Transformation

I've been filled with the love of the Holy Spirit.

And i think it weighs 15lbs. 

I feel as though I have been allowing myself to eat and drink the Lord's word in the Bible more earnestly and searchingly than ever before.  And all that eating and drinking has led to me consuming the love of God, getting fat with inspiration, and getting tubby with grace. 

I've been doing a kind of elongated religious retreat called Women of Grace on how to live a full life as a Catholic woman in today's social climate.  The group is wonderful.  I'm not sure I'm getting exactly what I am supposed to be getting out of it... but it has been a call to me to focus on my prayer life and especially to address my greatest spiritual struggle.  

I have always been spiritual in the sense that I've known there is something else there, something just beyond the veil of our eyes and the understanding of our minds.  I have my share of ghost stories that I can tell to wide-eyed nephews lest they forget who the 'cool aunt' is.  And I've had my share of unbelievable moments of chance, whether they are encounters or visions, that though they could be reasoned away by coincidence, I consider small miracles. 

And yet, where some people struggle with whether they believe in the divinity of Christ, or whether or not they should follow all church doctrine, my greatest struggle has always been... is there a God... really.  really.

And even as I write that, two voices in my brain spout off near simultaneously "of course there is," and "of course there's not." 

I actually have a little cartoon angel and devil talking to me on my shoulders, except instead of being so clearly marked, they are both self-assured identical twins that have the ability to argue their side until the moon turns blue.  Dissenting interior voices can be kind of awesome (I'm never lonely)... but it can also be frustrating for issues that seem more important.  Like, for example, belief in God. 

I let my forbidden fruit breathed voice have roam as I find myself re-examining biblical stories and seeing how important they were as guides to live a healthy life in a time before antibiotics and refrigeration.  I find myself recounting lives of saints and wondering if really all the fuss was necessary and also wondering why on earth would anyone want to be called to be a saint if fiery deaths and early graves tend to be the fashion in those circles. 

And I see people all around me that say they believe in sin do awful... really awful things.  

"Rob," I'll say to my husband, "If people really believed... really really believed, that it was 90ish years here vs. eternity -ETERNITY- in Heaven... No chance people screw up this much.  I mean, really." 

Yes, yes, there is original sin, free will, only human yada yada yada... but what are we doing?  I look around and I am at a complete and utter loss for words at what people will do or say for comfort, popularity or pride and I'm just talking about a night at Bunco for goodness sake. 

And what this course has helped me do over the last several weeks is to finally understand the meaning behind taking the log from my own eye.   

Because what 'we' are doing.  What 'they' are doing doesn't matter.  And whether 'people' believe in God or not doesn't matter.  What matters is what I believe and what I do with that belief.   

And when I quiet myself and drive out fear and pray with love, one voice kindly rises above any other and it says assuringly, "I am here." 

And, I remember something that I knew easily without question once... 

God is kind of amazing. 

I believe.

I believe in God.

And I've gained 15lbs. 

And I'm hoping the two aren't related because I'd like to lose one without the other. 

But I feel really bad about praying for weight loss.  So I signed up for Pure Barre ballet classes instead. 

I'll let you know if I'm a believer of those in a month or so... but I digress... 

thanks for reading, 

-m

Full of Grace

One of my favorite aspects of the Catholic faith has always been the way we honor Mary, the mother of Jesus.

I love the meditative and reflective nature of the rosary.  I love that my religion accepts in faith that our spiritual mother continues her work on Earth.  And I love that my faith places the role of mother as one to be revered, respected and, indeed, honored.

As a mother wholly unlike any other, Mary accepted her challenge and burden with grace, humility and obedience.

There's a dirty word anymore, huh? Obedience.  We are strong, ego filled, individuals... and with God forever pushed from the forefront of our thoughts, we generally think of obedience as only pertaining to interaction from person to person; wife to husband, children to parents, employees to bosses and that idea gives us chills so we toss the entire word out the window.

But here's the kicker.  Mary, whom we call 'obedient' was anything but to the societal mores of her time.

From getting pregnant out of wedlock to allowing her son to question elders, Mary, in trusting God, broke rule after rule.

She was completely alone in her situation and had to trust God entirely.  She had no parenting books like, 'Balancing mixed families, Deity and Stepfather under one roof.' Nor coffee dates where she could vent, "I know Cheryl, I'm sure little Matty is a hellraiser, but try telling God's Son to stop talking to angels and go to sleep."  And she couldn't even pull the, "it's your genes," frustration line to Joseph when Jesus had aversions to leeks and chickpeas.

(*not teaching theology of Jesus' diet.... just go with me here..)

Anyway, while contemplating Mary's incredible task, it dawned on me just how rare it is that I trust my own God given instincts in parenting.  I turn to the internet when the sniffles come on strong, I consider consulting a psychiatrist when discipline issues arise at school, I read books on birth order and giftedness and I compare subconsciously on Facebook to see if my kids vacations, activities and accolades are on par with their peers.

And suddenly I saw Mary in a new light, as a new kind of source of guidance.  Because, though, I am not raising God's child, I am raising children of God.  Do I have the faith to raise them as God intended, and not in response to the noise of societal norms around me?

Can I accept the uniqueness of my parenting situation?  Can I accept the individuality of each of my children? Relying on faith, love and grace can I raise them obedient to God's standards instead of popular standards of the day?  Can I accept that God gave me every gift and capability I need to raise them, teach them and guide them?

Can I, in turn, accept the God-given uniqueness of the situations of other mothers and not be so quick to judge, blame or assume?

And though each book, friend and counselor can be a gift from God in and of itself when I need help, can I let go of absolute control and truly trust in God's graces?

Can I toss aside the 'rules' of how to be the cool mom, envy of carpool drivers everywhere and instead listen to and Obey God's rules?

There is a cacophony in my head telling me no.  Telling me maybe just one more book, one more article, one more blog.  Maybe my kids need more activities? Maybe it is more important to be popular than kind?  Maybe they'd be more popular if I dressed cuter so other moms would want to hang out with me.  Maybe it is more important to be successful than giving?  Maybe I should be smart and teach them to look out for number one.  Maybe I'm doing every single thing wrong.  Maybe I should just give up because does what I do as a mom really matter anyway?  And Mary was such a great mom and look at what happened to her Son.  And even if I did matter, aren't we all going to die in climate change or WW3 or from the next flu anyway???  GAAAHHHHH

When the noise begins to deafen and chaos clouds my thoughts there is a small, gentle voice calling me and calming me.  And I remember why I began to write today.

One of my favorite aspects of the Catholic faith is that it taught me to ask help from Mary, ever faithful, ever full of grace.

     Gentle woman, quiet light,
     morning star, so strong and bright,
     gentle Mother, peaceful dove,
     teach us wisdom; teach us love.


If you were looking for something a little lighter... here are some clumsy cats. God wants me to teach my kids to laugh at animals falling down... right?

thanks for reading, 

-m

giving what I need

I can easily get to the ugly place of feeling sorry for myself.

Don't get me wrong, at the exact same time,  I can be appreciative of how lucky and blessed I am and still yet, somewhere in the dark folds of my brain think,"I AM blessed and lucky... so why aren't I better, happier, more productive.... sigh. poor me."

Recently I was lamenting on how I didn't feel supported by my loved ones.  I felt like there were all these people around me that knew my goals and hopes and yet no one was going out of their way to ask me how the book was coming, or if they could read what I had so far.

Poor me. No one cares.  My dream doesn't matter.  How can I go on without support?

I was recently talking with one of these awful unsupportive people when, in a moment of wine induced clarity, I realized I had never asked once how their dream was going.  Though I also knew all about their goals, I had never offered any direct support or encouragement.  So, then and there, I did.  And it was true and earnest and great.  And I got out of my own jumbled head for a few moments and delved into another's.

And it was good.

I walked away from the conversation feeling wonderful, supportive and guess what? I felt motivated again.  Turns out, giving support, gave me all the support and encouragement I needed.

If you're Catholic, like me, the Prayer of St. Francis is probably popping into your head about now as it popped into mine then:

.....

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

It is oft noted that those characteristics that you detest in others are those that you see in yourself.  Which is why parent and children that are alike most butt heads so famously.

Maybe similarly, the things we need most in our lives are the things that our soul is screaming for us to give.

If you are feeling lonely and without friends, give your friendship.  Be a friend.

If you are sad and need joy, spend any energy you have figuring out how to make someone else smile.

If you crave multiple 'likes' on Facebook, give 'likes' freely.

wow, can't believe I just wrote that...

{ahem} Let's try again...

If you feel like you are screaming at walls... maybe it's time you listen.

And if you bemoan about how there is not enough tolerance in the world...
be tolerant.

thanks for reading, Here's a little George Harrison for your day.


-mandy

About Wendy

The entrance bell rang minutes to closing time and I confidently walked to the front office.  Miles from where I had been six months ago, I no longer instinctively put the reference binder front and center on the desk.  I had administered dozens of pregnancy tests, referred countless doctors and adoption agencies and had collected and distributed hundreds of dollars worth of baby goods and maternity clothing.  

I had met girls who were looking for advice and I had met girls who wanted to shut me out. “I know what you’re about here, and I just want to tell you right now that if I’m pregnant I’m getting an abortion and you can’t talk me out of it.”  

My mission was the same regardless: to love them like they were my own sister and know that I have not walked in their shoes.  “I’m not here to tell you to do or do not do anything, I’m here to offer any assistance and information you would like, if you would like any... but first thing’s first, let me tell you a little bit about the test you’ll be taking.” 

I felt trained, I felt ready, then I met Wendy.  

She was walking slowly into the office at the same time I arrived from the other room.  Clearly pregnant, I hoped she wasn’t here for a test and did a mental rundown of the baby furniture we had in stock.   

After a brief introduction about myself and what we do, I waited in silence.

“I don’t need anything,” she said finally. “I’m pregnant, my baby’s doing fine.”

“That’s wonderful! Have you been to a doctor?”

“Yes.  They did the ultrasound a while ago and they could already tell it was a baby boy.  They said they usually can’t tell so early but my baby was  movin’ around and givin’ a show.”

The sentiment was joyful, and I would’ve normally laughed, but her tone and her face kept me silent.  Maybe there were issues with the father? her parents? money? these were all things I had covered in my short time here. 

“I didn’t know it was really a baby in there.  I swear I didn’t know.”  She started to cry softly into her hands. 

I walked around the desk and put my hand onto her shoulder.  It was painfully evident to me that I was woefully unprepared for this particular session. 

She proceeded to tell me how five years earlier, in the early stages of her relationship with her now husband, she had gotten pregnant unexpectedly.  She didn’t even know until she was almost three months in and she went to the student center because she thought she had mono.  The center gave her the news and immediately referred her to a woman’s center.

She said she went straight there without stopping or calling anyone.  When she walked in, she was told she could have a procedure the same day. 

She remembered asking if it would hurt while she was signing her name.  She said a nurse reassured her and said it hurt less than childbirth.  And when she asked if it would hurt the baby, it was the only time that it felt like the process had paused.  The nurse asked kindly, “You sure you want to do this honey, ‘cause its not really a baby yet.”

“I told her ‘no way I could be a mom,’ and that was that.”

“It was awful,” was all she could muster to say about the procedure and she quickly moved on. 

“I had nightmares but I pushed it down and kept telling myself that it wasn’t a baby, and I really started believing it.  I was doing ok.  It wasn’t until this ultrasound...”

She pulled out photos from her purse.  The profile of the face was formed as was the bulk of the body.  The legs kicked out awkwardly from the center mass a little bit like ET.  “I know it sounds crazy but I swear he already looks like his daddy.” 

I smiled weakly and said he was beautiful.

“But that’s not all,” she cried, “he moved while the lady was taking the pictures and she said that sometimes the baby reacts to the sound.” She stopped and looked directly at me, “If this baby can hear the sound... what did my other baby hear? or see? or feel?”

My heart sank.  I didn’t know what to say.  I was sad and ashamed at the same time.  She came here for help and here I was this punk college kid that thought I was worth something because I could read a pee stick and hand out business cards.  I was sure that someone else could have done a better job and was close to asking her to wait just a minute while I desperately dialed the numbers of everyone I could think of.... but, that tiny voice that pops up when you need it most reminded me, ‘she needs someone now, are you going to turn your back?’

So I helped her up, and we walked together into the more comfortable sitting area.  She talked and I listened.  I learned how her boyfriend had to take time to forgive her for not talking to him before the abortion.  She told me about her Christian family and her fear of what they would say if they ever knew about her choice.  She talked about the utter confusion she felt and how deep down she knew how much she had hoped that it really was ‘just cells.’  She said she wishes now that she taken more time or trusted her family enough to talk to them first.  

I wish now that I had known about Project Rachel or any of the other many post-abortion counseling services.  But I hope that God had put me there for a reason as all I could really do is listen... maybe that’s all she needed.  At least when my guilt hits me that I couldn't be better... that's what I tell myself. 

I gave her my phone number and encouraged her to keep in touch,  but I was sure I’d never see Wendy again once the door shut at the clinic and of course, I never did. 

Over the years, through my own ultrasounds and personal health struggles, I often think of her. 

When my arm had the smallest hairline fracture and the doctor made sure to show me detailed pictures so I could understand as much as possible before we talked about treatment I thought about how little information she was given. 

When the scheduling nurse asked if I wanted to have my husband there for a brain MRI, I thought about how Wendy wasn’t encouraged to have anyone by her side.

When the dentist gave me a detailed analysis of my options when I chipped a tooth and then suggested I take a couple days to weigh the options, I think of how Wendy was treated as though hers was a simple decision that could be made on the spot. 

When my OB gave me the laundry list of feelings I may experience from physical to emotional after the birth of my child, I think of how Wendy was never told that depression is a possibility nor where she should turn should it become a reality. 

And I think about her when I hear about another Wendy in Texas being called a hero for doing her best to stop a law that would improve medical safety for women having abortions and make elective abortions illegal after 20 weeks..   “It’s all a trick to take away all abortion rights!” claimed the protestors of Texas... but I can't help but wonder how informed those protestors allowed themselves to become on the trial of Dr. Kermit Gosnell.

I look at what the abortion debate has become in this country and I am at a complete loss.  The same people who want the operation covered completely under medical plans, don’t want anyone to think that its a medical operation.  The same people that scream that women deserve more respect don’t want women to be fully informed about a decision that could change their lives.  The same political party that mocks the other side for not listening to science in cases of climate change and evolution, want Americans to turn a blind eye to biology.  

I often hear, its been especially true in light of what happened recently in Texas, that this is a 'feminist issue.'  With that in mind, I will end this with the words from one of the founders of the feminist movement.  

“When we consider that women are treated as property it is degrading to women that we should treat our children as property to be disposed of as we see fit.” 
― Elizabeth Cady Stanton

and to Wendy, wherever you are... I'm sending prayers and hope that you and your family have been able to let go of pain and embrace joy.  

thanks for reading. 

Driving Miss Lorraine

Our girls' day had been, like our hair, cut short.  Even though we were both thrilled with our new 'dos, the freezing cold rain and bone biting wind made it absolutely miserable to traverse from car to store and back again.  So, we decided to make it a 'girls' day at home.'  A movie and some nail art in front of the fireplace. good times.

just a quick trip through Bojangles for a sweet tea and the party could begin.

But there she was.  She stood inexplicably outside of the bus shuttle looking confused as she glanced from the street sign, to her phone, to her umbrella that she couldn't quite work.

She must've decided she was on the wrong side of the road because she stepped out through traffic and, dropping her phone in the process, made like a chicken and crossed to the other side where a bus stop wasn't even an option.

I witnessed all this as I waited for an overpriced sugary beverage to be served to me in my heated car while my freshly coiffed daughter and I contemplated the warmth of our fireplace.

"Never ever ever do what I'm about to do, Mags," I heard myself say as I zipped the car into a tight U-Turn and pulled my car over.

I whispered a silent prayer that I wasn't being an idiot before I offered, "Excuse me, can I give you a ride?"

It took a touch of convincing, but she looked incredibly relieved as she got into the passenger side.

And that was the precise moment that my panic began; because, though everything in me knew that this was the right thing to do... I knew it was wrong too.

Here I was, picking up a stranger with my daughter in the car.  I nervously dialed Rob... as he was expecting us any moment.

Rob often reminds me that his biggest pet peeve from when we were dating was that I had a 'penchant to be friends with homeless people.'  He thought it was a death wish thing, or at best a disregard for personal safety thing.  It really wasn't... but as much as I try to tell him that I often found conversation with them more interesting than with most... he made me promise to do my best and curb that habit.

So, though Lorraine, as I learned her name was, certainly did not look homeless... I knew that he was not going to be pleased.

"Rob, hi, I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't get nervous... I'm taking Miss Lorraine to the Whole Foods."

The silence I expected answered me so I continued...  "It's fine, honey, I swear.  I'll be home in a bit.  I love you."

After a tad more chatter, enough for Rob to be assured we hadn't been hijacked and it was just a poor decision by me, we hung up with the clarity that this would be a serious discussion later.

On the fifteen minute ride through the freezing rain, Miss Lorraine explained to us how the DMV used fear and intimidation... like the Gestapo, to take away her license.  Her friends were all afraid of the DMV... again, like the Gestapo.

From there she went in between stories of her food allergies and sensitivities (thank goodness for Whole Foods) and stories, with genuine emotion, of how the Gestapo were supposed to be the police... she should have been able to trust them.

It was an incredible ride and an unexpected and heart wrenching education.

We said our goodbyes as she got out of the car and she tried to give me her umbrella, because 'she didn't like the way the darn thing closed anyway.'  And though we both knew we looked forward to disapproving lectures by our loved ones we knew that both giving and accepting the ride was good.  and right.

We say, WWJD... but though we know that clearly Jesus would give a lift to someone he felt was in need... we can't heal a knife wound like Jesus presumably could should we choose to try and help the wrong cat.

So how do we move forward?  How do we really live? As I drove home that day I drilled it into my daughter's head that not only should she never ever do what I just did, but that her brother could never hear about what we did because we had a tough enough time teaching him caution around strangers.  With every word I felt my heart breaking a little.   I can't help but feel that when I teach my children important social and survival skills, I am giving them the fruit of the forbidden tree.  Fear, distrust, knowledge must come before your human instinct to be kind, open and giving.

It is a confusing time for parents.  We are informed by our faith to love our neighbor as ourselves and to give the coat off our back and to forgive not 7, but 7 times 77 times.  Yet we must teach to not approach strangers, save your money and choose your friends carefully.

I'm at a loss so if you've got tips on how to navigate these waters, I'd love to hear 'em.

For now... I just pray that my kids have the perfect mix of faith, common sense, kindness and intelligence... to overcome any and all mistakes I'm making.

Especially since I may just give up and teach them to ask themselves, "what would Brian Boitano do?"

thanks for reading,

-m

Pope Francis, the Catholicism I know, and Fun

Before issuing his first blessing to his flock yesterday, Pope Francis humbly bowed his head and asked for our prayers.

Upon awaking as Pope he declined special transportation, instead, opting to ride on the bus that brought him to the Vatican.  He checked himself out of the hotel where he was staying while in conclave, gathered his own bags and paid for his room.   After a stop to pray, he went back to the Vatican to begin his work.

I am fascinated by the people in the media and around me that are saying things like, "I know what I need to hear the Pope say."  Or, "The Pope needs to reform this or make a stance on that."  From the little that I know about this man, and in his example shown thus far, I make no claim to know best what should be said or done.  I do however hope to learn from him and I hope that the faith that I love is well cared for by him.

I am a cradle Catholic with wise parents who told me when I was young and just beginning to question various aspects of religion, "We are giving you your religion, but God gave you a brain... use it."

It was a gift doubly given.  A beautiful faith and the freedom to question, in effect removing the oft felt desire to rebel when things aren't exactly as you think they should be.

I never felt for a moment that if I missed church, I was no longer in God's favor, but I also knew it was better to go.   I knew that church wasn't the only place where God was, but I knew He was present and that celebrating your faith with others strengthens both you and your community.

Because of that, I enjoyed going to mass and went regularly, even through college.  I was not part of the 'college Catholics,' nor was I a model human during that time but I knew God welcomed me regardless and I knew it felt good to go.  As the years went on, I found that many people who felt odd about going (because they drank or smoked or slept around or for some other reason felt 'unwelcome') started joining me.  I liked the idea that my friends and I were helping to shatter the myth that the only people who go to church in college are either 'uber-religious,' or trying to impress a date :)  Though, I will admit, there was no shortage of cute boys there that helped get my arse in gear on some particularly hazy Sundays.

Going to church in college helped me get back on path when I felt purpose slipping away and it helped me stay strong in morals and values that were important to me.  Twice when I was slipping into depressions, friends (who were not particularly religious themselves) insisted that we go to church together... each time it cleared my eyes and helped me move forward.  Whether they believed or cared about church or not, they cared about me and knew that I benefitted from the service and the Eucharist.

Now, as an adult, I am  part of the RCIA (rite of Christian Initiation for Adults aka super cool peeps who wanna be Catholic) team at my parish and I get to be renewed in my own faith by people who are coming to it for the first time as adults.  It would be impossible to count the times I have silently thanked my parents for this incredible gift of this beautiful faith.

All this said, are there times that I have trouble with some Catholic doctrine?  Are there times in RCIA where I have to staple gun my lips shut? Are there times I spoke and the head of RCIA looked at me like I have 17 heads and the tongue of a serpent?  Yes.  the answer to all these are yes.  And yet, despite how right I feel I am on my opinions (and for those of you who know me... I usually think I'm really really ridiculously correct,) I have genuinely never felt excluded by or enraged at Catholicism itself.

I understand that the hierarchy of the Catholic Church is flesh and blood man, no different than you or me.  There was never a mysticism or heroism placed, in my eyes, around any priest, bishop or pontiff for that matter (though most of my life held Pope John Paul II as the Holy See... but even so, it seemed clear in my eyes that it was the man and not the position he held that garnered such incredible praise and admiration.)   Therefore it is possible and moreover likely that the 'church' will make mistakes and that those that claim to represent it have the potential to be complete sinful A-holes.  But, those individuals and those pressure cooked decisions can not define a 2,000 year old faith that is based on loving your neighbor as yourself as Jesus taught us to do.

I also understand that I, though brilliant and incredibly intuitive, do not know everything about God.  I don't know everything about Jesus or the Bible.  I don't know everything about my kids or my husband, myself or my dog for that freaking matter.  I can happily and unabashedly say that I don't know.  So, however strongly I feel about social agenda or political opinions that may differ from the church... I'm going to take a deep breath or two before I let those things rip me away from an incredible faith that has done nothing but filled my life with joy and fulfillment and has brought me closer to God when I let it.

I also know that I, though (again) brilliant and intuitive, am just slightly over the borderline of crazy train.  Let's put it this way... prior to Fun's Some Nights, the two songs that lyrically spoke to me most both had writers who shortly thereafter committed suicide through heroin overdoses.  ...I am tempted to send a warning to Fun's Nate Ruess... So clearly I have issues of my own... but that's all for another blog post.

So here I stand, skeptical of man in general but in love with a faith that is comprised of people who believe in the power of prayer, the protection of angels and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.  Before me is a man who has accepted the daunting job to lead that faith and he seems to be devout and humble and brilliant.  And he chose a saint's name that is the epitome of living life as a servant to others.

So though it would have felt arrogant before, at his request, I pray fervently for Pope Francis.  That he fulfills God's will for a faith that I love, whatever it may be.  That he inspire people around the globe to be the best versions of themselves.  That he brings people closer to God whether through our religion or their own just by his example.  That he is happy and fulfilled in his new job.  And, that if he ever feels lost and alone... or he's sinking like a stone... that he Carry Oonnnnnnn... 

God Bless Pope Francis.  And God Bless Fun...

thanks for reading,

-m

Forgiveness and the gift of Reconciliation

Over the past several months, I've made errors grievous enough where I felt the need to ask forgiveness from each of my children.

From my eldest, when I forgot to pack a snack for chess club; she mulled the request thoughtfully for a moment and granted with, "It's ok mom, I forgive you, but I was hungry." -forgiveness with a touch of guilt, she'll make a great Catholic Mama one day.

From my eldest son upon getting him to basketball practice very very late, he said, "Gosh Mom, I would always forgive the woman who gave me life! It's just basketball practice, its not more important than family." -sigh, now I know why southern moms dote on their eldest sons like they are made of gold.

And from my youngest when I thought his 'lovey' was in the crib and indeed, it was not in the crib.  He granted his forgiveness like this, "grrr its ok Mommy!!! I call my butt my bootata." and he proceeded to flop on the ground and lift his legs to indicate he needed a diaper change.  forgiveness with a side of ass, that was new to me.

Regardless of how it was granted, each time I sought forgiveness and it was granted, a weight, no matter how small, was lifted and a sense of peace was granted, even while wiping poo off a penis.

Now, maybe it's the Pope resigning, maybe its because my daughter is smack in the middle of First Reconciliation and First Communion, or maybe its because I am part of the RCIA (adults becoming Catholic) team this year, but both Catholicism and our forgiveness sacrament of Reconciliation have dominated many of my conversations of late.

Reconciliation is understandably confusing.  Here's what I get a lot, "soooo, you have to go tell a priest your sins so he can forgive you? that's weird, I just tell God."

Because of the beautiful freedom of the "Yes, and..." formulae for conversations, unless they are actually asking me for knowledge on Catholic doctrine I usually just respond thusly:

"I know, its totally weird and I get nervous every single time that I do it! And though I know I could ask God for forgiveness directly, I feel like its such a gift to get free spiritual therapy!"

Sure, I can put on a brave face, defend my faith and accept the Sacrament as a gift, honestly I do still have a hard time with it.   It is a very awkward thing, to go into a room and tell someone you really don't know well on a personal level, the worst things you have done or your greatest character flaws or the pain you have caused others.  And because of the awkwardness and oddity of it all, I didn't take advantage of it for years and years.

In fact, last year, when I went back for the first time in a long time, I started my session -I'm not kidding- like this:

"Hi Father, I mean Dear Father... wait no, I mean Bless me Father I have sinned... its been ummm I don't know, lots of years since my last confession, oh. wait. I feel like an idiot, am I really supposed to say that or have I been watching too many Catholic possession horror movies?"

yeah, I should've confessed for that opening alone.  meanwhile that poor guy is just staring at me, waiting for me to quit babbling so he can help me get started with the actual confessing.

But once we got past the formalities, my list of sins that I wanted to confess (being an inconsiderate friend, impatient wife, etc. etc.) kind of fell by the wayside and the underlying issues that helped cause my failings came to light and we talked.  We just talked.  It was a visiting priest who had never laid eyes on me in his life and he started talking about issues in my life like he had lived them.  

I don't know why it still shocks me when I get to see little blips of God's grace in my life.

There is little that makes you feel more vulnerable than saying you are sorry and no matter how it is sought or received, there is little more freeing than receiving forgiveness.  And when it is your turn to grant forgiveness not only is it good for your soul, it is good for your health according to Mayo Clinic.

So, my advice is to seek forgiveness if you need it and grant it if it is sought.  You, too could feel the incredible peace that it brings... even if you are in the midst of penis shit.

thanks for reading!

-m












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Isaac, Abraham and did God used to be a #*&%?

The story of Abraham binding Isaac always bothered me.

Abraham bound Isaac got out the knife and was ready to kill the crap out of him.  But, taa daa God sent the angel just in time saying "nope, nope, never mind! I'm just kidding!!" stopping Abraham and allowing Isaac to live.  

Yayyy, right? No. Boo. What a sucktacular story! And, talk about a God I don't want ever trying to contact me on a personal level!  I understand that the story is often used to teach you to obey God no matter what and all will be alright.  But, by the 4th grade, I figured if I saw God or one of His angels, I had an over 50% shot of being asked to die, kill or get pregnant... so, thanks, but no thanks. 

And to the allegorical point, you'd think an all-knowing God would foresee that a variety of mental illnesses seem to manifest themselves by people hearing God telling them to kill someone.... wouldn't the better moral of the story have been Abraham was rewarded for not killing?

We'd all grow up with the story of, 'when you hear voices telling you to kill... God will reward you for not listening!'  That seems to be a better story for society in general... 

I wrote it off as another one of the 'crazy angry God' stories from the Old Testament that I didn't quite understand... right up until last Easter. 

At that service, for the first time, I put the story of Isaac and Abraham truly side by side with the story of Jesus in my mind.  God gave his only Son that we may live.  

We are meant, I believe, to have a visceral reaction to the Isaac and Abraham story. Because Abraham and Isaac were both living breathing humans, it is easier to associate ourselves with them than it is with God and His Son.  Abraham and Isaac, that could be God asking me to kill my son.  I can relate.  And I sometimes can't help but think with God, somehow its not the same.  But it was. Jesus was His Son and Jesus suffered fear and pain and torture and death and God watched every moment, not stepping in... for our sake. 

And, even that phrase, "God sacrificed His only Son that we may live." I find myself questioning... He is God... couldn't He have figured out a better way to save us all?  Mr. Clean Magic Erase away the sin?  Just make us not sin in the first place?

But it all boils down to us having free will. We have to choose to follow God. We have that choice everyday and every minute. He couldn't just wave a magic wand to "open" Heaven.  He had to create a moment and an act so incredibly powerful that it started as a tiny seed, possessed by the least important and furthest removed people in the world. It had to grow and blossom organically.  It was a story and a message that you couldn't keep to yourself. It was too incredible not to share.  And it had to be momentous enough to stand the test of time, noble enough to last through scandal and men's folly, and strong enough to outlive wars.

So, in His all knowing, kind of way, He knew that the story of a Father putting His own Son to death, would sit and stay with us as humans.  And the story of that Son and the kindness and love He taught would last and could lead humanity to choose the path to goodness and Heaven. 

Have we messed it up on the way? absolutely, we've killed in Jesus' name instead of saved and we've cast out instead of accepted. Both opposite of The Way we are taught.  But Jesus' narrative persists despite our blunders and it will continue to persist long after we are gone... continuing to show people the path to God. 

I often think about how... if I were asked to die so that my kids would live, I would say yes... no hesitation.  If I were asked to die for their children or grandchildren or world peace... yes yes and yes. 

But what if I were asked to die in a horrific way... for the benefit of people thousands of years down the road with people misinterpreting my sacrifice all along the way... would I say yes? Could I have that kind of faith?  no, probably not. 

I wish I could say I did... but really, I think if I did have the courage to even think to say maybe yes, it would only be because I was assuming it was just a test and the angel's right around the corner about to say, "Nope, Nope! you passed! Just Kidding!"

Which is why I'm thankful that I'm only human.  With all the sadness and destruction in the world, I do hope that God and Jesus don't get upset by my constant questioning, spinning and rambling... rather that they giggle at my trying, like I giggle at this poor hamster just trying his best to hold on. 

thanks for reading,

Morning has Broken

One winter morning last year, I was running late taking my daughter to Kindergarten.  I was praying I would make carpool as I desperately did not want to walk her into the school office wearing pajamas with no bra, and gold heels.  Yes, stilettos actually... they were by the door, and yes that might have something to do with why we were running late...

anyway...

My son got sick in the middle of the night and I was going to have to call the preschool and then the doctor and reschedule my dentist appointment for the 3rd time.

As I zipped out of our neighborhood, my daughter explained in much detail how if I had just let her wear her aquasocks to school then we wouldn't be so late. When it dawned on me that I also forgot her lunch, I decided to drown everything out with the radio.

Pouring through the speakers came 'Morning has Broken,' by Cat Stevens and unexpected tears blurred my vision as I heard the lyric 'has broken' to mean 'has been destroyed.'  With one small twist of a word, every following lyric changed- from hopeful to hopeless and from glorified to dejected.

How quickly and easily one small shift can change an entire perspective. What had once been one of my favorite songs that lifted my spirit,  had now become the anthem for my depression.  The promise of a fresh start each morning transformed into the pain of another repetitive day.

"Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird."  Praise and joy because of the constant world of love and wonder we have been given; turned to, no point in trying, things will never change.

I just made carpool that morning and proceeded to pull off to the side of the road a couple blocks away to catch my breath. I could've cried and dwelled and headed straight into sorry-for-myself-ville. And maybe I would've if I hadn't gotten a text from my husband, "Jay threw up, not cleaning it, I'm in my suit. please hurry."

Sigh. Maybe morning had broken... but I didn't have the choice of getting a new one.  So I turned on madonna, stopped for a coffee and went on with the day.

Life is how you perceive it and what you choose to do with those perceptions.  I used to keep a poem in my day planner through high school and college to remind me of that. Somewhere along the way I lost it but after this particular winter morning, I found it again:

This is the beginning of a new day. 

God has given me this day to use as I will.

I can waste it or use if for good

and grow in its light.

What I do today is important, because

I'm exchanging  a day of my life for it.

When tomorrow comes,

this day will be gone forever,

I hope I shall not regret

the price I paid for it.

Author unknown

If you ever find yourself in a rut or dreading the morning I hope this may help you too.

Meanwhile, I hope you always anticipate sunrise, spring and every new beginning with hope and elation!

thanks for reading,

Wake Up

How many times have I promised that I would be different? Whether it is weight loss, drinking less beer, being a better wife/mom/friend or keeping the laundry at bay, time and again I start with fervor only to find myself a failure, promising to try harder next time, and googling the phrase "motivate me!"

When I am really low, I find myself turning more earnestly to God for help. Now... as you'll find out if you stick around, I have an ever evolving relationship with God. 

Lately, it's been not great... my fault of course. Its gotten to where I'm almost embarrassed to pray. It's like He's the cashier at the corner drugstore whom I used to buy cigarettes from religiously... till I quit. Then, when I come back, He welcomes me with open arms and with playful banter about a stressful week I buy a pack. Then I quit, then I buy, then I quit and it gets so ridiculous that I just have to switch drugstores all together.  Except, I've found its difficult to change Gods... that is, if you only believe in one, which happens to be the number I believe in. 

But I don't think I realized how far off I felt until my terrifying dream last night. I died. That part is not abnormal for me, I often die in my sleep... have you ever died? I heard the rumor that you don't because then you'd die in real life or something like that... but I have often died... felt my soul leave my body and all... am I alone here? 

Anyway, I died in a plane crash (first time I went that way) and I didn't feel a thing. In fact, as I rose into the air, I thought I was still in the plane.  But, as I noticed only air was around me, a feeling began to permeate my being and I talked about it, out loud. "I feel an incredible sense of peace and love," and though I can't properly describe or recreate the feeling, I know I felt it in my dream as clearly and tangibly as I feel the keys beneath my fingers now.

But something wasn't right. "And," I continued... "apprehension." and the word itself was like a bullet through wings and my being plummeted. I knew where I was going. As I crashed through the earth, I reached up my right arm in desperation and sang through choked sobs, "To you, Yahweh, I lift up my soul, Oh my God" If you don't know the song, click here... it is beautiful.  I can't tell you the last time I heard it, but in my dream I knew the words, I knew the tune and I hoped that it was my last chance at salvation.

I honestly felt, upon waking, that if I died that night, I may not have a chance at Heaven... whatever it may be.
I was, I am, shaken to the core.

When its gotten so bad that I feel embarrassed to turn back to God and I'm dreaming about going to Hell, I know that its well past time to do something drastically different in my life.

So... as part of holding myself accountable, I'm putting myself out there in the form of this blog. Oh, I can hear your sarcasm... 'you need to alter your life so you... blog?' I understand... I have often labeled bloggers as egocentric wannabe writers who need other people's approval.  And yet... I've always kind of admired them too.  There is comfort in shared stories, and I believe there is growth through discourse.

And there's always been a little needle in my brain digging, insisting that I wanted to give it a go.  So, as another part of trying to live a better life I'm going to start paying attention to those little bugs that won't go away... because maybe, just maybe it's God trying to show me a path.

I don't know if this is the answer. I don't know what the question is... 42? And I definitely don't know where this is going to go. I promise it won't always be this heavy but that's about all I can promise.  I would love to hear from other people now and then... but I'll try not to bug you too much about it.

Thanks for reading,