Just one week ago I received some awful news concerning friend of mine. An acquaintance, who works for the local paper, called to give me a head’s up that my friend had been arrested that morning for possession of child pornography. She wanted me to be aware of the situation before I saw his face on the evening news.
To say that I was shocked would be a gross understatement. The thought of Sheriffs arriving at this good man’s home and arresting him under the suspicion of a crime so foul was not one I could easily reconcile. I knew there had to be some kind of mistake; it just couldn’t have been him. We’re all innocent until proven guilty, right?
But, less than thirty-minutes later, the news came on and my friend’s face filled the 40 inches of my television screen. What I had been told was the truth. He had indeed been arrested and charged with multiple counts of child pornography. I was crushed. What a tragedy; not only for him and his family but also for all of his friends, acquaintances and co-workers and anyone else who knows who he is and now wonders how they could have been fooled into believing that he was something he was not.
Or was he?
I know the first reaction of most people in this situation would probably be to distance themselves from an individual tainted by the exploitation of children. But I can’t help but think that people should be judged in their entirety. Should the many acts of goodness and kindness a person has done in their lives be negated by examples of their poor judgment? If you are truly someone’s friend, shouldn’t you still do all you can to support them through the dark times? These are the kinds of thoughts that have been processing in the back of my brain all week.
Then it came to me last night as I was trying to fall asleep. When the Peter asked Jesus how many times he should forgive his neighbor. “Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven” (NAB Matt 18:22) And there you have it.
While there is no way I could ever condone such activity, my friend is still my friend, and he is in need. For me the challenge will be in truly embracing the faith I claim to profess and forgiving the man his sin while offering prayers for him and his family as they face what is to come.
Debbie (left) and me (right) in the days when it was okay to put baby in a corner!
My cousin Debbie is a treasure. We were born just a couple of weeks apart, lived in the same town and went to the same school for most of our elementary days. Here you see us sharing the same playpen. When we were little, we’d have great fun at our Grandma Farner’s house when the clan was gathered together. When we weren’t sampling Grandma’s talcum powder in the upstairs bathroom, we’d investigate her drawers, closets and attics for interesting stuff. No one seemed to mind our snooping. The one thing that generally yielded a shout up the stairwell to “KNOCK IT OFF!!” was when we practiced our “tap dancing” on the linoleum floor covering in Grandma’s front bedroom which sat above the living room. Our Sunday patent leather maryjanes made such a lovely sound on that hard linoleum, but there is no accounting for taste, is there?
Just before my tenth birthday, my family moved away from our hometown and only returned for vacations in the summer. I didn’t see Debbie as much after that and when we did, my awkward shyness held me back from seeking her out. (Yes, I was shy!)
It’s only been in recent years and through the wonders of Facebook that we’ve picked up where we started. As I get to know her again, as a grown-up, I am amazed at how much we have in common. Lately we’ve both been dealing with our husbands’ health and she’s been sending weekly letters to friends and family sharing her thoughts and experiences as she and her husband Bill travel an uncertain road. She writes so well that I asked her if I could share her words with you. (I think she should begin her own blog.)
So, without further ado, let me introduce you to my wonderful cousin, Debra Farner Hughes:
We all make adjustments all the time. We put a sweater on, then take it off, turn the radio up then down, open the window, then shut it. We switch channels, we turn the mirrors on the car, move the seat, all to fit our requirements. We do things without even thinking to make adjustments.
In the past 3 months, we have made lots of adjustments. Some of the time, they were ones that made us very happy, some not so much, but all were necessary.
Bill and I never had a set of “jobs” we do at home, there are no tasks either of us would not do. Well, I would rather not clean the cat boxes but I have done it when I had to. He has also written a check or two to pay a bill, but other than those things, jobs were just that, something someone needs to get done. He just as easily would vacuum or do the dishes as I would. Mowing the lawn is a favorite of mine and he never made me feel like it was his job.
But lately, we have had to make adjustments. This time of year we always have lot of branches and twigs that need to be broken into kindling for the wood burning stove that makes our family room a cozy place to be. We have always loved autumn with the changing colors that surround us and we never looked at the kindling as a chore.
Bill loves music so he had always routinely added one of his favorite cd’s to our tasks, making it a much more pleasurable experience, no matter what it was. Ever since the first of July, our tasks, no matter what they were, driving in the car to chemo or doctors, cleaning the house, walking the cats (yes, he walks the cats) there has been no music. I miss it. He only plays music when he is happy. I learned to live with the quietness in the car, in the house, in the yard. I adjusted, it was something that was taken from us when cancer came to stay. Evil cancer, evil, evil cancer.
So Saturday when we went to do our yearly breaking of the branches, Bill only was able to sit on a bench break a few, but I was thrilled he was with me trying his best. I was not surprised when he was tired and needed to retire, leaving me with a huge mound of branches to handle alone. I looked at the pile and thought how he must have felt about leaving me to do it myself, but I refused to give in to my fatigue so I lived up to his funny nickname he gave me, Little Mighty. That day, I produced 4 barrels of kindling. I am learning to do things alone. It is not how I want it to be but I am adjusting.
Just when I start getting used to the new normal, he does it again. He started singing! He put music on and started to sing, powerfully sing and it is from his soul. If you never really heard him sing, you have missed a great set of vocals. His gruffly voice is something that you would not expect to produce such a beautiful sound, but it does, and when he feels the emotion the song is meant for, now that is amazing. So he spent part of today putting together a cd that he could sing his heart out to when we had yet another adjustment. He is currently sitting in the infusion center and getting 2 units of blood, something he has not had to do before. I just glanced at him, reading his book on a high school football team and listening to a soccer game simultaneously, so Bill.
He has learned to live with cancer. He has learned to walk outside with his chemo pump on and not feel like he has to sit indoors for the 48 hours it takes to administer the drugs that are going to let him live with this. He has learned to smile again and to talk to people. He played 9 holes of golf, came home exhausted but oh so happy. He has adjusted to being a cancer patient, but it is not who he is anymore. He is Bill, who happens to have cancer but has chosen to live again. And now, He sings, thank you God for letting him sing and letting me see him again.
Debbie and I at our First Holy Communion
I told you she could write! Must be in the genes; something else I’m so very glad we share! Love you cuz.
A couple of weeks ago something truly amazing happened. It was a Sunday morning. Dave and I got an early start, as always, to arrive at the church right around 8:00. This week was a bit special because the choir leader was going to be away, leaving him in charge for the first time. He wanted to be a little extra early this week so that he could warm up with the accompanist.
Even though Mass is scheduled to begin at 8:30, our priest lives on the other side of the mountains and also suffers from positional vertigo so he doesn’t always get out the door when he’d like to. So, our start time is usually at least a few minutes late. This week, as we passed the ten minute mark, one of the parishioners stood up and announced that Father was running very late and wanted us to “start without him”.
Strange as it may seem to many Catholics, that is what we did. The choir began the opening hymn, the first reader got up and read followed by the Responsorial Psalm. Then the second reader read the New Testament reading. So far so good. Where things began to unravel came when it normally would have been the place in the Mass for the Gospel to be read but Father still hadn’t arrived.
Unsure of whether or not we should pre-empt the Presider’s role, we instead moved onto announcements and the collection; to parts we knew we didn’t need a priest for. The choir led us in a few additional hymns until we were all getting a little tired of singing (and poor Dave was running out of material.) Still no Father.
Finally, the lady sitting next me stood up and called across the worship space to the first reader. “Bill, I think you should read the Gospel.” she said. “Do you think it’s okay?” he asked the congregation. After a few moments of mumbling affirmation, we all rose singing the Gospel Acclamation and Bill proclaimed the Gospel to us. From there we proceeded into the Prayers of the Faithful and Father made his entrance. Once vested, he came out to the altar, walked up to the ambo and announced there wouldn’t be a homily. The faithful giggled and then Father began to talk to us about his health.
With his vision failing, he’d been planning on having cataract surgery the following week. In the process of testing, the doctors had discovered a much more serious problem that would require the removal of a tumor from his pituitary gland or in other words: brain surgery. He expected to be away from us for at least three weeks. Wow! Father allowed a few minutes of questions and answers and then, after we let him know which parts of the Mass we’d already covered, he picked up where we left off and continued onto Communion. When Mass was over, the congregation blessed him with raised hands and prayer.
Last Thursday, Father had his surgery and is doing well.
In the weeks since this happened and I’ve gained the perspective of a little distance, I continue to be so very proud to say I am a member of Shepherd of the Hills. True, we are very small and perhaps don’t have a cadre of semi-professional church types who know all the ins and outs of protocol but what we lack in size, we more than make up with just by the sheer willingness of the average person in the pew to stand up and become part of the solution instead of creating a bigger problem. Maybe Mass that morning didn’t follow the strict rubrics of the Roman Missal, but we certainly came together in our “common-union”. And that’s what it’s all about.
Perhaps the biggest challenge I face these days is being comfortable with letting Dave out of my sight for extended periods of time. Just before he was discharged from the hospital, his cardiologist, Dr. Bove told him that within 48 hours he could do anything he wanted except lift weights and exercise strenuously. Sure, that’s easy for her to say, she discharges people from the hospital practically every day. Not so for me.
Since we returned home on Tuesday, I’ve been by Dave’s side, asking if he’s okay, (probably a little too much but he’s been very patient with me.) I make sure he’s eating properly, taking evening walks and getting sufficient rest. If he needed to go somewhere, I was his chauffeur. He’s been my own personal “bubble boy”.
This morning I let him go to the office by himself. The government has conveniently accommodated his condition by furloughing the majority of government employees working with him, so there just isn’t much going on for his contractors to support. Fortunately for us, our contracts are funded with last year’s money so we’re good to go for a while.
All of this hyper-vigilance is exhausting! When he’s around, I keep checking on him and when he was at the office, he was never far from my thoughts. This morning I even caught up on ironing all the dress shirts that have been stacking up on the laundry room door. It took me over an hour to get them all pressed. But, in my own small way, I felt connected to him in a penitential sort of way.
This evening I planned on riding along with him down to the community college where he teaches on Thursday evenings, just to make sure. I had myself and dinner ready in plenty of time for us to eat and then had the kitchen tidied in short order to get on the road. All I had left to do was to call Izzie in from the yard. Usually she’s positioned right under the bird feeders, waiting for the squirrels. Usually all I have to do is open the door, call her and she trots in. Not this evening.
Izzie hold court with her new friends under the bird feeders.
I called from the back door and then from the front. I walked around the house and up the hill for a better vantage point across the neighboring yards. No Izzie. We didn’t have any time to spend cat hunting. I figured she would be okay on her own until we got back and was ready to leave her to whatever mischief she was up to when Dave said, “Honey, I love that you want to come along with me, but honestly, I feel good – at least no more tired than I do any other Thursday evening. I think you should stay home.” So I did.
Maybe it’s a good thing that I let him go out on his own. For one thing, he needs to know he can do it as much as I do. I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on poor Izzie either. After all, she was just doing what comes naturally to cats, whatever she wants to do. If it had been an emergency she’d be on her own. But it wasn’t. Instead, I think it might have been God’s way of gently nudging me to let Dave go. His doctor said he’s okay. He says he’s okay. I need to be okay with it as well.
And I will be; once he comes back through the door again later this evening.
” Careful the things you say, Children will listen. Careful the things you do, Children will see. And learn.”
Several years ago when Maggie was a freshman in high school, she performed in the chorus of her school’s production of Steven Sondheim’s “Into the Woods”. As anyone who’s experienced being a part of a musical, or has lived with someone who has been part of a musical production knows, you end up listening to the score many times over until it eventually becomes programmed into the soundtrack of your daily life. Fortunately, I grew to love the quirky characters and pithy lyrics of the music in “Into the Woods” and eventually bought the CD and added it to my I Tunes.
Even though I would be hard pressed to choose a favorite song from the pack, one that resonated with me at the time of Maggie’s chorus-girl days was the “Finale – Children will Listen.” Probably because my children we in the midst of their teens and I was praying that the seeds I’d planted in their single digit years would grow and carry them through those years where choices can affect their lives in a big way. I took these lyrics to heart and used them as a prayer to remind myself that even though Maggie and Andy seemed to be challenging me at every point, they were really paying attention; or at least I hoped so.
“Children may not obey, But children will listen. Children will look to you For which way to turn, To learn what to be. Careful before you say, “Listen to me.” Children will listen.”
Sometimes, when I look back at my career motherhood, I worry that some of the things my children heard me say have impacted on some of their adult life choices. Specifically, I wonder if my struggles with the Catholic Church which I shared in discussions with Dave and friends while my kids were around, have led to their lack of interest in participation. A dear friend of mine told me that on the contrary, I had simply catechized them too well; that they have a better understanding of what it means to be a part of the Church than most people do and they aren’t sure they want to be a part of it. Anyway, for me, that is the dark side of what children will hear.
On the bright side, the last time I chatted with Maggie she told me that she and Jan had received enough cash as wedding gifts to purchase the new, smaller refrigerator they were hoping to get for their kitchen. I was very excited that they would be able to remove the giant white behemoth dominating their tiny kitchen for something sized more appropriately. I asked, “Did you get it?” She said, “No. I told Jan we couldn’t cash any of the checks until we wrote the thank you notes.” I was delightfully gob smacked! That is exactly what I told the kids when they were little when they received checks for birthdays and Christmas! It’s been such a long time, I’d totally forgotten. I don’t have to wonder about that one.
Last weekend at Maggie’s wedding, I was saddened to learn that you were feeling a little like you didn’t belong in our family because your Asian features make you look a little different from the rest of us. Yes, our family is a little unique because both you and Seth were adopted. But please know that I truly believe that God shone his face upon us when He brought us all together through your open adoptions and through grace, we became family, just like Maggie and Jan were joined at their wedding.
Even though Seth is my biological grandson, when you arrived a couple of years later via a different birth mother, I never thought of you as anything but my grandson too. Although I can see my family traits in Seth, since I knew your birth mother and her family when she little girl, I can see them in you as well and feel that connection with you. Blood may be thicker than water, but love is thicker than blood and I have loved you, my little sweetie, from the beginning. It makes my heart heavy and sad to think that just because of the shape of your eyes, you could think you don’t belong to us. So, I thought I’d share a few pictures of some of my blood relatives to prove family isn’t about how you look. Now matter how you got here, you are my grandson and I love you very much.
Jordan Allen, UVA Freshman Soccer star; my first cousin once removed.
This handsome young man is my cousin Jordan. His mother, Melissa, is my first cousin. I don’t know him very well because of the age difference between his mother and I (she was born when I was in high school.) At first glance, you might think he doesn’t look anything like me because of the coffee-colored skin he received from his Jamaican-born father. When I look at him, I can see the face of his mother, his uncles and even his grandmother. He’s just been added to the UVA Men’s Soccer Team so I hope to see him in action very soon.
Maggie, Andy and JJ, Christmas 1993 in Hawai’i.
This next photo is of my nephew, JJ with Maggie and Andy. We were very lucky when Poppa received orders to be stationed in Hawai’i when my brother John and his family were also stationed there. With most of our family scattered around the country, it was a real joy to live within a few miles of each other so that these cousins could get to know each other. Because JJ’s mother, my sister-in-law, Queyen is Chinese, he looked like the local people in Hawai’i while we were “haole” (which means the “smelly ones” in Hawaiian).
Living in Hawai’i also provided Poppa, Maggie and Andy and I the opportunity to feel what is like to live in a place where you don’t look like most of the other people there. Most of the population were of Chinese, Japanese, Filipino and Thai origin so looked a lot like you! But we loved living there so very much.
My cousin Beth and her daughter Andrea.
This photo is of my cousin Beth and her daughter, Andrea. She’s about the same age as you are. Her mother, Beth is my cousin Bob’s daughter and is Jordan’s first cousin. She, too, might someday think she doesn’t fit in because she inherited a skin-tone darker than her mothers from her father’s Indian ancestry (India the country).
All of these people as different as they look, are my cousins. While family traits are evident if you know what to look for, people who don’t know all of us might not see them. I’d be willing to bet that every one of us has been teased when they were your age by other children who look for differences and then pounce with ugly names and words.
In my experience, it’s not just skin color or eye shape they go after, their venom can also be applied to height, weight, facial features, religion, ethnic origin, neighborhood, family, etc. The list goes on and on. If there is a weak spot, it can be found and hurt can be made. Believe me, after wearing braces for six years, was an easy target! Just try to remember that usually when someone picks on you, it’s because they don’t feel good about themselves and want you to feel bad about yourself too. That’s sort of sad, isn’t it?
So my dear young fellow, I hope this illustrates that being part of a family is definitely NOT about how you look, but the love that binds you together. You are a precious part of our family and I thank God everyday for bringing us all together. Our faces might not look alike, but our hearts are the same. If you ever feel like you don’t belong, give me a call and I’ll remind you just how much I love you!
With my fears of being to old to hang with younger gals set aside, I packed my bags, loaded the car, adjusted my mirrors and seat and headed off to Richmond. To set the mood for my trip, God comically chose The Doors’ “Roadhouse Blues” as the first tune to play from the multitude of melodies that could have popped out the XM queue. The mellow voice of Jim Morrison telling me to “keep your eyes on the road and your hands upon the wheel” seemed like good advice and I laughed at the appropriateness of the lyrics. To my surprise on this holiday weekend, the heaviest traffic I encountered was at the intersection of the road that leads into our neighborhood and US 29 where two lanes of cars were backed up a good two miles in a southern crawl into Charlottesville for UVA’s first home football game of the season. Fortunately I was turning north, so once I made my left turn, it was just me and the open road on a beautiful late summers day.
I arrived just in time to take Maggie to her hair appointment in Carytown. While she was getting her trim, I popped across the street to Penzeys Spices to stock up on a few essentials (if you don’t have a store near you, check out their website: http://www.penzeys.com; their stuff is great! ). Half an hour later I returned with my bag of goodies to find Maggie still in “the” chair. As always, I had my knitting with me and enjoyed listing to her stylist chatter about everything from pregnancy to Miley Cyrus’ performance at last week’s VMA awards as I continued working on a pair of socks for Dave. Later rather than sooner, she was ready and we rushed home to change for the party.
I’d never been to Isolde’s home before. Jan had told me she was renting a room in some guy’s house and I had imagined her living out of some cramped, smelly room in someone’s basement. I wondered where she would be entertaining us. Contrary to my mental image, Isolde lives in a beautiful fully restored townhouse on the fringes of the VCU campus. The house is owned by one of the current residents, Connor, who did all the renovation work with his father. Not only was the home an architectural delight, but has some history as well; having been built by the first major elected by the city of Richmond after the end of the Civil War. I was in awe! It truly rivaled some of the flag-officer homes on Admiral’s Row in Norfolk where I attended parties back in our Navy days.
Isolde greeted us at the front door of this lovely home along with Leslie, one of Maggie’s childhood friends. In the dining room, Isolde had laid a beautiful table with trays of crudités accented with petite champagne grapes, a wedge of Brie, meringues and a bottle of Tott’s chilling on ice, all surrounding a grand arrangement of freshly cut flowers. Leslie popped the top on the Champagne, Isolde charged our glasses and we toasted Maggie. For the next hour or so we caught up with each other, laughing and snacking. Then I cut the chocolate cake I’d brought and the room grew quiet as we savored the dense chocolaty goodness of the flourless cake. Another glass of champagne and it was time to walk to the restaurant to make our reservation.
Before we left, Isolde presented us all with our own tiaras as well as a sash for Maggie to wear that read, “Bachelorette!” I was amazed by how almost all of the people we passed along the way, stopped what they were doing to wish Maggie well; including a bunch of guys tossing a football around in the street! It gave our stroll more of a parade feeling, with Maggie as our queen.
The BacheloretteThe HostessThe Childhood FriendThe MOB (Mother of the Bride)
When we reached our destination, and began to look over the menus, we realized that none of us were particularly hungry, but the food looked great. So, we decided to order several appetizers and share. The food was phenomenal and despite our previous snacking and dessert, we managed to clean all the plates. After settling the check, it was back to the streets in our tiaras.
As we walked back to Isolde’s I told the girls that I had been afraid that I wouldn’t have been able to keep up with them because of my usually early bedtime. They all laughed and one by one assured me that their nights of late-night partying were long gone and were usually in bed by ten. It was amusing to think that among these young women, with two of whom I’d held a “grown-up” roll, I was now simply an older woman, not a Mom. It was a nice feeling.
After saying our goodbyes and good nights to our lovely hostess, Maggie and I headed back to her house with Leslie in tow for a quick tour before she hit the road back to Charlottesville. Once she had left, we changed into our jammies and settled into her couch to watch a sub-titled chick-flick about the Danish aristocracy and the Age of Enlightenment. It wasn’t long before her two cats, Rupert and Ivan were cuddled up on her lap and in the crook of her legs. When it ended a little after eleven, we both toddled off to bed.
So, despite my fears that my advanced age has rendered me unable to hang and party with younger women, I learned that going out with your adult daughter and her friends to celebrate is much less taxing than monitoring a slumber party of ten-year olds. It’s so much nicer now that Maggie and her friends’ tastes have moved on from soda and Cheetos to those of fine dining, a good glass of wine and witty conversation. That I can hang with; at least until ten or so.
There are times when being a modern woman in the Catholic church seems so infuriating that I just want to march out the door and never look back. Given my beliefs in the equality of the sexes, the whole idea of subordination of women in the Roman Catholic church seems unjust at best and un-Christian at worst.
Recently when asked in an interview about the possibility of ordaining women into the priesthood, Pope Francis stated that the Church had already spoken on that issue and the answer was “no”. Women, he said, had a special role in the church above priests and Bishops, just as Mary, the mother of Jesus, is held above the Apostles. HHHmmm. Sounds nice, but what does it really mean? Most of what we are taught about Mary; the peaceful, chaste, ever-loving mother, sets a bar so high, she should be held above all men, and women too. Contrast that against the Apostles; squabbling about who would ride “shot-gun” in heaven, making plans to build a theme park atop Mount Tabor, and locking themselves inside the upper room after the crucifixion. It is clear who we should want to emulate and who we actually see ourselves reflected in.
So, back to my original thought; why do I stick around? Why would I willingly subject myself to an institution that so stiffly holds to decisions made centuries ago. After all, even Abraham was able to change God’s mind about destroying Sodom. The answer is simple; the Catholic Church is my Christian faith family.
As much as I am conflicted by the struggle between the desert of reality in the Church and my thirst for the divine, every now and then, I receive such a clear reminder of who I am and where I belong. Last Friday I had one of those reminders.
My Cursillo buddies, Kay and Peggy and I planned a trip to Our Lady of the Angels Monastery in Crozet to attend their morning Mass. Mass is at 7:30 and Crozet is about 45 minutes from here so we were in for an early morning trip along some of the back roads labeled “Virginia By-Ways” on the map.
There was a beautiful sunrise as I headed out that morning; like a herald of the angels to lead my way. I drove to Kay’s and then on to Peggy’s and soon we were off into the morning first light with the help of our celestial guide, Garmin.
Our Lady of the Angels Monastery, Crozet, VA.
Kay only missed one turn and after getting back on track we were driving up a winding dirt road up the side of a mountain, passing a small herd of milk cows grazing in the grass. Soon we heard “Arriving at Destination, on right” and we were in the small gravel parking lot of the monastery. Looking out the passenger side window, taking it all in, I spied a bright blue indigo bunting sitting on the post and rail fence right in front of me. What a welcome! Like all ethereal things, he flitted off before I could snap a picture of him.
The sign reads “DOOR IS OPEN, YOU ARE WELCOME”.
There was only one other car in the lot, and it was very quiet all around us, except for the usual country sounds of birds singing in the trees. Slowly and a little unsure we approached the door. On the right of the door was a small white sign that read in big blue letters, “Door Is Open, You Are Welcome”.
As we quietly opened the door, we entered a long hallway and the soft sound of women’s voices chanting morning prayers lilted in from the far right. Not knowing what lay behind the door nor wishing to disturb the sisters, we waited until the singing was finished before entering the chapel’s public sitting area.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve been in a convent and never in a monastery, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The sitting area consisted of a small cubicle to the left of the altar, roped off from the sisters’ sitting area. We were welcome, but we were not invited to enter their space, which seemed only right.
Soon, the sisters entered and took their places in seats lining both walls in front of the altar, with a wide aisle between them. It was a small group, of about ten or twelve ranging in age from early twenties to perhaps early nineties. Most were middle-aged. Two of the younger nuns went to the back of the room and began to pull on long ropes hanging from the ceiling and bells began to ring. The priest took his place on the altar, and Mass began.
As daily Mass celebrations go, this one was very long. It is the sister’s practice to enunciate each word of every prayer slowly and distinctively. There was nothing close to rushing through the rote prayers; each was said as if for the first time. At first it seemed peculiar but soon I found myself purposefully putting on the brakes to slow down to the sisters’ pace. It was pleasant to take my time, to not rush in my time just being with God.
A glimpse of the green space surrounding the Monastery of Our Lady of the Angels
A couple of weeks ago the Gospel at Sunday’s Mass was the story of Martha and Mary. For most of my life, I have to admit that I’ve felt a kinship with Martha; trying my best to take care of the details, making others more comfortable but also criticizing those who chose to not participate. It seemed to me that praying was all well and good, but sometimes you needed to live out your prayers, sacrificing your own wants for other’s needs.
Last Friday I realized more clearly that through their thoughtful and deliberate prayer life, these sisters were doing just that. Through their prayer life, they carry the balance for folks like myself who find it difficult to sit quietly and center myself into a meditative prayer experience. Their choosing to be “Marys” allows others, like me to be “Marthas”.
Despite its history of human frailties, the Catholic Church, dysfunctional as it is at times, with all its warts is my faith home and my branch of the Christian family. Yes, we have the crazy uncles who spout off at parties and think they know what’s best for the rest of us and we have the occasional squabble about who should do what. Sometimes there are harsh words, fierce disagreements and sadly, the kind of deep, everlasting hurt one can only receive from family. Thankfully our family also includes the loving aunts who with open arms welcome the broken into God’s loving embrace, wipe away the tears and provide healing for the soul.
It’s not perfect, but it is what I know. At least for now, I’m sticking around.
Yesterday morning I had breakfast with a much younger man. His mother, my friend Nicole, called me just the day before to tell me she was planning an impromptu road trip and asked if she and the kids could stop by to see us on their way to points north. Having not seen them in three years, I was ecstatic!
I first met Nicole and her husband Ralph when they attended a Baptism preparation class I was teaching at St. Mark’s in Virginia Beach. Nathan was just an infant and a preemie at that, just a tiny little thing. We quickly became friends and I loved getting to know Nathan and his older sister Natalie over donuts after Mass on Sunday. With my own children grown, it’s always an honor when a young child lets me into their world as a friend, allowing me to revisit my own childhood as well as the days of young motherhood when my own kids were discovering the world around them.
Nathan settled right in to the flow of things here!
Three years is a long time for growing children. After such a long separation, I was a little concerned that Natalie and Nathan wouldn’t remember me. But, as it turns out with all good friends, once they were here and settled in (which didn’t take long), we all just picked up where we left off. Natalie remembered me but Nathan said he didn’t. It obviously didn’t concern him too much though as he was soon running in the backyard, hunting out the cats and checking out the house.
Natalie was delighted that she would be sleeping in her own room. At twelve and a half she has grown into a stunning beauty, graceful and poised. Equipped her cell phone and unlimited texting possibilities, she was able to remain in constant contact with a host of earthbound spirits in various locations. She is quieter than Nathan, who is prepared to provide a running dialog on a multitude of topics, but her smile speaks volumes.
Their mother, Nicole, is one of my very favorite people in the whole world. She is warm, caring, funny, smart and a good sport. In short, she is one of those women whom I felt an instant kinship with; a sister by different parents. I was so tickled that she decided to make a side trip to come for a quick visit.
The hunters and their bounty!
Our visit was a short one, but we seemed to pack a lot for memories into it. After a delicious dinner of grocery store rotisserie chicken and corn on the cob, Nathan spotted fireflies in the yard and just had to catch some. I found him a jar and sent him out on his quest, but it was obvious he needed some assistance. With very little coaxing, Dave joined him on the hunt, sharing the benefit of his boyhood experience in the wilds of the cornfields in Iowa. Soon, two lightning bugs were captured in the jar and after posing for a quick photo, Nathan ran upstairs with his booty to show his sister!
Before he went to bed, I told Nathan he was welcome to come down as soon as he heard us downstairs so I wasn’t surprised to hear his cheerful “good morning” around 7:00 as I finished my first cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?” I asked. He said he had and plopped in a chair. In full “nana-mode”, I asked if he needed to use the bathroom. Nope. “Would you like some pancakes?” Oh yes! So off to the kitchen we went.
He climbed up on the bar stool as I began to clear off the counter to make way for the griddle. “May I help you make the pancakes?” he asked. Never wanting to pass up help when it’s offered, I said yes.
After I measured out the mix and water, I passed the bowl to him and let him do the stirring, adding the water in parts to achieve the optimal batter. “My arm sure gets tired.” he said, switching the spoon to his left hand to spell the right. When if was thoroughly mixed, he passed the bowl to me and jumping down from the stool, trotted to the bathroom calling, “I never thought I’d have to go to the bathroom while I was making pancakes!” I don’t know as I ever thought I’d ever hear anyone express that thought before! What a hoot!
After washing his hands and returning to the kitchen we began to pour batter onto the hot griddle and in short order we were enjoying delicious pancakes along with some microwave turkey sausage. I asked Nathan if he needed help cutting his food. No, he could handle it. And he did! In fact, I have rarely seen such fine motor skills on a child his age.
As we ate our meal, our conversation grew more pensive. Nathan asked me if I had ever moved when I was a kid. I told him I had, a couple of times. Then he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 57, he looked at me for a moment as if he were trying to imagine so high a number associated with me. Then he grew serious and said, ” I don’t know what I would do if my dad died.” Where did that come from? I felt ever so ancient! He continued, “I think I would have to stay in my room and cry.” Then, looking down at his plate, stopping his knife and fork, he said seriously, “He’s done everything for me.” Moved by the sincerity of his comments, I assured him that his dad would be around for many, many years. After all, compared to my advanced age, he’s relatively young. Then, almost just as randomly as the conversation began, the topic shifted to something much lighter and soon Nicole and Natalie joined us.
As I said before, having a child share their thoughts with me is an honor. I am constantly reminded that even though they are smaller, and lack the life experience that we older folks do, their insight can be so poignant and pure. Thanks Nicole for sharing your beautiful young ones with me. I hope we can continue to see each other from time to time and be able to pick up where we left off. It is such a tremendous gift. I miss you already.
For the past several months and the next 72 days wedding planning has loomed on the horizon of my thoughts. With Maggie and Jan’s special day just ten weeks away, we are nearing the point of final contract signing and deposit paying with the venue and caterer. From here on in it will be just the occasional and final tweaking of details.
With all this wedding planning, memories of my own wedding and the meaning of marriage have been ever-present. I remember the excitement of the day when Dave and I finally stood up before our friends and family and committed our lives to each other. We’d taken a rather lengthy “test drive” with our relationship, more than six years, living together the last six months or so. People may think living together is the same as being married, but from my experience, it is very different.
The public expression of vows is not something to be pooh-poohed. It is a momentous statement on anyone’s part, akin to a president taking an oath of office or a service member swearing an oath of allegiance to serve the country with one major exception. I believe that when a couple vows to commit to each other, God is also present. It is not a contract, but a covenant. I don’t even believe the couple needs to believe in God, because God loves all people God has created, unconditionally.
So, given my current frame of mind, it is not surprising that two of the biggest items in the news this week have caught my attention. Both involve marriage; first, the fact that a growing number of heterosexual couples have declined going through the conventional channels of marriage to start families, finding it archaic and secondly, that homosexual couples have successfully fought DOMA for the right to have their marriages recognized. It seems that the GLBT community have recognized that living together is not the same as being married while many of our young straight couples have not.
It’s a curious conundrum.
I have joked with Maggie that when folks see on her Facebook page that she’s in a relationship with Jan, that folks would wonder if Jan was a guy or girl. (Jan, pronounced “Yan”, is the German version of John.) We’ve had a few laughs about it, but honestly, if Maggie had the kind of relationship with a female Jan instead of a male Yan, I believe I would be okay with it. Naturally it would have taken some adjustment, but in the end, the goal of any parent is to see their children living a healthy, happy life with a loving partner.
And, while the Church may not condone a same-sex marriage, I don’t think it is within the powers of the Church to put limits on whom God can love or approve of. If God is love, as we are taught and God’s love is unceasing and unconditional, who are we to make a judgement call.
Many people when making a decision, ask themselves, “What would Jesus do?” I tend to recall the image of Jesus in John, Chapter 8; sitting in the ground, writing in the dirt with his finger while the Pharisees and scribes asked him to condemn the adulterous woman. “Let the one among you without sin be the one to throw the first stone at her.” He said. If we are making a judgement on someone else, that is what we need to keep in mind. What he said to the woman after they all left; that’s between the two of them.
So, that’s a lot to munch on. I honestly don’t know what the right answer is, but at this point, I can’t see the wrong in choosing love.
