The Monica Chronicles

I love little children.  I love watching their faces as the wheels move inside their little heads, pondering and interpreting the world around them.  Just the other day my youngest grandson Kaspar reached a milestone in his development that positively amazed me.  He was a bit fussy during our last FaceTime chat so I thought I would try to amuse him by singing the “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” song complete with hand gestures.  I caught his attention briefly but then he simply rolled his eyes as if to say, “Really Nana?”  I honestly wasn’t expecting such a mature expression of ennui from a 21 month old child!

So, I guess I’m going to have to step up my game with this kid.  The simple songs and nursery rhymes that worked for my children apparently aren’t going to cut it with this new crop of humans.  I suppose just as I made sure I was au currant with my kids when they were growing up by listening to their music, I may have to devote some time researching what the modern toddler is in to.  I’d sure hate to have a repeat of last week’s performance review!

 

 

Last night after returning from a very long weekend away, I sat down with my iPad which had sat untouched for the previous four days.  I gasped in horror when I saw I had over one hundred new emails waiting for me.  I didn’t have that much life in me to tackle that much stuff so I decided to “go light” and check out Facebook instead.

The first thing I saw when I opened my “news feed” was this photo of my daughter Maggie.  She’d mentioned that she’d sat for a photographer friend of hers when I spoke to her last week but I could never have imagined a photo as beautiful as this.  Not only did the eye behind the camera capture a good likeness of Maggie’s outward appearance, but he also somehow managed to bring into view the beauty of her soul, which I see radiating on her face.

Sixteen years ago today, Maggie did something extraordinary.  She gave birth to a perfect baby boy and then willingly and lovingly placed him in the arms of the couple who were to be his parents.  She didn’t have to give him to them for that matter, she didn’t even have to carry him to term.  If she’d been inclined to, she had alternatives.

But once she had recovered from the initial shock of her situation and had gathered the courage to come to Dave and me, she knew that in order to be true to herself, there was only one choice to make; to find a loving home for her child.  And that she did.

In countless ways the birth of Maggie’s first baby boy was the beginning of a bounty of miracles for us.  By living out her faith and trusting in God’s promise, a family was created; mother, father and baby.  I know it wasn’t easy for her to say goodbye to him they day we left the hospital, it’s a lonely feeling to find yourself without the life that’s been growing inside you.  But God kept us all so close though those early days that we all began to blend into one family, with our baby boy, Seth at its center.

Sixteen years later, Seth is no longer a baby but in so many ways his birth has been a defining moment for Maggie as well as the rest of our family.  If nothing else, Seth is the tangible proof that God is with us at all times, faithful to the promise that we are loved, even when we stray from the path.

A very wise friend of mine, Fr. Dan Bain has a saying that he imparts practically every time he speaks to a group.  He says,”There is NOTHING you can do to make God stop LOVING you.  And that is true for me too.”   Each time I look at Maggie’s radiant face in this photo, I know that is true.  God does not expect us to be perfect, only faithful.  And when you are faithful to God’s promise, miracles happen.

 

One of my guilty pleasures each Monday morning is watching the episode of “Call the Midwife” recorded the night before when I get home from the gym.  I can’t think of any other program on TV that takes me through as many emotional twists in one hour.  Each vivid representation of a baby’s birth catapults me back in time to the three time’s I’ve experienced birth firsthand; each so indelibly impressed in my being.

Each time I see a mother simultaneously fighting with and working with her body to send forth a new life, I feel my own gut tighten and tense as if I’m right there giving birth like my first two trips to the delivery room when I birthed my own babies.  I also feel the joy of seeing the miracle from the perspective of an onlooker as when my grandson Seth was born.

Memories of the moment of childbirth are almost always those kept as special.   Memories of labor are not as endearing, but all mothers seem to remember them and when the subject comes up, most tend to pipe in with their experiences sharing the duration, the pain, the relief if and when anesthesia was administered and finally the joy of holding that new life for the first time.  At that sublime moment the struggle into life seems well worth the price.

These past few weeks I’ve been reminded that passing on from this life works much the same way.  The real difference lies in just how much faith and confidence you have in whether there is a life that follows this one.  I am one who chooses to believe.

The other day I received a text from my friend Wendy letting me know she and her brother were by their father’s bedside in a Hospice center, attending to his final needs and waiting for his life to end.  When I checked in with her the next morning she told me how phenomenal the volunteers were in assisting them with all the stuff that needs to be done as someone prepares to pass on to their next life.  It occurred to me that as trained and experienced specialists, Hospice volunteers are in many ways midwives from this life to the next.

It almost makes me wonder if there is a group of folks on the other side sharing a pot of coffee (or whatever the eternal equivalent is) discussing their “birth stories”.  The processes seem very similar; a period of pain and uncertainty culminating in a change of status; from one state to another with ultimate awe and joy at the new life.  This time though, the men will have a chance to share their stories as well!

 

This week Dave and I drove back to Virginia Beach to bid a loving farewell to a dear friend. We hadn’t seen him in a few years but knew his health was fragile so his passing wasn’t as much as a surprise as a smack of reality.

Initially, John and Marlene Skiptunas were the snazzy-dressed couple who sat behind us at the 11:15 Mass at St. Mark’s.  Marlene especially seemed to delight in the antics our children, Maggie and Andy as they wiggled and wriggled through the hour-long service each week.  She would chuckle whenever she heard Andy ask, “How many more songs before we got to go home?”   (And he asked every week!)

Although we didn’t know each other, both Marlene and John always offered warm greetings at the “Sign of Peace,” and offer blessings for our beautiful family.  To me, she was the epitome of warmth and hospitality.

So, it wasn’t surprising that, a few years later, after I’d become a part of our newly formed RCIA Team (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) and was asked to find a buddy to help with my role as Hospitality coordinator, hers was the first name that popped into my head.  I called her, she answered and even after Dave received orders and we left the area for several years, Marlene stayed on, growing into a very important part of the team.

Over the years, Marlene has earned the reputation of being a crier.  Tears come easily for her not because she is easily upset, but because she cares so deeply for those around her.  She never offers friendship halfway, she is always fully invested.  Several years ago a friend made her at straw hat complete with tissue flowers and a slit at the top to access a small pack of tissues she’d attached inside so she’d always have one ready when needed!

When we moved back to the beach in 1998, Marlene and John occupied the seats in the front row, and for more than ten years, I usually sat behind them.  That was how I began to get to know John better.

Most Sundays before Mass, Marlene would be busy doing “stuff” and John would take his seat, sometimes with her handbag hanging from his arm.  After he sat down, he’d usually turn around to me and share some quippy tidbit or joke.  He was very funny and had a quick dry wit that I especially appreciated.  But most of all, what I noticed about them was how deeply  their love for each other showed in the comfortable way they sat together and the way their eyes would twinkle when they met.

Since moving away, my buddy, Deacon Mike Johnson has been kind enough to keep me in the email loop when there is important news to share about one of the parishioners.  St. Mark’s is a fairly good-sized parish, so when a note lands in my box concerning the passing of someone, many times I don’t know who they are.  That changed on Tuesday when I received the news about John.

Without hesitation, I forwarded the email to Dave with a note asking if we could attend the funeral and then texted my friend Patricia to see if she could put us up for the night.  There was no question if we would go, only how soon and for how long.

Thursday night’s celebration of John’s life was a good example of why Dave and I both have such warm spots in our hearts for St. Mark’s.  It is like going home to this very special  place where we see the familiar faces of folks who have played important roles in our lives over the past thirty some years.  It is a place where we receive plentiful hugs and kisses and genuine affection.   It is the community of believers where Dave was welcomed into the church, where we were supported after the loss of a child as well as years later as we anticipated the birth of one that was unexpected.  It is where we cut our teeth on ministry and were nurtured into the adult Catholics we are today. It is also the place where we learned the importance of celebrating the passing of a life  while showing love and support for those left behind.

Last night I found myself sitting in my old seat alongside my longtime Sunday companions, AJ and Mark.  As I surveyed the faces in the church around me, I noticed that almost everyone else I knew was sitting in “their” seat as well.  It’s funny what creatures of habit we are and only fitting that at a funeral we should seek out the safe harbor of our regular spot.  My regular spot sat behind the empty chairs where John and Marlene sat for so many years.

The Mass itself was a true celebration.The choir was jam-packed with current members as well as folks like Dave who had sung with them before and felt the desire to join in.  Marlene and her daughter Paige did the readings; Marlene in her sultry, clear voice read from the third chapter of Ecclesiastes, “To everything there is a season….” She is without a doubt the best lector I’ve ever heard.  But last night, to hear her echo the refrain we’ve all heard countless times, reminding us as well as herself, that our lives on this earth are fleeting, was such a gift.

Later, at the reception, I had a few moments to speak to her and share some hugs.  She said she was surprised that we made the effort to come out to share the evening with her and her family.  I told her we were always there for her, wherever we lived.  She smiled and kissed me.

As the years roll by, it seems as though we attend more funerals than weddings as we celebrate lives well lived rather than those starting out.  It’s not necessarily a bad or a good thing, it is just a thing.   Continue reading “Song of Farewell”

Last night my friend Carol and I found ourselves without our male counterparts at dinnertime.  Our husbands had been invited to  a business dinner at a nice restaurant downtown (spouses aren’t included anymore). Neither of us wanted to eat alone so planned on meeting at one of the many local Mexican restaurants in Greene County.  Carol had a craving for a margarita so we decided on meeting at El Jaripeo at 5:30.

When we arrived at the restaurant, another woman who arrived at the same time held the door for us to walk in.  We exchanged very brief pleasentries in the foyer before the hostess came to seat us.  When the hostess asked how many we had in our party, we told her there were two of us.  As we began to walk away I turned back and asked the woman who had held the door if she was meeting someone.  She said no.

Well, since Carol and I were there to avoid eating alone, it seemed only natural to ask her if she’d like to join us.  After hesitating for a second to make sure we really wanted her to join us, she said yes.  We ordered our margaritas and the conversation began.

It’s amazing how quickly women begin to share information.  I think we instinctively try to find as many commonalities as possible.  And, in more cases than not, we find them.

Like Carol and I, our new friend Lyndsay was also married to a former career military man.  She also has two grown children and is new to the area having only been here for a year or so.  It wasn’t long before we were sharing ideas of ways she could become involved in the community and make more connections.

The evening passed pretty quickly and it wasn’t long before our happy hour tumblers were empty and our tummies were full.  As Carol and I reached for our wallets to pay our portions of the check, Lyndsay swept it away and insisted dinner was her treat; totally disregarding our protests.  Incredibly, she even sent us emails thanking us for inviting her to join us last night.

Obviously we never expected to get a free meal last night at El Jaripeo but then, we never expected to make a new friend either.

Forty-three years ago today I sat on the floor of my friend Gail’s dorm room waiting for the phone in the booth down the hall to ring. I was waiting for a call from this guy Dave who I’d recently been introduced to.  He’d said he’d give me a call on Friday after dinner.  It was Friday evening and I was worried that he wasn’t going to call.  But then he did and my life was changed forever.

We didn’t have the kind of first date romanticized by Hollywood.  We didn’t go to a movie or a dance.  In fact, we didn’t really go anywhere.  I suppose you could say we “hung out” for several hours.  In a previous chat between classes,  Dave was surprised to hear that I’d never tasted Southern Comfort before.  He suggested if wanted he could get some for me to try.  That night he picked up a fifth of the stuff for us to share.

I honestly don’t remember what Southern Comfort tastes like. It must have at least been drinkable because we managed to finish the bottle off over the course of the evening.  What I do remember is the two of us sitting on the wall of the fountain that sat between our dorms on a clear spring evening, talking and laughing as we opened our lives to each other.

I remember telling Gail that there was something about Dave that was special.  She wasn’t so sure, telling me he looked like he was someone who could kill someone.  Fortunately for me, I was right, he was special.

And forty-three years later, I still feel that way.  No, he’s not perfect but then neither am I.  But together we form a perfect, imperfect union.  Through the years we’ve been through a lot, as most couples do.  We’ve had great joys and immense sorrows, surprises and disappointments.  But no matter how great the challenge, we have always managed to find our way back to that place in ourselves where we began; two young souls sharing of themselves under God’s heaven.

So Happy Southern Comfort Day Dave!  I’m so glad you called that night and that I didn’t listen to Gail.  Love you Sweetie!

For the past week I’ve  been following the daily meditations posted by Matthew Kelly called “Best Lent Ever”  which follows his book, “Resisting Happiness.” And, so far, I can honestly say that the short video messages I listen to each morning are leading me in a direction that seems to make more sense than my attempts at observing Lent in the past.  Each day has a focus and a little mind homework to do.  Today’s assignment was to take a few moments to write down my image of God as well as how that image has evolved throughout my lifetime.  And, because I have a very positive image of God, I thought I’d share it with you.

My first image of God was that of a father.  In that respect I am very fortunate because my own father was and is someone who reflects the kind of parent I believe God to be.  Above all things, my father loved us and showed that love.  I’m not merely talking about hugs and kisses, but rather his day in and day out dedication to his family, doing everything in his power to insure we were well cared for, healthy and happy.  Like God, my father was generous; not giving us everything we wanted, but all that we needed.  He was forgiving and tender; even at the times when we were what we would consider unlovable or unforgivable.  Simply put, my dad provided the examples in my life necessary for me to form a vision of God.

When I left home, I sort of left God behind for a while as well.  And, while that in itself is a long story, suffice it to say that because I had my vision of God fully formed in my heart, when I was ready to come back, I knew that God, like the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son (or daughter) would welcome me back with open arms.  And God did just that.

In my early adulthood, after I became a mother, my vision of God really began to expand as I realized that in large part, I had become “god” to my babies.  I provided them with what they needed and loved and nurtured them.  It was then I really began to envision the depth and scope of God’s love for me and indeed, every one of us.

As my children grew from sweet toddlers into awkward and sometimes mouthy pre-teens with contrary opinions I began to realize that no matter how much they exercised their free will and made choices that were not what I would have wanted, I could not imagine not loving them.  I simply can’t image anything they could do that would make me stop feeling that way.  Like God’s covenant with us, that God will be our God and we will be God’s people; I am Maggie and Andy’s mother and they are my children. Period.

I don’t know how or if my vision of God will change as I move into the later chapters of my life.  Perhaps I will add old friend to my vision.  After all, God has known me since before I was born.  What I do know is that I have truly been blessed throughout my life by God’s presence in it.

 

ps.  More information on “Best Lent Ever” can be found at:  www.dynamiccatholic.com/bestlentever/   I wouldn’t say it’s specifically a “catholic” thing, but a good thing to check out.

 

 

 

Last week I recorded an episode of Hawaii Five – O to catch a glimpse of one of Maggie’s best friends, and my favorite people, who had landed a part as a villain.  Brandon was more than just one of her closest friends when we lived in Mililani.  He seemed to always be at our house and was essentially part of our family, our Ohana.  And, even though we left Oahu more than twenty years ago, the bonds were formed there remain strong.

So, the opportunity to see my little Brandon take his shot on network TV was something I wasn’t going to miss.  He’d let us know that he was only in the last few minutes of the show, so I bypassed the beginning and fast forwarded up to the point when Brandon made his entrance.

There is no question that his character was a dark soul.  He lived in a remote cabin in the woods where he was holding a young woman captive.  The scene started with a lone female law officer entering the home, gun drawn, looking for the girl.  After finding her and beginning their escape, they encountered the villain, played by Brandon in the kitchen.  I don’t remember what happened to the officer’s gun, but a scuffle ensued and she began hurling pots and pans at Brandon, several hitting him.  I have to admit, it upset me to see my little Brandon being attacked, even if he was the “bad guy”.

After briefly stunning their attacker, the woman retreated to a back bedroom where they attempted to barricade themselves but Brandon got there before the door could be shut and inserted his foot in the door jamb.  A close-up of his face revealed sinister intent.

Then, as if the cavalry had been called, Steve MacGarrett and the Five-O crew busted in and in an instant, shot Brandon’s character in the back, killing him as if he were a rabid dog.  He crumpled to the floor and the woman were safe.

At first I thought I found this scene disturbing because even though it was a television program, it was my Brandon that was lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.  But then I began to ask myself if this could have really happened this way with no repercussions to the police officer involved.  Would an officer really simply shoot an unarmed person in the back as the first attempt to subdue them?  There was no evidence that Brandon’s character was armed and Steve was not alone.  Surely the group of them could have taken one bad guy down without taking a kill shot.

I know Hawaii-Five-O is only a television program and the details are probably as factual as most of the other dramas – taking advantage of the poetic license.   But I also know that many people who watch these programs believe what they see and when a “good guy” like Steve MacGarrett shoots a bad guy seemingly without taking the time to consider an option, and the crowd cheers, what does that say about us as a people?

I’m glad I got to see Brandon’s debut on network television but in a way I’m also glad he won’t be a recurring character because I don’t think I could stand watching any more.

Love you Brandon!

 

Sunday afternoons in the winter provide the perfect opportunity for Dave and I to rest up from one busy week and get charged for the next.  When the sky is gray, we take full advantage by curling up beside each other on the couch and watch TV.

Yesterday afternoon we watched in hopeful anticipation as our VA Cavaliers led the Villanova Wildcats through the entire first three-quarters of their out of conference match in Philadelphia.  Dominating in both shooting and defense, victory seemed a slam dunk.  Then, somewhere in the middle of the second half, Villanova found their stride and ended up winning the game by two points.  We were disappointed by our team’s loss but in the end, it is only a game, our guys played well and we look forward to the next one.

Later in the day the national news was full of the latest round of protesters demonstrating their disapproval of the new government administration’s policy direction change from the status quo.  It seems every day new groups are taking to the street in cities not only in this country but worldwide, voicing their dissatisfaction in our new president.  As the dots began to connect in my brain I realized that this fall’s election was a lot like the game we saw earlier in the day.  Our candidate was leading in the polls throughout the race but in the end, lost the election.  My reaction to that loss was not so philosophical…..

But elections are not like basketball games.  Just because you lose an election, doesn’t mean you go home and wait until the next one to cast your vote.  Active participation as a citizen in this country means you know who what the issues are, who your representatives are and when you disagree with the course your government is taking, you speak out.  You are not a crybaby.  You are not a sore loser.  You are actively participating in the narrative.

As Americans were are afforded the right to speak out for and against issues that move us to do so. The First Amendment guarantees Americans the right to do so, and with as much if not more merit than the Second Amendment allows us to own a gun. After all, it was included in the First Amendment.

Despite how you might feel about the agenda of any group,  Americans are  guaranteed the right to free and peaceable assembly.  While that may include happy events like parade and picnics, it also includes ugly assemblies of unhappy people (and nasty women) in an effort to provide a visual display of their desire to be heard by those elected to represent them. They also become a rallying point for others to join in.

Social media sites like Facebook have quickly become a platform for people to share their thoughts and fears and based on recent postings, there are some who would rather be spared from the dialog. (Which can be easy done in Preferences.)  After all, the internet is where we congregate these days.  For a while I agreed, it would be nice to live in a world of cute kitten videos and yummy recipes; which I think if Marx were alive today, he might also call the opiate of the people.

If I could change one thing about the social media dialogue, it would be that people shared more about what they actually thought rather than merely sharing memes without doing the fact checking first.   It is that false narrative that irritates me, not someone else’s differing opinion.  If the information on which you base your opinion is untrue, doesn’t that shake your stance or at least suggest your should do some research?

Bottom line is I believe the dialogue is necessary, as long as it’s done with facts: real facts, not alternative facts.  We need to approach dissenting opinions with sincere respect, open to listen, not merely preparing our rebuttal while someone else in talking.  Frankly it’s a challenge I find myself failing at regularly.  But I believe it is just as worthy a challenge to exercise and work at as my dreaded dead lifts.

 

In the more than five years since I began my twice weekly workout sessions with my trainer, Lorenzo, I have been given many challenges, both physical and mental to accomplish the tasks offered on any given day.   It has been work, transforming my well-developed couch potato body and mind into one with athletic intent.

I have come a long way, no longer intimidated by the people or equipment of the gym.  I have mastered many tasks like crunches, curls, and squats and am working at improving my planks and push-ups.  For the most part I am achieving things I never thought I’d be able to do except for one thing; balance myself on one foot.

This morning’s routine for example included thirteen reps each of standing lunges, kettle bell squats, push-ups (full extension – not on my knees), superman quads, and a one minute plank followed by thirteen dreaded dead-drop one leg lifts.

If you’re not familiar with a dead-drop lift, the goal is to bend over at the waist, lifting up one leg up and back while reaching down to pick up cones set on the floor in front of you.  Ideally your hands should touch the cones as your outstretched leg is at its furthest point out.  Then, as your leg returns to the ground you return to the full standing position.  Sounds easy, right? (Try it and see.)

Right now, this exercise is the most challenging thing I am asked to do in the gym.  And, it seems that no matter how I try to focus, as soon as I bend over, my leg begins to wobble and although I may execute the movement, it definitely lacks the control and grace it should.  Occasionally, one will be pretty good and I think I’ve mastered the movement, then on the following one my ankle gives way.  Looking back, I think I even did better with this the last time it was a part of my routine weeks ago.  Working to keep balance can be very frustrating.

I suppose I could make excuses on why my particular physical construction makes the dead drop lift an impossibility for me, but that would require the use of alternative facts. And although I might convince someone else that I am physically unable to perform the exercise, I would be hurting myself by not trying and possibly giving others an excuse to not even try.

The thing is, I’m not going to give up on it just because it’s hard or frustrating or uncomfortable because the fact is that these dead drop lifts are really important exercises to my over all well-being.  Like it or not my body is aging and gravity it taking its toll.  I need to work harder at keeping myself in control of each and every muscle to insure I am able to continue to fight the forces of gravity and remain upright when I choose to.