s always tomorrow.

Apologies for the awkward editing here: 
“For though we may be parted .... there is still a light that shines on me. Shine until tomorrow ...”

Enjoy.

The Pandemic Blog Nobody Needed

I'm certain you don’t need this. But I do.

I woke up yesterday filled with anxiety, fear, and no shortage of self-loathing. I was sure that I was not being a good pandemic mom, that my kids' brains were going to not-so-slowly melt from an excess of screen time, and that they were going to turn semi-feral from the lack of structure. All I wanted to do was clean my house and organize my clutter, even though my daughter was begging to make smoothies, my son needed an intervention from the Xbox, and the dog was whining for me (and only me) to take him for a walk. As I inexpertly MacGyvered a charging station for my kitchen counter, ignoring everyone except the true crime podcast narrator in my ears, I inwardly chastised myself for being selfish.

Selfish.

I was cleaning my kitchen and calling myself selfish.

Gradually, I shed the self-judgment and embraced the self-interest. It would make me feel better to have order in my kitchen, so I did it. I said no to smoothies because I wanted a clean kitchen for at least a little while. I let my son do ... whatever he was doing. I walked the dog a bit later for some outdoor alone time.

Then the family regrouped. We decided to revisit Yates Mill Park, where we had hiked a few weeks back. I wanted to try a new spot, but my son was looking for something familiar, so we did that. My daughter started moaning and whining that her brother got to choose the destination, so I asked her to help her dad pack us some snacks. (Then, when we got to the park, he gave her a quick pep talk/stern warning not to complain.)

She made it through the walk. Her brother even gave her a 30-second piggy back.

I recovered. We recovered. And I came home to a clean kitchen.

I am still not convinced I'm going to be a good pandemic mom. They didn't cover social distancing in What to Expect When You're Expecting. But yesterday was not a bad day, and for that I am grateful.

You Should Have Been Safe Here

Mini-hiatus from writing, and I'm not entirely sure why. Busyness, in part, but also distraction and resistance.

Last week, 50 people were killed in two New Zealand mosques. Muslims gathered at Friday prayers were gunned down by a white supremacist, who has been arrested in the attacks.

The image of people at prayer being massacred haunts me. That a hatemonger would capitalize on the devotion and vulnerability of faithful Muslims—gathered en masse, kneeling, shoeless, supplicant—sickens me. The descriptions I have read of worshippers throwing themselves over one another's bodies to shield their neighbors from the bullets, or frantically fleeing (in vain) are both chilling and heart-wrenching.

I have found it hard to contemplate my faith journey faced with the horrors that others endured pursuing their own. I feel at once unduly privileged and somehow complicit. My "thoughts and prayers" for the victims are not enough. Why am I safe in my church when so many others are not? I know that that safety is not guaranteed for me or any other church, temple, or mosque congregant. But because of where I worship, I do feel safer—safer, at least, from a white supremacist attack.

There are no answers here; I struggle to know what action I can take or what consolation I can offer. One thought I had yesterday was to send a note of sympathy and support to the local mosques in my area. While I can't presume to know how their members are feeling, I can imagine the fear and anger they must have. I will begin those notes today.

This is not even close to enough. How can the legions of us who have been so horrified by the New Zealand shootings counter the hatred and harm perpetrated in these attacks? It starts, perhaps, by rejecting the hatred and harm present on a smaller scale in our own lives. Our daily actions must reflect openness, humility, understanding, and love. In a world that can feel so dangerous and discordant, we need to provide—and to be—places of safety and peace, which our family, friends, and neighbors can recognize and rely on.

Talk Less ...

In praying, do not babble like the pagans,
who think that they will be heard because of their many words.
Do not be like them.
Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

-Matthew 6:7-8 

I don't share that passage to disparage anyone who worships differently. It's the second line—about the many words—that appeals to me.

I sometimes find prayer to be challenging or uncomfortable. It can feel presumptuous—asking for a lot. I get distracted and find my mind wandering. Even when I'm absorbed in it, it can feel like a lot of talking with no response—and do I ever actually slow down my monologue long enough to receive a response if one were given?

"Your Father knows what you need before you ask him." To be known and cared for, even when you don't always love or understand your own self—this might be most alluring promise that faith offers. I can't say that I experience this security and connection with any permanence or regularity. But maybe if I spent more practicing, I might.

The reading from Matthew continues with Jesus teaching us how to pray—what we call the Our Father. He covers all the basics: acknowledge God's power and goodness; ask that he provide for our basic needs—both physical and spiritual; ask for forgiveness, and promise to grant it; ask for help to stay away from sin.

Can it be that simple? With those basics down, maybe then, rather than talking, talking, talking, I can pause to listen. Who knows what I will hear?

Baby, Give It Up?

The idea of "giving up" something for Lent has fallen out of fashion—at least in the Church Lady circles I run in. I've heard this practice dismissed as "dieting for Jesus," or an immature take on the season of Lent, and I don't necessarily disagree. 

Nevertheless, as someone with a compulsively sweet tooth, I decided to fast from chocolate as part of this year's Lenten sacrifice. 

I'm not deceived that giving up chocolate would automatically make me more virtuous, nor do I believe that indulging in treats is sinful. I know this six-week fast from candy can't be compared to a 40-day fast in the desert, or the greater sacrifice that Jesus made long ago. However, as with a lot of things, getting back to basics isn't a bad way to approach the season. From Matthew: "Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."

I have a lot of changes I need to make in my life. None of it is going to happen overnight or in 40 days, or because I haven't had a Reese's in a while. However, halting my urge to snack is waking me up a bit, making me think about my habits and reflexes. Feeling a bit of deprivation reminds me just how much I have, and how much others lack. I'm seeking out other ways of sweetening my life—reading, writing, playing with my kids, listening to music, calling my mom or reaching out to a friend. (In the spirit of full disclosure, I've rediscovered the simple satisfaction of a Lorna Doone with a cup of tea.)

Baby steps—a good place to start.

Say A Little Prayer

In the spirit of using this forum not as a hair shirt but rather as a kind of spiritual vitamin, tonight’s post will be simple so that I can get to sleep before my second wind kicks in!

This post from Busted Halo's Fast-Pray-Give calendar struck a chord this morning:

Lewis’s words ring true. “I'll pray for you” is a frequent refrain of mine. I believe that prayer makes a difference, as I have felt it work in my own life in powerful ways. I’m reminded of this statement by Kierkegaard: “Prayer does not change God; it changes the one who prays.”

Even with this strong belief, I’m not always sure of the best way to pray for those I’ve offered this promise. 

In my life, I’ve encountered lots of ways to pray. Prayer Classic: Kneeling beside the bed, reciting a litany of names. (It's been many years since I did that—time to try again?) 

Mealtime Mentions: Growing up, my mother introduced the practice of saying the “Our Father” after Grace to pray for special intentions. There was always a special intention—God bless my mom for managing to keep up this tradition daily for years in the face of a table set for five hungry kids. 

Prayer Over a Stove: On this subject, my father used to quote our parish’s legendary Mama Julia, an Italian immigrant who rolled hundreds of meatballs each year for the parish Feast. “Making a good sauce,” she would say, “is a prayer in itself.”

The Bare Minimum: A friend once told me that simply having someone’s name on your lips could be a prayer. That’s a practice I can handle.

For me, writing has always been the best prayer tool for me; it absorbs me in a way that little else can. So today I did write down a list of 10 loved ones and acquaintances whom I know need some extra support. The list will end up being much longer, I’m sure. I will keep these names in my mind and heart and on my lips. 

ACCOUNTABILITY PARTNERS!

This blog was born eight years ago. At the time, as a new, overwhelmed, working mom, I was divorced from the practice of the faith that was so formational to me as a child and young adult—divorced, as I wrote then, “not intentionally, but willingly.” 

I remember attending Mass with my young son that Ash Wednesday in 2011, feeling called to return to my faith with a closeness and sincerity I hadn’t experienced for many years. With this blog, the practice of reflecting and writing and sharing my thoughts was enriching and healing. I kept it up throughout Lent and for a while afterwards, sharing with friends via Facebook and even inviting others to blog with me. It didn’t turn me into a holy roller, and my attendance record at Mass still wasn’t anything to brag about, but I did find the moments of “communion” that can be so elusive.

Eight years later, I’m doing a much better job of practicing my faith—on paper at least. I attend Mass each week with my husband and children, we pray together before dinner each night, and I teach religious education in my new parish. The pieces are in place. But that doesn’t always mean that I’m answering the call, or achieving that communion.

Thinking about how I would observe Lent this year, I didn’t feel inspired. I’m giving up chocolate and Starbucks—no easy feat for me, but these small sacrifices still didn’t resonate. I thought about this blog and what a positive experience it was for me. I polled my friends: Should I blog my Lenten journey again? and received lots of affirming responses. Still, I thought about the message that we hear today: 

Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father. When you give alms, do not blow a trumpet before you, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets to win the praise of others.

Is that what a blog about Lent is? Performing righteous deeds to win the praise of others? 

I am blessed by the wisdom (and wit) of my friends. From a college classmate: “Discipline and community outweigh the being seen.” From another classmate (turned theologian): “ACCOUNTABILITY PARTNERS!” (all caps-hers). From a Jewish colleague: “If you feel your reflections will start a productive conversation about matters near to your heart, why not?”

So here I sit, after midnight, when I should be sleeping (or working). Instead, I’m thinking about what call I am answering today. What resonates most is one of the hymns we sang tonight at Mass—an old favorite I haven’t heard in years, from the book of Hosea: “Come back to me with all your heart; don’t let fear keep us apart. ... Long have I waited for your coming home to me and living deeply our new life.”