This summer has been busy. In July I spent a week studying iconography again, came home for two weeks, and left on a long-awaited road trip with my brother, destination: mid-western family loop.
We grew up in Illinois and moved when we were young, but old enough to consider ourselves as having "grown up" there.
Several years ago, our aunt, our Dad's only sibling and surviving member of his immediate family moved to a home near where we'd lived. We've been wanting to visit, but our respective schedules have been difficult to coordinate. But this summer...it happened. Finally.
We left a week ago and arrived to find our stoic uncle working on a project and an ecstatic aunt I haven't seen since my Dad's funeral in 1995, rushing out of the house to greet us. After a whhirlwind few days of conversation and "childhood tourism" we moved on to another state to visit more family, and I haven't had a moment to just rest and pray about what has happened and all that I learned within the bonds of "long-lost" family and home.
I have a lot to ponder about this trip and our visit home but haven't the energy tonight to write all that is in my heart and on my mind.
Please be patient with me while I sort out some of the profound things I have encountered during the last week of visiting family in a few states; I hope to be back to writing again soon.
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Family. Show all posts
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Growing Up
Adulthood is never what children perceive it will be.
From a child's perspective, when one finally "grows up", they will be respected, have money to spend, get to sit at the adult's table at family reunions, and not have to go to bed when the best shows are on TV or the best things happening in the neighborhood.
Yeah, from a child's perspective, things in adulthood are all peachy and perfect.
I wish it was really like that.
You know that some days I sit up and think, "Oh my gosh! I am just a kid! Where is there an adult to go to in order to handle this problem! Help!" Then I stumble across a a mirror, see the wrinkles and sags, the weight gain and, well...the oldness...and realize there isn't anyone to go to anymore.
And even worse, more and more, I find I am becoming like one or the other of my parents, for better or worse.
Nobody's Mom and Dad are perfect. Nobody's! No matter how well-to-do or how impoverished, every family, in modern pop-psychology terms, is "dysfunctional". Welcome to the human race. In ancient times and theology that was called "concupiscence", but in modern times, we poo-pooh that away by labeling it with things such as "dysfunction" and "co-dependence".
Oh, fogeddabodit! Let's just get to the point and recognize we're all a bunch of sinners in need of salvation, and yeah, we've been harmed by the sins of others! So what? How does that make anyone a victim?
Sorry, got off on a rant there for a bit.
Every so often, I fall into the Oprah-victim-pity-pot of interior destruction. Oh, to see her big brown eyes well up with tears for my familial demise....cry me a river. Seriously, is there anyone who DOESN'T deserve to be on now-defunct Oprah?
Tonight I fell into that trap for a short period. I thought about how, as a child, I was bullied. Always, in fact. I always had a hard time fitting in, and I think the reason was two-pronged: Mom had a difficult time socially for a few reasons, and, well we were poor and from the wrong side of town. Dad was a great guy, everyone loved him, he loved everyone, but let's face it; he wasn't an over-achiever unless he was drunk, and then he was living what he wanted to be but was always denied because of his congenital disability. (My parents were bullied as children and as adults, too. Dad died, but Mom continues to be bullied by her own siblings.)
[I don't care what age you live in, but your social circumstances and family hierarchy dictate how you are treated by others. You cannot legislate that away. Period.]
So...I was pondering my childhood today, often an exercise in futility. Recently I came across a piece of music and if my piccolo wasn't so in need of repair, if my embouchure wasn't so in need of practice and retraining, if only I could remember how to finger the notes...I think I could pick up either a flute or piccolo and play the piece. In fact I did, in a dream, and it was incredible. If only that had been real life!
It was this that made me ponder so much, for my love of music is often met by the resistance of memories I wish I could forget.
Yeah, well, as children my brother and I begged for a piano because we both loved music as did Mom, as did my Dad, whose father was a musician, teacher, and salesman in a music store.
One Christmas we came home to...a two-octave organ, totally mechanical sound (computers do better now...far better, far more realistic), complete with set drum beats, "trumpet" sounds and others that sounded NOTHING like the actual instruments, and after only a few weeks of "piano" lessons that took us far beyond what the limited keyboard allowed, both of us [necessarily] quit lessons and the organ gathered dust until Mom finally managed to pay someone to take it away.
That took years, by the way. It was our fishnet-legged lamp in the window and I'll never forget my disgust. I suspect that's why Mom was so enthusiastic after their divorce, to spring for a flute for me when I was finally able to choose an instrument in 5th grade. (In the US, that's when public schools began musical instruction). Granted it was rented, but she didn't put up a fight with any substitutes like trumpet (which I also took up in high school) or clarinet (which I never wanted, no offense to clarinetists!).
Then there took over the concupiscence, the push-and-pull of child and parent as the child struggles to become herself or himself in the world.
I loved music and began singing. Mom loved the fact that I loved music and encouraged it, but didn't seem to understand the sense of balance. She began to ridicule my successes and my attempts, and this was part of her own disease of bipolar.
One summer, I tried out for Community Theatre, having been a member of our tiny parish youth choir, and so accepted the help of another community-involved parishioner to help me in my audition. I nearly got the lead role, was cast as unofficial understudy with a serious role in the chorus...and had a great time! That same summer, in prep for a talent show at a camp I wanted to attend, my fellow chorus-members, the music director, and musicians helped me to prepare a song and gave me great advice while my Mom waited as an all-too-verbal spectator.
I was trying to sing "Memory" from the musical "CATS", a song I knew my Mom loved, so my offering had a lot to do with her own influence. As I learned the piece and sang it with accompaniment, as the experienced musicians and teachers encouraged, taught, and helped me to make it my own, I heard only one voice, that of my mother, speaking above them all, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
I cowered in shame and listened to that litany all summer. "You're no Barbara Streisand."
I still remember the musicians and one of the actors exchanging glances, pretending not to notice, then renewing their lessons for me. Knowing I wasn't trying to be great; that I was only trying to have fun in an entertaining way; and that's something I could do.
Over the years, I heard that line a lot. As I soloed in my parish, as I was selected to cantor, as I occasionally auditioned for high school productions, always my mother telling me, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
There was a dichotomy, though, as I practiced my instrumental music, for Mom didn't have a comparison. She wanted me to be a professional musician. When I aspired towards visual art, she shot that down, telling me there was no money in it and I would end up on welfare. As we were already there, that terrified me and yes, I knew she was right about that. I wanted to be an actress; not allowed, and yes, she was right about that!
I nearly joined the Marines after my band teacher handed me a brochure about the Marines Band, something I knew about thanks to my uncle, a proud former Marine! It was a great deal! If I enlisted, I could go to ANY, and I mean ANY Music school I desired, on a full scholarship! Because my brother had been around and around with an Army Recruiter who wouldn't take "no" for an answer, I said nothing about this to my Mom, but did to my band teacher. "What's the catch?"
"Well, you gotta go to boot camp."
"Um...no thanks. Not selling my soul for boot camp." (Seriously, if only I could have predicted the 2 boot camps I would go through a few years later...lol)
When I pondered colleges, and we went to visit the college I would eventually choose, and while we gathered information regarding various programs, including theatre, Mom informed me once again, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
Finally, I'd had enough. I don't recall when I said it but I do know it was in private - a grace she had never left to me. Finally, finally, I cried out in tears of frustration, anger, and sadness:
It was as if I had slapped her; she hadn't realized what she was doing.
The reality is this; her years of comparing my every attempt to the GREATS made me aspire to something more mundane, more average. More people oriented, less arts-and-music oriented.
So it was that I left my music, my art behind. So it was that I majored in Criminal Justice and spent four years defending myself against the extended family trying to tell me that law enforcement wasn't for me.
But at least I didn't have to try to sing like Barbara Streisand anymore.
It would be easy to blame my Mom for a lot that's wrong in my life, but I can't. If victim-hood is going to come into this particular Diego Rivera mural, it's going to involve everyone, not just my family, not just yours.
We all have our stories, and if we know them, we can take responsibility for them.
Yes, I left music and the arts because of constant and overbearing criticism holding me to a standard I could not meet, but I don't regret the degree I pursued, even though I'm not qualified to work in that field anymore - because of my own choices and career path. Yes, I live in a townhome I can't afford because I bought it back when I had a good job, and left it because...it was time, and now have to pay off grad loans on a salary that pays less than peanuts. That's my choice, not my Mom's.
Every criticism from Mom was an attempt to ground me, to keep me balanced, and to ensure I did not suffer the financial and personal ruin of the poverty in which she raised us. I can blame my Mom and my Dad for a whole lotta things, but as an adult....I truly can't blame them for anything.
I thank them for trying to guide me as best they could, even though they suffered so much from the deprivation and abuses thrust upon them long before they brought my brother and I into the world. I thank them for giving us the opportunities they could, and even if misguided, for criticizing us to try to keep us from being what we all hate. I thank them for being who they are (or in Dad's case, who he WAS, may he rest in peace), so that we could become greater, according to God's calling.
And most of all, I thank them for the life they gave us, with all its trials, all its suffering, all its failures, all its triumphs, for much we experienced together, and much, growing up, made us who we are today.
We may not be much, and we will never be "great" in the eyes of the world, but both my brother and I know who we are, where we came from...and it's gonna be a whole lotta years before we ever really "grow up."
Somehow..I think Mom (And Dad, Eternal rest grant unto him...) would agree.
From a child's perspective, when one finally "grows up", they will be respected, have money to spend, get to sit at the adult's table at family reunions, and not have to go to bed when the best shows are on TV or the best things happening in the neighborhood.
Yeah, from a child's perspective, things in adulthood are all peachy and perfect.
I wish it was really like that.
You know that some days I sit up and think, "Oh my gosh! I am just a kid! Where is there an adult to go to in order to handle this problem! Help!" Then I stumble across a a mirror, see the wrinkles and sags, the weight gain and, well...the oldness...and realize there isn't anyone to go to anymore.
And even worse, more and more, I find I am becoming like one or the other of my parents, for better or worse.
The most tragic part of that fact is this: no matter how much I aspire to their greatest virtues, I seem to have made my own their most grievous faults. I have become the sum of the fall of my parents.
Nobody's Mom and Dad are perfect. Nobody's! No matter how well-to-do or how impoverished, every family, in modern pop-psychology terms, is "dysfunctional". Welcome to the human race. In ancient times and theology that was called "concupiscence", but in modern times, we poo-pooh that away by labeling it with things such as "dysfunction" and "co-dependence".
Oh, fogeddabodit! Let's just get to the point and recognize we're all a bunch of sinners in need of salvation, and yeah, we've been harmed by the sins of others! So what? How does that make anyone a victim?
Sorry, got off on a rant there for a bit.
Every so often, I fall into the Oprah-victim-pity-pot of interior destruction. Oh, to see her big brown eyes well up with tears for my familial demise....cry me a river. Seriously, is there anyone who DOESN'T deserve to be on now-defunct Oprah?
Tonight I fell into that trap for a short period. I thought about how, as a child, I was bullied. Always, in fact. I always had a hard time fitting in, and I think the reason was two-pronged: Mom had a difficult time socially for a few reasons, and, well we were poor and from the wrong side of town. Dad was a great guy, everyone loved him, he loved everyone, but let's face it; he wasn't an over-achiever unless he was drunk, and then he was living what he wanted to be but was always denied because of his congenital disability. (My parents were bullied as children and as adults, too. Dad died, but Mom continues to be bullied by her own siblings.)
[I don't care what age you live in, but your social circumstances and family hierarchy dictate how you are treated by others. You cannot legislate that away. Period.]
So...I was pondering my childhood today, often an exercise in futility. Recently I came across a piece of music and if my piccolo wasn't so in need of repair, if my embouchure wasn't so in need of practice and retraining, if only I could remember how to finger the notes...I think I could pick up either a flute or piccolo and play the piece. In fact I did, in a dream, and it was incredible. If only that had been real life!
It was this that made me ponder so much, for my love of music is often met by the resistance of memories I wish I could forget.
You know the movie "A Christmas Story"?
Yeah, well, as children my brother and I begged for a piano because we both loved music as did Mom, as did my Dad, whose father was a musician, teacher, and salesman in a music store.
One Christmas we came home to...a two-octave organ, totally mechanical sound (computers do better now...far better, far more realistic), complete with set drum beats, "trumpet" sounds and others that sounded NOTHING like the actual instruments, and after only a few weeks of "piano" lessons that took us far beyond what the limited keyboard allowed, both of us [necessarily] quit lessons and the organ gathered dust until Mom finally managed to pay someone to take it away.
That took years, by the way. It was our fishnet-legged lamp in the window and I'll never forget my disgust. I suspect that's why Mom was so enthusiastic after their divorce, to spring for a flute for me when I was finally able to choose an instrument in 5th grade. (In the US, that's when public schools began musical instruction). Granted it was rented, but she didn't put up a fight with any substitutes like trumpet (which I also took up in high school) or clarinet (which I never wanted, no offense to clarinetists!).
Then there took over the concupiscence, the push-and-pull of child and parent as the child struggles to become herself or himself in the world.
I loved music and began singing. Mom loved the fact that I loved music and encouraged it, but didn't seem to understand the sense of balance. She began to ridicule my successes and my attempts, and this was part of her own disease of bipolar.
One summer, I tried out for Community Theatre, having been a member of our tiny parish youth choir, and so accepted the help of another community-involved parishioner to help me in my audition. I nearly got the lead role, was cast as unofficial understudy with a serious role in the chorus...and had a great time! That same summer, in prep for a talent show at a camp I wanted to attend, my fellow chorus-members, the music director, and musicians helped me to prepare a song and gave me great advice while my Mom waited as an all-too-verbal spectator.
I was trying to sing "Memory" from the musical "CATS", a song I knew my Mom loved, so my offering had a lot to do with her own influence. As I learned the piece and sang it with accompaniment, as the experienced musicians and teachers encouraged, taught, and helped me to make it my own, I heard only one voice, that of my mother, speaking above them all, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
I cowered in shame and listened to that litany all summer. "You're no Barbara Streisand."
I still remember the musicians and one of the actors exchanging glances, pretending not to notice, then renewing their lessons for me. Knowing I wasn't trying to be great; that I was only trying to have fun in an entertaining way; and that's something I could do.
Over the years, I heard that line a lot. As I soloed in my parish, as I was selected to cantor, as I occasionally auditioned for high school productions, always my mother telling me, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
There was a dichotomy, though, as I practiced my instrumental music, for Mom didn't have a comparison. She wanted me to be a professional musician. When I aspired towards visual art, she shot that down, telling me there was no money in it and I would end up on welfare. As we were already there, that terrified me and yes, I knew she was right about that. I wanted to be an actress; not allowed, and yes, she was right about that!
I nearly joined the Marines after my band teacher handed me a brochure about the Marines Band, something I knew about thanks to my uncle, a proud former Marine! It was a great deal! If I enlisted, I could go to ANY, and I mean ANY Music school I desired, on a full scholarship! Because my brother had been around and around with an Army Recruiter who wouldn't take "no" for an answer, I said nothing about this to my Mom, but did to my band teacher. "What's the catch?"
"Well, you gotta go to boot camp."
"Um...no thanks. Not selling my soul for boot camp." (Seriously, if only I could have predicted the 2 boot camps I would go through a few years later...lol)
When I pondered colleges, and we went to visit the college I would eventually choose, and while we gathered information regarding various programs, including theatre, Mom informed me once again, "You're no Barbara Streisand."
Finally, I'd had enough. I don't recall when I said it but I do know it was in private - a grace she had never left to me. Finally, finally, I cried out in tears of frustration, anger, and sadness:
"Why do you continue to compare me to BARBARA STREISAND? I'M NOT HER!!! STOP comparing me!!! I CAN'T SING LIKE HER! I DON'T KNOW HOW! WHY do you compare me????"
It was as if I had slapped her; she hadn't realized what she was doing.
The reality is this; her years of comparing my every attempt to the GREATS made me aspire to something more mundane, more average. More people oriented, less arts-and-music oriented.
So it was that I left my music, my art behind. So it was that I majored in Criminal Justice and spent four years defending myself against the extended family trying to tell me that law enforcement wasn't for me.
But at least I didn't have to try to sing like Barbara Streisand anymore.
All Grown Up
It would be easy to blame my Mom for a lot that's wrong in my life, but I can't. If victim-hood is going to come into this particular Diego Rivera mural, it's going to involve everyone, not just my family, not just yours.
We all have our stories, and if we know them, we can take responsibility for them.
Yes, I left music and the arts because of constant and overbearing criticism holding me to a standard I could not meet, but I don't regret the degree I pursued, even though I'm not qualified to work in that field anymore - because of my own choices and career path. Yes, I live in a townhome I can't afford because I bought it back when I had a good job, and left it because...it was time, and now have to pay off grad loans on a salary that pays less than peanuts. That's my choice, not my Mom's.
Every criticism from Mom was an attempt to ground me, to keep me balanced, and to ensure I did not suffer the financial and personal ruin of the poverty in which she raised us. I can blame my Mom and my Dad for a whole lotta things, but as an adult....I truly can't blame them for anything.
All I can do is thank them.
I thank them for trying to guide me as best they could, even though they suffered so much from the deprivation and abuses thrust upon them long before they brought my brother and I into the world. I thank them for giving us the opportunities they could, and even if misguided, for criticizing us to try to keep us from being what we all hate. I thank them for being who they are (or in Dad's case, who he WAS, may he rest in peace), so that we could become greater, according to God's calling.
And most of all, I thank them for the life they gave us, with all its trials, all its suffering, all its failures, all its triumphs, for much we experienced together, and much, growing up, made us who we are today.
We may not be much, and we will never be "great" in the eyes of the world, but both my brother and I know who we are, where we came from...and it's gonna be a whole lotta years before we ever really "grow up."
Somehow..I think Mom (And Dad, Eternal rest grant unto him...) would agree.
To all you Moms and Dads out there, I speak to you all...Thank you.Eternal Love,
Your Children
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Family and Surprising Opportunities
It's been very busy lately between work and family. Just this weekend we had a family reunion, and it was the first one I've made it to in YEARS.
Because it's been so long, I approached it with a bit of trepidation. Some was warranted, some was not. As it was, many were already there by the time I arrived. It was great to connect with the cousins I grew up with, to meet and bond with the children of my cousins, and catch up with my aunts and uncles.
As I was leaving, one of my cousins, who was, in fact, my Confirmation sponsor, was on her way in.
"Oh! But you have two minutes, don't you?
"Ok."
Her, laughing, "Well, that was hard! How 'bout five?"
About an hour later, I finally left, and with an invitation from her to visit her in another state sometime during the school year to give a presentation to her homeschooling group about icons and iconography. They've been looking for specific Catholic enrichment and she thinks that what I have to offer would be perfect for their middle-to-high-schoolers!
Of course, I'd be happy to go there just to visit family, but spreading knowledge and devotion to praying with icons...that's a huge bonus!
On the home front, I've learned more cousins live locally than I realized so we're planning some social events of mutual interest, all likely finding my brother's house as the center for gathering.
As the months go on, I look forward to more time with the extended family, and hope our plans all pan out; not for the sake of our plans, but for the sake of our relationships as family members.
I guess there is some benefit to being a member of what I like to call the "Twelve tribes of Israel (Minnesota)"!
My dear readers, I pray your summer is also going well and that you are also finding the time to renew your relationships with your family members and friends during your summer down time.
Because it's been so long, I approached it with a bit of trepidation. Some was warranted, some was not. As it was, many were already there by the time I arrived. It was great to connect with the cousins I grew up with, to meet and bond with the children of my cousins, and catch up with my aunts and uncles.
As I was leaving, one of my cousins, who was, in fact, my Confirmation sponsor, was on her way in.
"Oh! But you have two minutes, don't you?
"Ok."
Her, laughing, "Well, that was hard! How 'bout five?"
About an hour later, I finally left, and with an invitation from her to visit her in another state sometime during the school year to give a presentation to her homeschooling group about icons and iconography. They've been looking for specific Catholic enrichment and she thinks that what I have to offer would be perfect for their middle-to-high-schoolers!
Of course, I'd be happy to go there just to visit family, but spreading knowledge and devotion to praying with icons...that's a huge bonus!
On the home front, I've learned more cousins live locally than I realized so we're planning some social events of mutual interest, all likely finding my brother's house as the center for gathering.
As the months go on, I look forward to more time with the extended family, and hope our plans all pan out; not for the sake of our plans, but for the sake of our relationships as family members.
I guess there is some benefit to being a member of what I like to call the "Twelve tribes of Israel (Minnesota)"!
My dear readers, I pray your summer is also going well and that you are also finding the time to renew your relationships with your family members and friends during your summer down time.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Overheard in Adoro's World - Christmas Edition
I had a wonderful Christmas with my family - lots of fun, lots of laughs. As always, I was blown away by my brother's generosity and of course, friendship, especially as we re-hashed old times! (We didn't always get along....) ;-)
However, one of the high points, I have to admit, was a simple comedic moment, one of those moments one grasps and savors, wishing it had been captured in all its context and bottled so as to be let out and enjoyed for years to come.
All weekend long, Mom was focused on cranberries and turkey - she was going to make cranberries and had forgotten to purchase them before she'd come to The Cities for Christmas. As my brother and I had to run out on Thursday to pick up a few items, we put cranberries on the list. Mom was insistent, for she was going to make cranberries to go with the Turkey soup my brother was going to make from (frozen) leftovers from Thanksgiving.
I was a bit confused as we were not having turkey for Christmas itself, but clearly Mom wanted cranberries, therefore she would have them!
We duly picked them up and assured Mom several times over the next few days that they were in the fridge, awaiting her ministrations in order to serve with the turkey she also apparently desired.
On Sunday evening, Mom suddenly recalled she had been going to make cranberries, and they HAD to be cooked or they would go bad. So it was that instead of getting ready for bed, she was in the kitchen, cooking. She asked about the turkey and soup, wondering why he hadn't cooked it as originally planned. This became a very big topic as she had been going on about this leftover turkey all weekend yet, it had not emerged from the freezer.
My brother solicitously asked if he should get out the turkey for a late supper; he suggested that if she didn't want to wait for soup, he could heat it up for sandwiches to have with her cranberries.
A conversation ensued regarding the cranberries and turkey, Mom suddenly complaining about having to make the cranberries if we weren't having the turkey after all.
Brother: "But Mom, I thought you wanted turkey and cranberries?"
Mom: "No, I don't want turkey. I don't even like turkey!"
In the meantime, I was in the living room overhearing all of this, and at that bombshell of a revelation, nearly experienced wine shooting from my nose. Mom had no idea why my brother's girlfriend and I were laughing so hard.
My brother simply stepped out of the kitchen and approached, smiling, amused at our fits of giggles while Mom stood there, confused, proclaiming how much she hated turkey even though she was only making the cranberries to go with the turkey she so desperately hated.
Ah....family!
However, one of the high points, I have to admit, was a simple comedic moment, one of those moments one grasps and savors, wishing it had been captured in all its context and bottled so as to be let out and enjoyed for years to come.
All weekend long, Mom was focused on cranberries and turkey - she was going to make cranberries and had forgotten to purchase them before she'd come to The Cities for Christmas. As my brother and I had to run out on Thursday to pick up a few items, we put cranberries on the list. Mom was insistent, for she was going to make cranberries to go with the Turkey soup my brother was going to make from (frozen) leftovers from Thanksgiving.
I was a bit confused as we were not having turkey for Christmas itself, but clearly Mom wanted cranberries, therefore she would have them!
We duly picked them up and assured Mom several times over the next few days that they were in the fridge, awaiting her ministrations in order to serve with the turkey she also apparently desired.
On Sunday evening, Mom suddenly recalled she had been going to make cranberries, and they HAD to be cooked or they would go bad. So it was that instead of getting ready for bed, she was in the kitchen, cooking. She asked about the turkey and soup, wondering why he hadn't cooked it as originally planned. This became a very big topic as she had been going on about this leftover turkey all weekend yet, it had not emerged from the freezer.
My brother solicitously asked if he should get out the turkey for a late supper; he suggested that if she didn't want to wait for soup, he could heat it up for sandwiches to have with her cranberries.
A conversation ensued regarding the cranberries and turkey, Mom suddenly complaining about having to make the cranberries if we weren't having the turkey after all.
Brother: "But Mom, I thought you wanted turkey and cranberries?"
Mom: "No, I don't want turkey. I don't even like turkey!"
In the meantime, I was in the living room overhearing all of this, and at that bombshell of a revelation, nearly experienced wine shooting from my nose. Mom had no idea why my brother's girlfriend and I were laughing so hard.
My brother simply stepped out of the kitchen and approached, smiling, amused at our fits of giggles while Mom stood there, confused, proclaiming how much she hated turkey even though she was only making the cranberries to go with the turkey she so desperately hated.
Ah....family!
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Fire PSA and Warning
It's no secret that we here in the Midwest got a whole boatload of snow, everywhere, containing and followed by a whole lot of wind that created a bunch of really interesting drifts.
For the most part, the snow has been moved out of the way by the City or County or State (depending on where you live) but the government is not responsible for your own personal property.
I can't even COUNT the number of houses I have passed on residential streets in my last two weeks of travel about the Twin Cities in Minnesota, that have front doors blocked by those original drifts.
You only shoveled your garage door or your ailing/elderly/young single mother's driveway because it's all you/they use and is critical to you/them. I'm the same way...most of my coming and going is through my garage door, or, well, if I had a house with an unattached garage, I'd be using the door off the driveway.
Very few people actually USE their front doors, and as such, that door in a single family home is usually very neglected.
You're risking your life and the lives of your entire family to ignore that door.
One night you wake up to the sound of your intact smoke alarms, and slowly, you realize the acrid scent being registered in your nostrils, tastebuds, and throat belongs to an actual fire in your castle.
You realize that the fire is coming from a burner left on in the kitchen, and while you don't recall leaving that burner on, nor does your husband/wife or children, there it was, and it has alighted some oil that was not cleaned off the stove, and that heat caught a picture on fire - one your daughter gave you tonight which you planned to hang on the refrigerator in the morning.
Instead, that picture acted as a wick and transferred the rapid oxidation to the curtains over the sink, which set the boxes intended for the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal alight...and their contents...and spread to the other curtains on the other kitchen window, the door, and the rug you purchased in Africa on your honeymoon.
That same fire sends a spark and alights your Christmas tree, blocking your exit through the garage door and/or side door while it sets the other continuous decorations alight.
Your only way out is the front door, and you go about waking and herding your family towards the front door - the only exit.
Yet when you get there, you are faced with a mountain of snow you never bothered to shovel, even though that storm was 2 weeks ago almost to the day, and it's completely blocking the door. You can toss your newborn out through the crack, but is that a GOOD idea when he sinks through the snow and then the heat from the house causes the tip of the drift to collapse upon him, covering him in an avalanche?
The Fire Department arrives and approaches your house, watching as they hook up the Engine to the closest hydrant, which they have to take several minutes to locate and then dig out since neither you nor your neighbors did so.
It takes them awhile to do this, even as they try to lay a tank line to the most accessible door, including the consideration of the most likely place for survivors. They look at the side door and lay a line there, but realize that if they open that door, they might actually directly cause the deaths of anyone inside, and of course, can't actually ENTER there....so they look to the front door...which is covered by snow.
They can't hear the cries of the baby you tossed beneath the roar of the consuming fire. They don't know he's there no matter how loudly you scream because they can't hear you either, between the fire, the engines, their turnout gear and the sound of air from their tanks.
Realizing they have no entrance from the plowed area, they try to access the blocked front door, and the windows...but they can't get there through the drifts and the powerful hose really just turns snow into powerful waves of ice in your front lawn, forming bars against your house while you kneel on the floor, pounding against what you thought was an exit, sinking further and further, trying to protect your children from the encroaching smoke and heat.
You gasp your last breaths as you watch the pulsating blue and red lights glow through the drift you didn't bother to shovel, and that's where you realize your children are now too late to save.
Mr. Neighbor a la Snowblower stands, in shock, watching the Fire Department try to access your home. He's the one who happened to be awake and called at 1:00 am, and he's the same guy you spoke with regarding the snowdrift blocking your front door. He has one to match, because neither of you thought it important since neither of you has EVER used the front door of your home but for an occasional formal event.
Yet Mr. Neighbor stands there, horrified, witnessing this sin of omission as the Fire Department labors through your front lawn to get to a door, a window, and the newborn encapsulated in a drift that should never have been present.
He watches the Fire Department labor through the stuff he could have eliminated, and watches you and your dead family being brought on stretchers through the snow, just as the light comes into the sky, and gives his testimony to the police and to the NEWS...all for want of a little flat tool that would have prevented that mass-family funeral he will attend a couple days after Christmas.
And none of your family or friends will remember Christmas the same way again, for instead of the birth of Christ, they will remember the drift of snow over the doorway to life and they will forever recall your absence...your stupid, stupid absence.
For the most part, the snow has been moved out of the way by the City or County or State (depending on where you live) but the government is not responsible for your own personal property.
I can't even COUNT the number of houses I have passed on residential streets in my last two weeks of travel about the Twin Cities in Minnesota, that have front doors blocked by those original drifts.
Look, Homeowners, I know what you're thinking:
You only shoveled your garage door or your ailing/elderly/young single mother's driveway because it's all you/they use and is critical to you/them. I'm the same way...most of my coming and going is through my garage door, or, well, if I had a house with an unattached garage, I'd be using the door off the driveway.
Very few people actually USE their front doors, and as such, that door in a single family home is usually very neglected.
You're risking your life and the lives of your entire family to ignore that door.
Imagine This:
One night you wake up to the sound of your intact smoke alarms, and slowly, you realize the acrid scent being registered in your nostrils, tastebuds, and throat belongs to an actual fire in your castle.
You realize that the fire is coming from a burner left on in the kitchen, and while you don't recall leaving that burner on, nor does your husband/wife or children, there it was, and it has alighted some oil that was not cleaned off the stove, and that heat caught a picture on fire - one your daughter gave you tonight which you planned to hang on the refrigerator in the morning.
Instead, that picture acted as a wick and transferred the rapid oxidation to the curtains over the sink, which set the boxes intended for the Franciscan Friars of the Renewal alight...and their contents...and spread to the other curtains on the other kitchen window, the door, and the rug you purchased in Africa on your honeymoon.
That same fire sends a spark and alights your Christmas tree, blocking your exit through the garage door and/or side door while it sets the other continuous decorations alight.
Your only way out is the front door, and you go about waking and herding your family towards the front door - the only exit.
Yet when you get there, you are faced with a mountain of snow you never bothered to shovel, even though that storm was 2 weeks ago almost to the day, and it's completely blocking the door. You can toss your newborn out through the crack, but is that a GOOD idea when he sinks through the snow and then the heat from the house causes the tip of the drift to collapse upon him, covering him in an avalanche?
In the meantime...
The Fire Department arrives and approaches your house, watching as they hook up the Engine to the closest hydrant, which they have to take several minutes to locate and then dig out since neither you nor your neighbors did so.
It takes them awhile to do this, even as they try to lay a tank line to the most accessible door, including the consideration of the most likely place for survivors. They look at the side door and lay a line there, but realize that if they open that door, they might actually directly cause the deaths of anyone inside, and of course, can't actually ENTER there....so they look to the front door...which is covered by snow.
They can't hear the cries of the baby you tossed beneath the roar of the consuming fire. They don't know he's there no matter how loudly you scream because they can't hear you either, between the fire, the engines, their turnout gear and the sound of air from their tanks.
Realizing they have no entrance from the plowed area, they try to access the blocked front door, and the windows...but they can't get there through the drifts and the powerful hose really just turns snow into powerful waves of ice in your front lawn, forming bars against your house while you kneel on the floor, pounding against what you thought was an exit, sinking further and further, trying to protect your children from the encroaching smoke and heat.
You gasp your last breaths as you watch the pulsating blue and red lights glow through the drift you didn't bother to shovel, and that's where you realize your children are now too late to save.
Across the Street
Mr. Neighbor a la Snowblower stands, in shock, watching the Fire Department try to access your home. He's the one who happened to be awake and called at 1:00 am, and he's the same guy you spoke with regarding the snowdrift blocking your front door. He has one to match, because neither of you thought it important since neither of you has EVER used the front door of your home but for an occasional formal event.
Yet Mr. Neighbor stands there, horrified, witnessing this sin of omission as the Fire Department labors through your front lawn to get to a door, a window, and the newborn encapsulated in a drift that should never have been present.
He watches the Fire Department labor through the stuff he could have eliminated, and watches you and your dead family being brought on stretchers through the snow, just as the light comes into the sky, and gives his testimony to the police and to the NEWS...all for want of a little flat tool that would have prevented that mass-family funeral he will attend a couple days after Christmas.
And none of your family or friends will remember Christmas the same way again, for instead of the birth of Christ, they will remember the drift of snow over the doorway to life and they will forever recall your absence...your stupid, stupid absence.
SHOVEL OUT YOUR FRONT DOORS, PEOPLE!
Friday, December 03, 2010
Never Alone
It doesn't matter how much spiritual reading I do that warns against "despair" or of excessive sadness for our sins. We aren't always in control of our emotions, and it seems like sometimes, if things are going well I almost completely self-destruct (not a life-ending thing, more a spiritual crash and burn).
Although tonight wasn't a total crash-and-burn, I went to Mass somewhat dejected, and afterwards as I knelt, praying, I couldn't stop what rose from me.
I had just finished reading from St. Louis de Montfort's 33-day Preparation for Total Consecration (I am renewing this year on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe), and in addition, I read a couple chapters from Imitation of Mary.
Both readings spoke of spiritual despair.
After Mass, suddenly I was struck with a type of loneliness...a sense of near-abandonment of the earthly kind, even almost spiritual. It's very difficult to explain, but there it was.
I knelt before Our Lord, wondering, yet again if I think I am called to religious life only because I fear the love of another, or even more probable, fear that I could never be loved by another.
We all, within us, have a desire and a need for love, for we have been created out of love and to be loved for eternity.
The last boyfriend I had, the one I thought I would marry, confided to a friend of his around the time we broke up that he thought I would have a hard time "finding someone else."
I admit those words are still as powerfully painful now as when I first learned about them. He denied having said it when I confronted him, but I could see the lie as he shifted his gaze away from me in shame.
There, before Our Lord, tonight, I asked Him for love; to reveal it to me.
I asked Him to show me if I've gotten discernment all wrong and am perhaps called to marriage, but fear it too much. I asked Him how anyone could ever love me, considering all my sins, all my failings, all my passionate obstinance regarding...dang near everything.
I have to admit I am pretty damn unlovable most of the time.
I asked Jesus, simply, to love me. I had no expectations, I had no specific intentions: I offered Him only my broken heart because it's all I have to offer. I offered him my doubts, my intent to do His Will, and my own lack of charity for Him and for others.
In other words, I came to Him with my utter desolation, knowing my self-pity was wrong but also knowing I had nowhere else to bring it but to His feet.
I left the church, having wiped my eyes of the tears that did manage to escape without my will, and having waited a few minutes to ensure my composure. With all the colds going around right now, I blended in with about half the congregation.
When I arrived at the chapel door where Daily Mass is held, a man I know held it open for me, recognized me from a committee we are on together, and said hello rather than giving me a typical dispassionate-but-friendly nod in response to my thanks. I walked over to a bench and set my backpack down so I could put my coat on, and while doing so, an elderly man who was waiting for his relative looked at me, smiled, and approached, introducing himself. I was surprised but couldn't help but respond to his sincere greeting.
I recognized him as one of the more devout members of our parish, having always wondered who he was, and I knew he also recognized me as we often sat near each other during Daily or regular Sunday Mass. Tonight, looking at him, I saw the light in his eyes and the friendliness that was clearly a part of his real personality. He told me he is retired and we discussed how blessed we are to be members of such a good parish with such holy priests that give us more than adequate access to the Sacraments.
Both encounters were somewhat unusual; not because people are unfriendly, but rather because I don't know either at all. The first is a new acquaintance but recognized by face over the years, and the latter, simply recognized but whom seemed to be even more private than I am. Neither unapproachable people, but simply, in typical Catholic culture, willing to let another soul be another soul in the presence of God. (It's hard to explain for non-Catholics so I'll stop trying unless a question is specifically asked).
Upon arriving home I collected my mail and went inside. There I found in that stack, instead of bills, there was a Christmas card from my "second family", the parents of my teen-years best friend who had become surrogates of sorts and without whom I would not be who I am today. I haven't yet sent out any cards, but now when I send one to them I'll be able to offer a response, remembering the love they had given me even though I was not their own. Remembering that without them, I would have been lost.
Completely.
I have written of them previously, HERE.
God answers prayers, usually in small ways, ways only we can recognize because they have to do with our relationships with God and others, what He knows about us, and only He can provide the timing for He knows in advance what we will ask.
Today wasn't a coincidence, but an answer to a prayer, reminding me that I am not a colossal accident, that my discernment isn't over and in fact, He is present with me in any agony, whether brief and petty or deep and abiding.
That is His love, that is God Himself, refusing to ever leave us alone.We may experience times of dryness and we may experience abandonment,and it for those moments He gives us these small gifts: to provide memories and bolster our faith in order that we'll always remember His presence.
So often, I think that I am lost, but then God provides evidence to the contrary, reminding me I have never been alone for even a moment.
Thank you, Jesus. I'm sorry for doubting you.
Monday, October 25, 2010
The Sacrifice of Vocation: Family
This last summer, during my retreat in Wisconsin, as I knelt praying at 6 a.m.or so, I pondered the sacrifices required of any Vocation.I thought of the priests I know who, like it or not, are offering Mass at 6:30 a.m. or earlier, or even in the evening on Sundays, 9 or 10:00 pm if they are assigned to a college campus. Their preferences matter not; they have laid their lives down for Christ, and it is He whom they serve, according to the needs of the Mystical Body, no matter how inconvenient.
I knelt there that early morning, preferring to be snoozing, pondering the reality of the married life.
Yes; I was pondering married life and the sacrifices required of any couple.
I thought of those who were single women, who left behind or dispensed with what they had or combined their property with that of their beloved. I thought of those men I knew who sold or gave away their property in order to receive that of their beloved, and together, make their home.
I meditated deeply upon those families that combine their resources. Fundamental to my meditation was, actually, my mother's expressed position that those who marry our relatives become members (are absorbed into) our family. She did not reference any relative as "removed" as in the terms "a cousin once-removed" or "twice-removed". Those were mere legal terms; they did not express the reality of our family.
I could recall many times my mother deflected me away from legal definitions in order to help me understand that marriage bound one family to another, helping me to see that the fruit of the various marriages were my own relatives, those bound in the Sacrament truly became my own cousins or aunts or uncles. If they were related in any way, they were family and should be received as family and acknowledged as family.
This reality came home to me in a special way after my parents divorced when I was a child. Family on Mom's side always asked after Dad and his family. Family on Dad's side never acknowledged the fact we had other relatives.
That said a lot. A lot.
I pondered, this summer, deeply, the effects of a decision to end my solitude
I considered that for so long I have been an "old maid", so accepted in our culture, yet...so unnatural in God 's own order.
I'm tired of being alone. I'm tired of being an anomaly, of being the "old maid" in a culture so PC it can't call a spade a spade for fear of being sued by the ACLU.
A man and a woman, when they are married, make some very serious changes to their lives.
I know that, as a woman, if I married, my life would change. I would embrace a different schedule, adopt traditions belonging to another family and make those traditions my own. I'd make sacrifices and my life, as I know it, would be no more. Period.
My definition of "freedom" would change, for I would give up my life for love, I would forsake my belongings for love, and I would look to a future with my beloved, rendering mere "stuff" unimportant.
In this regard, entering religious life is no different than marriage.
When I enter, I enter, as in marriage, with all that I am and all that I am not.
I will take on another family, and that family, in turn, will absorb me and mine into it. We will become bound together. Life will not be the same. Whether I am married or whether I enter religious life it is the same; I cannot continue as I am, as a single woman.
I look forward to and welcome the change. Yes, it is a struggle as I look around my house and realize my attachments, but I know my attachments make my sacrifice greater, for if I didn't care, or rendered it all as "nothing" then I would ultimately go to Our Lord empty-handed, my offering meaningless.
Yes; I want to give everything to Him, for Him, through Him.
I want to enter my new family as a contributing member, knowing that any vows I take bonds my blood-family more closely to Our Lord, for, if my family's premise hold's true, they do not lose me, but only absorb another family.
If Jesus is my spouse, what does that mean, according to Mom's philosophy?
What family would not want to claim Jesus as a member?
I pray Mom lives long enough to see my final profession if it be God's will. I pray my brother not feel abandoned as he sees his sister enter "the cloister".
Yet...I haven't even begun....nothing is formal, I have no entrance date.
Just faith, hope, and love. Nothing more, nothing less.
That is the sacrifice of a Vocation.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Driven
When I was young, I remember sitting with my Dad at the grill on Sunday afternoons, "helping" him to barbecue chicken, chatting away with him. Even as I was a "Daddy's Girl", Dad was totally devoted to me, too, and it was clear that he reveled in my childish company. He was the epitome of paternal pride.
I can remember him telling me that, as an American, I could do "whatever I wanted" with my life. I could even be PRESIDENT (the highest honor he could imagine) even! I giggled and said I wanted to be an Olympian, and he agreed that this, too, was well within reach, and asked me what sport I was going to dominate when I got older. I wanted to be famous, I wanted to light up Broadway...all of this, in Dad's eyes, was not just practical, but possible..and maybe even EXPECTED, just because I willed it. If I "willed" it...so did he.
As a child, I loved these conversations, and I remember Mom being part of some of them, too. At times she just rolled her eyes (as I do now at the memory), and I'll never be one to discredit the importance of a father's encouragement in all things, big and small. Dad encouraged my brother and I onto great things, and I can still hear him saying in his own form of rejection of our moments of self-pity, "God doesn't make junk!"
It should come as no surprise that, when I met with extreme adversity in High School as my very dysfunctional family life, that I should look to the future and focus on that. That's where I found my hope. That's where I found my being. That's where I found my freedom. I knew that no matter what was happening at that moment in time, I had a future and it was up to me to form it. No one was going to save me; I had to save myself. I had to become successful through my own effort, and as Dad said...I could do and be ANYTHING I wanted.
So there it was; that's at least part of the story (the part I'm willing to share) as to how I went to college and did everything I could (within legal and ethical means) to meet my own definition of myself.
That's the key, isn't it?
Many of us have grown up under this subtle pelagian gnosticism; that we create ourselves, that we make ourselves. How many of us have been influenced by the seemingly-innocent phrase, "Life is what you make it"? Paired closely with that piece of fool's gold is the popular quote and it's own corollaries, "We create our own destiny."
REALLY?
Certainly we all have choices to make, but can anyone spot the fundamental flaw in such a statement and philosophy? Can anyone see what makes it incompatible with Christianity?
Both are lies.
Both seem truthful up front, but look at them through the glory of the Cross.
Life ISN'T what we "make it". Such a statement gives subtle acquiescence to the idea that we create ourselves...and if we create ourselves, what need have we of a Creator, who wills our good? Within whom, then do we "live and move and have our being"? (Acts 17:28) If we "make" our own lives, why do we have any recourse at all to our loving God, or do we deny His omnipotence? If we "create our own destiny", isn't prayer a total waste of time? If that pelagian statement of self-creation is true, it is an utter denial of God's love and His own sacrifice for our salvation.
Now, I'm not denying that these statements can be informed and applied with a Christian perspective. However, without clear Christian discipline and definition in proper context, without knowing Christ and the objective Truth of our creation by our Creator who suffered and died for us, well, it's pretty obvious where such a thought process will lead. Given how often we see such pithy and insubstantial phrases, it's pretty obvious, also, why so many teens, and adults, for that matter, are looking to the world for meaning instead of God.
I speak from experience.
I was raised to be a good Catholic, but against the backdrop of the "Create thyself!" culture, I was lost.
No one ever really taught me to ask God what HE wanted for me, what HE had brought me into existence to be. No one ever introduced me to the idea that my life actually belonged to God, if only I would use my free will to allow Him to direct my path. Once I got to college, even if someone HAD brought that idea to bear, I was beyond the ability to listen; I was too busy "creating" my future. I was driven. My goal was my god and I had no need of any other. I was going to become what I wanted to be; damned be who I really was.
What a disaster.
Although I grew up "very Catholic", there wasn't any kind of real encouragement to consider religious life as an option. Mom spoke joyfully of the nuns who taught her as she was growing up, but spoke also of their severity and discipline. She spoke of the "Latin Mass" with great respect and even nostalgia, but I don't recall her ever once revealing that she had once thought she was called to religious life (a fact I learned only a few years ago) and I don't recall ever hearing encouragement from her or Dad to ask, "What does GOD want? What is HE calling you to be?"
Instead, Dad gave me (with sincerity and with good intentions) the party line about creating my own future, and Mom used example alone, leaving the Vocations-talk to the parish, and never telling me her own story. In fact, whenever I discussed my future and what I wanted, she shot most of it down to the best of her ability, finding only two "acceptable options" for me: music or teaching. Or teaching music. I know she spoke out of fear that I would run away and join the rodeo when I had the chance, but never once did she suggest that I truly consider religious life.
Then again, I was so hateful and rebellious towards her as a teenager, that perhaps she was certain I would verbally sever her head from her body if she were to suggest such an idea of donning a habit and veil and praying all day instead of cheetah-tackling villains. So yes, it's my fault, too.
But still...it never even came up on the peripheral. Not in my family. The only time I heard the word "Vocation" was once per year at Mass, and the only time it was on my radar screen was when I thought Sr. Zaccheaus would bring it up because I sang and played flute at Mass and that probably made me a "target."
I FEARED this idea. I RAN from it. I REJECTED it outright. Such an idea conflicted with my personal philosophy of "creating myself" and "envisioning my own destiny."
As everyone knows, it's families that make up the foundation of society, and from that foundation sprouts both good parents and good priests/religious.
It took a huge smackdown to force me to look to God, and this happened even as my first career goal was reached, and my draw to Him grew in intensity with every subsequent failure. Jesus had to knock every obstacle aside until I could finally, of myself, ask, "What do YOU want?"
It has taken years, it has taken, quite literally, blood, sweat, and tears.
Ultimately, God had to corral me into a place where I could not run from Him any more. I couldn't go backwards, I couldn't go forwards; all I could do was look up, fall to my knees, and
pray for direction.
I've often lamented, here, and even more often, more deeply in my spiritual life, how I've lost my focus, I've lost my goal and I am not attracted to ANYTHING anymore. I don't want to get married. I don't want children (blasphemy!), I don't want another career....and I don't even want religious life. And...I don't want to be alone. I don't want to live this perpetual single life.
I have gone from being intensely career-driven to being...what?
Nothing.
The ONLY thing I know to do right now, from the foundation of my nothingness, is to look to God, and from here, on my knees, maybe face-down in the mud that is my life, ask Him what HE wants for me. Not just the what, but the when.
For years now I have wondered why I am not so "driven" anymore. I have been trying to find my true ambition in life, what I really want. In all this drama, I've come to understand that although I've tried to define myself according to cultural and personal terms, all fall short. I can't define myself. I've already tried that, many times over.
It is God who defines me. It is the Cross. It is the Resurrection. It is the final end towards which I am drawn that reveals who I was brought from eternity to become.Now, it is not that I am not "driven". Rather, it is that I am "driven" towards a different goal, and that goal cannot be defined in worldly terms. I am looking to become who I truly am, and this is what drives me now. The difficulty in this path is that it does not rely on my own self-creation, but refers to the reality that I am a created being, I am an adopted daughter of God, and no matter what I do, I cannot create my destiny. I can either reject it or I can cooperate with it, and it is in seeking cooperation, it is in willfully losing my own prideful self-definition that I might finally find God's.
Yes, I am still driven to success...but not according to terms the world would recognize: All I desire is this: that, in Him, I live and move and have my being. I desire nothing more, and nothing less.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Heroes
When I was a child, like many others, I loved "heroes". My attention wasn't captivated so much by Superman and Wonder Woman or the Wonder Twins or Aquaman as it was by CHiPs and the guys of Code Red and the paramedics of Emergency!. As much as I was a dreamer, I was always, it seems, a realist, and as I got older I didn't seek out fantasy writings, but rather, real-life stories of real people who had something to say about everyday survival.
In high school and college, I read many books by police officers and firefighters because I was drawn to the fields and wanted to really KNOW the truth about their lives. What did they see every day? What was the stuff that Hollywood overdid or refused to show? I knew the world wasn't glamorous, so I read in order to get the "dark side", the stuff I needed to know in order to survive.
I wanted to be one of those people. I wanted to be a "hero", but most importantly one that was real, not something fabricated and built up to cartoonish proportions. I wasn't looking for power or adulation; I was looking for a way to make a real difference in an out-of-control world. And there, in the pages of those personal anecdotes, I found what I was seeking.
I compared those books to the life I was living, and on one hand, I think it fed into a coping mechanism common to children in severely dysfunctional families: I was both the mascot and the hero in my family, to some degree. But I wanted to be a real hero.
During my Senior year of high school, (age 17) I had "run away" from home (to avoid Mom's random screaming and other random flying objects at 3 am, among other things), and had found refuge with my best friend's family. Initially they didn't understand why I was there and encouraged me to try to solve things quickly. I really DID want to reconcile with my Mom, and my "host family" was obviously interested in the same thing, such that I did not want to wear out my welcome and lose a place of safety. So one evening, after phone negotiations with Mom, my best friend drove me "home" and waited outside in case I needed a quick escape.
Hostage Negotiations
When I walked in the door, Mom was cooking dinner and told me to sit down as though nothing was happening. Our arrangement via phone was that I would be coming over specifically to talk to her about whether I could return...or not. Mom took a more manipulative approach: "I cook dinner and talk to you on MY terms and timeline."
In a normal family, that would be healthy. In my family...not so much.
I was done with Mom's "terms" because they were NEVER rational. The woman was out of control, and tended to cause random and often very sharp objects to become airborne or shatter suddenly when she was struck by one of her usual rages. I was NOT willing to be in a room where she had access to knives and hot liquids or other dangerous objects! You may call this "disobedience" if you'd like, and yes, it was. But it was ALSO, and more importantly, pure, basic survival.
Now, given the subject of deadly objects, while Mom had never tossed those items at others, I believed the day would come and I didn't want to be in the way.(Actually, that day DID come, but it's a different story.) I was still at that point of my life where, if I was going to die, it was going to be at my own hand, not Mom's. But I digress, if only a little:
That evening, I did agree to go into the basement with her to help her fold the laundry as a vehicle to our negotiations. While there, she begged me to come home. I refused. I told her she was irrational, I couldn't live with her, and I WOULDN'T. She revealed she was still reeling over the "sudden" revelation that I planned to become a police officer. She asked me why, how could I do this to her?
I looked her directly in the eye, the first time in a long time, and told her very bluntly, "Because I want to be able to help people like you. I want to be able to come into an out-of-control situation, and protect others from people like you."
She reacted as though I'd struck her.
I'd meant what I'd said, but realized I'd said too much, and I'd been too brutally honest. Yet, it was the truth...God's honest truth. I saw my Mom as being dangerous. And she was...to herself and to others. And I was completely helpless unless I could escape her awful grasp on me.
To my surprise, she let me go. She hugged me, I hugged her back, more out of a desire to forgive her and be reunited than any actual sentiment, but both of us were crying, and I walked out the front door without looking behind me. I went back to my haven, to the family that had taken me in, and would continue to take me in until it was safe to return home, whenver that was.
It was actually quite clear that what was supposed to be "home" was really a dungeon of destruction, and I knew I couldn't be there anymore.
I think I went "home" a week later...because even though we want to escape our families, even if we need to, we also need to be with them...and know them so that we can save others from a similar fate.
In looking back a the situation, though, I wonder if maybe that's what it comes down to: I grew up in an out-of-control situation and my solution was to protect others from such a life. I needed to be a "hero" because I didn't have one, and no one should be without a hero. No one should exist without a Savior.
No one should have no way out.
I really think that's why I gravitated towards Law Enforcement, and worked so hard for that personal "Holy Grail."
It was the writings of cops, the real people who drew me to them, because they didn't mince words. They told the negatives, they shared their hearts, and some of them had also come from terrible home situations, too. They gave me hope, and through their writings, I was inspired to become something completely contrary to my true nature: a Cop.
On one hand, that's a bad thing; on the other, it's the best thing I could have done, for that brutal track brought me closer to God. It took me through the Pride of feeling like I had to do it all on my own, to realizing, today, that He has done it all. Every single step. Every bit.
We are often changed by the things we read. Our eyes, they say, are windows to the soul, and they can also be doorways. When we read the words of others, we allow their thoughts to penetrate our own souls.
I will not say that the things I read were bad; they were real, and they gave me an education I needed, and Hope. It was unknown men and women who inspired me to overcome some incredible weaknesses...because they had done so before me.
For that reason alone, to me they were Heroes.
All of us are affected by the lives of others, and when they tell their stories well, it makes us realize that we don't have to settle for the status quo. We don't have the look into the mirror and be satisfied. We can be inspired. We can consider new avenues. We can realize that whatever we are facing, or whatever discernment we are undergoing, others have gone before us, and they have told their stories. Or are telling their stories now.
It's not facts and figures and general information that brings us into taking the next step for God; it's the experiences of others who encourage us to follow them, follow the source, seek what (or Whom) is calling us.
Words carry a huge impact. Stories, at the service of the Holy Spirit, cause conversions and bring about results.
In the end, we are called to live our lives, tell our tales...and let everything we ARE reach the hearts of others. God can use our mistakes and our triumphs in powerful ways, if only we have the humility to step back and let Him take center stage.
You know, I always wanted to be a hero.
I'm glad I don't have to live up to such a profile, though. It's better to be a mere stepping stone...and let God be the Savior.
*** This very convoluted post was written back in 2008 and edited only a little tonight. It says a lot without saying much at all...or does it say little while saying a lot? You decide.
In high school and college, I read many books by police officers and firefighters because I was drawn to the fields and wanted to really KNOW the truth about their lives. What did they see every day? What was the stuff that Hollywood overdid or refused to show? I knew the world wasn't glamorous, so I read in order to get the "dark side", the stuff I needed to know in order to survive.
I wanted to be one of those people. I wanted to be a "hero", but most importantly one that was real, not something fabricated and built up to cartoonish proportions. I wasn't looking for power or adulation; I was looking for a way to make a real difference in an out-of-control world. And there, in the pages of those personal anecdotes, I found what I was seeking.
I compared those books to the life I was living, and on one hand, I think it fed into a coping mechanism common to children in severely dysfunctional families: I was both the mascot and the hero in my family, to some degree. But I wanted to be a real hero.
During my Senior year of high school, (age 17) I had "run away" from home (to avoid Mom's random screaming and other random flying objects at 3 am, among other things), and had found refuge with my best friend's family. Initially they didn't understand why I was there and encouraged me to try to solve things quickly. I really DID want to reconcile with my Mom, and my "host family" was obviously interested in the same thing, such that I did not want to wear out my welcome and lose a place of safety. So one evening, after phone negotiations with Mom, my best friend drove me "home" and waited outside in case I needed a quick escape.
Hostage Negotiations
When I walked in the door, Mom was cooking dinner and told me to sit down as though nothing was happening. Our arrangement via phone was that I would be coming over specifically to talk to her about whether I could return...or not. Mom took a more manipulative approach: "I cook dinner and talk to you on MY terms and timeline."
In a normal family, that would be healthy. In my family...not so much.
I was done with Mom's "terms" because they were NEVER rational. The woman was out of control, and tended to cause random and often very sharp objects to become airborne or shatter suddenly when she was struck by one of her usual rages. I was NOT willing to be in a room where she had access to knives and hot liquids or other dangerous objects! You may call this "disobedience" if you'd like, and yes, it was. But it was ALSO, and more importantly, pure, basic survival.
Now, given the subject of deadly objects, while Mom had never tossed those items at others, I believed the day would come and I didn't want to be in the way.(Actually, that day DID come, but it's a different story.) I was still at that point of my life where, if I was going to die, it was going to be at my own hand, not Mom's. But I digress, if only a little:
That evening, I did agree to go into the basement with her to help her fold the laundry as a vehicle to our negotiations. While there, she begged me to come home. I refused. I told her she was irrational, I couldn't live with her, and I WOULDN'T. She revealed she was still reeling over the "sudden" revelation that I planned to become a police officer. She asked me why, how could I do this to her?
I looked her directly in the eye, the first time in a long time, and told her very bluntly, "Because I want to be able to help people like you. I want to be able to come into an out-of-control situation, and protect others from people like you."
She reacted as though I'd struck her.
I'd meant what I'd said, but realized I'd said too much, and I'd been too brutally honest. Yet, it was the truth...God's honest truth. I saw my Mom as being dangerous. And she was...to herself and to others. And I was completely helpless unless I could escape her awful grasp on me.
To my surprise, she let me go. She hugged me, I hugged her back, more out of a desire to forgive her and be reunited than any actual sentiment, but both of us were crying, and I walked out the front door without looking behind me. I went back to my haven, to the family that had taken me in, and would continue to take me in until it was safe to return home, whenver that was.
It was actually quite clear that what was supposed to be "home" was really a dungeon of destruction, and I knew I couldn't be there anymore.
I think I went "home" a week later...because even though we want to escape our families, even if we need to, we also need to be with them...and know them so that we can save others from a similar fate.
In looking back a the situation, though, I wonder if maybe that's what it comes down to: I grew up in an out-of-control situation and my solution was to protect others from such a life. I needed to be a "hero" because I didn't have one, and no one should be without a hero. No one should exist without a Savior.
No one should have no way out.
I really think that's why I gravitated towards Law Enforcement, and worked so hard for that personal "Holy Grail."
It was the writings of cops, the real people who drew me to them, because they didn't mince words. They told the negatives, they shared their hearts, and some of them had also come from terrible home situations, too. They gave me hope, and through their writings, I was inspired to become something completely contrary to my true nature: a Cop.
On one hand, that's a bad thing; on the other, it's the best thing I could have done, for that brutal track brought me closer to God. It took me through the Pride of feeling like I had to do it all on my own, to realizing, today, that He has done it all. Every single step. Every bit.
We are often changed by the things we read. Our eyes, they say, are windows to the soul, and they can also be doorways. When we read the words of others, we allow their thoughts to penetrate our own souls.
I will not say that the things I read were bad; they were real, and they gave me an education I needed, and Hope. It was unknown men and women who inspired me to overcome some incredible weaknesses...because they had done so before me.
For that reason alone, to me they were Heroes.
All of us are affected by the lives of others, and when they tell their stories well, it makes us realize that we don't have to settle for the status quo. We don't have the look into the mirror and be satisfied. We can be inspired. We can consider new avenues. We can realize that whatever we are facing, or whatever discernment we are undergoing, others have gone before us, and they have told their stories. Or are telling their stories now.
It's not facts and figures and general information that brings us into taking the next step for God; it's the experiences of others who encourage us to follow them, follow the source, seek what (or Whom) is calling us.
Words carry a huge impact. Stories, at the service of the Holy Spirit, cause conversions and bring about results.
In the end, we are called to live our lives, tell our tales...and let everything we ARE reach the hearts of others. God can use our mistakes and our triumphs in powerful ways, if only we have the humility to step back and let Him take center stage.
You know, I always wanted to be a hero.
I'm glad I don't have to live up to such a profile, though. It's better to be a mere stepping stone...and let God be the Savior.
*** This very convoluted post was written back in 2008 and edited only a little tonight. It says a lot without saying much at all...or does it say little while saying a lot? You decide.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Calling all Mothers..and those who Aren't.
Recently after Mass, I was chatting with some friends of mine who happen to be parents of a few children, who naturally exhibit their childishness in very dramatic ways characteristic of their littleness.
There was a woman nearby who was somehow engaged by one of the children, exclaimed over them, and then, from where she stood, was clearly speaking to the parents of the children, admonishing them with great joy to "Have more!"
Certainly I agree with the sentiment, especially given our culture, wherein the default condition is to kill the child and lament later, but I have to admit, a directive to "Have more!" actually rubs me in much the same way as the admonishment to "Stop having kids!" does from the polar opposite side of that spectrum. Truth be told, I was a little offended on behalf of my friends who ARE having children and don't find it necessary to consult anyone other than God as to how many they should produce.
So I chose to just ignore the woman who clearly wasn't speaking to me, anyway, considering that I don't HAVE any children and I'm just the local spinster-in-waiting who happens to have a lot of friends with big families.
Oh, but wait....
As I was standing next to the father, I didn't initially realize that the woman in question was actually speaking to ME, and so I didn't understand why she continued speaking as the mother stepped away either in order to chase one of them down or to speak to someone else. In any case, I suddenly became aware that Ms. Admonishment was looking at ME and telling me to "Have Faith!" from what I could ascertain (from what I could hear), and to "Trust in God and His timing!" and all that.
I seriously could not figure out why she was looking at ME while saying all these things, considering that I clearly was not a mother, nor married, nor a parent of any kind. I couldn't figure out why she was continuing to lecture even as the father of the children wandered away looking for one of them.
It was the ongoing lecturing that got my attention as she raised her fist in the air in some form of encouragement to have more children and trust in God and have faith. I was trying to figure out exactly WHO she was talking to considering that the children who had enamored her were all over the place, their parents were chasing them, and I was standing in one place just waiting for it all to come back to center again.
After a minute or so of me looking at her strangely, wondering if she was somehow trying to communicate with someone, I finally realized that she thought I was the mother and she was TRYING to talk to ME!
Oh, dear, and, well...Uh...um....NO.
While I thought it flattering that she assumed the adorable children at hand were MINE, when I finally realized she was directing her commentary towards me, and, in response to my very strange looks in her direction, was interpreting said confused countenance as a return expression of hopelessness and denial, I realized I had to set the record straight.
I sincerely had no idea what she had been saying before that but for those few quoted phrases, for she was standing too far away, speaking in a low tone, and since I wasn't the mother, I honestly hadn't paid much attention to her since obviously she could NOT have been speaking to me.
As it was, I did finally explain to her that I was just PRESENT in that particular space and had NOTHING to do with the presence of the children themselves. It was my great honor to point out their true parents.
This woman apparently was on a "CHILDREN!" kick, though, and apologized for her mistake as she patted me on the shoulder and repeated some of her previous litany of "God is faithful!" and "Trust in Him!" but to this she added, "Maybe soon!"
"Um...NO. I don't think so."
She interrupted to encourage me further in what she assumed to be my future Vocation, that being to get married and have as many children as she deemed appropriate.
I thanked her but said calmly that no, I am not called to marriage.
She seemed to be completely SHOCKED by that statement. I actually reached out to hold her up because I thought she was going to fall over.
Quickly, though, she recovered herself and I held my breath, waiting for her to switch to the other extreme of exclaiming over the idea that I'm going to be a nun, and how wonderful is THAT!?
Thankfully, she made no further assumptions, apologized profusely (which was totally unnecessary given our low-key exchange) and in fact, I patted her own shoulder as I dismissed her apology as unnecessary. I was actually quite amused, and even flattered that she thought such beautiful children could have come from me. It was very sweet. :-)
I am who I am, though.
Simply put, I am a woman trying to find my way in the world, neither chosen nor having been chosen, only in waiting, in preparation, knowing there is more....but not knowing what that means yet.
It is a grace simply to know what it ISN'T.
We all have a calling. While I love children and of course, the ones in question are very dear to me, as are their parents, that love doesn't change the sense of knowing it isn't my Vocation.
Whether male or female, those who are not called to marriage often have assumptions made about them. On the extreme end, many assume that we hate children, hate families, etc. Nothing could be further from the truth!
I have to admit, though, that before the recent exchange, I hadn't ever considered how certain people, in wanting to encourage life, really come across to mothers as, in their zealous love for the pro-life cause, almost DEMAND more children in exactly the same way the culture of death people try to DEMEAN the idea of more children as abhorrent and detrimental to society.
It has given me even MORE respect for larger families, and perhaps any mother, for the demand made upon them comes from all sides. Not just from the pro-death side that thinks children should be omitted in any way possible, but from those who are over-zealous and also forget that children come from God and that parents who are happily having children don't actually need pressure to have more. Aren't they already doing everything right?
Isn't GOD really in charge of life?
I have to admit I had a mad desire to compliment the woman on her interest in my reproductive system, but managed, for once. to hold my tongue. Of course she meant well, and of course she was paying me a compliment in what she thought was my motherhood...which it wasn't.
1. Firstly, that people often cross the line in their interest in very personal matters that belong only to a married couple and God. Seriously...to tell people to have MORE children or LESS belongs to the same category of rude presumption. One never knows what people are suffering or have suffered.
(Lest someone come along and suggest otherwise, I am not speaking here of dissent against Catholic teaching on contraception and the horror of abortion. I am speaking here of someone personally ordering another person to stop having children or to start having more when that couple is clearly living in such a way as to seek God's will in their marriage, and happen to be blessed with a few children!)
2. Secondly, that single women are STILL looked upon merely as future heifers and the very statement that we are not called to marriage is sufficient to cause a heart attack, or at the very least, a syncopal episode.
3. Even those who are zealous for married life and children don't actually consider religious life to be the obvious alternative (WHEW! I'm SO glad I wasn't going to be the cause of TWO syncopal episodes in 30 seconds!)
4. Some people don't know how to handle the fact that you might actually KNOW you are ore AREN'T called to something, and so the calm revelation that their pet project isn't in your discernment process is sufficient to stop the spiritual assault.
*
Now, lest some of my commenters get huffy and think I am not being charitable, realize that I DO think the best of this dear lady who clearly was very interested in the number of children she assumed my reproductive system could handle. I further recognize her concern with regard to wanting to encourage me in finding my alleged future husband, even though he does not exist. These are laudable things. They are false, but the intent is laudable. I was not offended and she was not offended. Therefore, none of you should be offended, either.
I do find it humorous even as I see the serious points, and realize that we have a LOT of work to do to educate even the best Catholics about the reality of Vocation.
Yes, I continue to seek mine. I know I am not called to marriage. That isn't a bad thing, as some want to assume. It doesn't mean I'm about to don a habit. It doesn't mean anything right now. It means only that I am seeking God's Will, His timing, and coming to know myself through knowing Him.
And dammit, it's a painful process, at least for some of us.
I'm seeing more and more, though, that it's hard even after the reality is discerned...because those who are married and do all they are supposed to are STILL subjected to random public opinion.
You know...the Church would be GREAT and we could all be so Holy...if it weren't for all the people around us......(1 Corinthians 12: 7-10)
...Just making an observation..... ;-)
There was a woman nearby who was somehow engaged by one of the children, exclaimed over them, and then, from where she stood, was clearly speaking to the parents of the children, admonishing them with great joy to "Have more!"
Certainly I agree with the sentiment, especially given our culture, wherein the default condition is to kill the child and lament later, but I have to admit, a directive to "Have more!" actually rubs me in much the same way as the admonishment to "Stop having kids!" does from the polar opposite side of that spectrum. Truth be told, I was a little offended on behalf of my friends who ARE having children and don't find it necessary to consult anyone other than God as to how many they should produce.
So I chose to just ignore the woman who clearly wasn't speaking to me, anyway, considering that I don't HAVE any children and I'm just the local spinster-in-waiting who happens to have a lot of friends with big families.
Oh, but wait....
As I was standing next to the father, I didn't initially realize that the woman in question was actually speaking to ME, and so I didn't understand why she continued speaking as the mother stepped away either in order to chase one of them down or to speak to someone else. In any case, I suddenly became aware that Ms. Admonishment was looking at ME and telling me to "Have Faith!" from what I could ascertain (from what I could hear), and to "Trust in God and His timing!" and all that.
I seriously could not figure out why she was looking at ME while saying all these things, considering that I clearly was not a mother, nor married, nor a parent of any kind. I couldn't figure out why she was continuing to lecture even as the father of the children wandered away looking for one of them.
It was the ongoing lecturing that got my attention as she raised her fist in the air in some form of encouragement to have more children and trust in God and have faith. I was trying to figure out exactly WHO she was talking to considering that the children who had enamored her were all over the place, their parents were chasing them, and I was standing in one place just waiting for it all to come back to center again.
After a minute or so of me looking at her strangely, wondering if she was somehow trying to communicate with someone, I finally realized that she thought I was the mother and she was TRYING to talk to ME!
Oh, dear, and, well...Uh...um....NO.
While I thought it flattering that she assumed the adorable children at hand were MINE, when I finally realized she was directing her commentary towards me, and, in response to my very strange looks in her direction, was interpreting said confused countenance as a return expression of hopelessness and denial, I realized I had to set the record straight.
I sincerely had no idea what she had been saying before that but for those few quoted phrases, for she was standing too far away, speaking in a low tone, and since I wasn't the mother, I honestly hadn't paid much attention to her since obviously she could NOT have been speaking to me.
As it was, I did finally explain to her that I was just PRESENT in that particular space and had NOTHING to do with the presence of the children themselves. It was my great honor to point out their true parents.
This woman apparently was on a "CHILDREN!" kick, though, and apologized for her mistake as she patted me on the shoulder and repeated some of her previous litany of "God is faithful!" and "Trust in Him!" but to this she added, "Maybe soon!"
"Um...NO. I don't think so."
She interrupted to encourage me further in what she assumed to be my future Vocation, that being to get married and have as many children as she deemed appropriate.
I thanked her but said calmly that no, I am not called to marriage.
She seemed to be completely SHOCKED by that statement. I actually reached out to hold her up because I thought she was going to fall over.
Quickly, though, she recovered herself and I held my breath, waiting for her to switch to the other extreme of exclaiming over the idea that I'm going to be a nun, and how wonderful is THAT!?
Thankfully, she made no further assumptions, apologized profusely (which was totally unnecessary given our low-key exchange) and in fact, I patted her own shoulder as I dismissed her apology as unnecessary. I was actually quite amused, and even flattered that she thought such beautiful children could have come from me. It was very sweet. :-)
I am who I am, though.
Simply put, I am a woman trying to find my way in the world, neither chosen nor having been chosen, only in waiting, in preparation, knowing there is more....but not knowing what that means yet.
It is a grace simply to know what it ISN'T.
We all have a calling. While I love children and of course, the ones in question are very dear to me, as are their parents, that love doesn't change the sense of knowing it isn't my Vocation.
Whether male or female, those who are not called to marriage often have assumptions made about them. On the extreme end, many assume that we hate children, hate families, etc. Nothing could be further from the truth!
I have to admit, though, that before the recent exchange, I hadn't ever considered how certain people, in wanting to encourage life, really come across to mothers as, in their zealous love for the pro-life cause, almost DEMAND more children in exactly the same way the culture of death people try to DEMEAN the idea of more children as abhorrent and detrimental to society.
It has given me even MORE respect for larger families, and perhaps any mother, for the demand made upon them comes from all sides. Not just from the pro-death side that thinks children should be omitted in any way possible, but from those who are over-zealous and also forget that children come from God and that parents who are happily having children don't actually need pressure to have more. Aren't they already doing everything right?
Isn't GOD really in charge of life?
I have to admit I had a mad desire to compliment the woman on her interest in my reproductive system, but managed, for once. to hold my tongue. Of course she meant well, and of course she was paying me a compliment in what she thought was my motherhood...which it wasn't.
This very short, innocent exchange, though, revealed a few things to me that maybe I hadn't previously understood:
1. Firstly, that people often cross the line in their interest in very personal matters that belong only to a married couple and God. Seriously...to tell people to have MORE children or LESS belongs to the same category of rude presumption. One never knows what people are suffering or have suffered.
(Lest someone come along and suggest otherwise, I am not speaking here of dissent against Catholic teaching on contraception and the horror of abortion. I am speaking here of someone personally ordering another person to stop having children or to start having more when that couple is clearly living in such a way as to seek God's will in their marriage, and happen to be blessed with a few children!)
2. Secondly, that single women are STILL looked upon merely as future heifers and the very statement that we are not called to marriage is sufficient to cause a heart attack, or at the very least, a syncopal episode.
3. Even those who are zealous for married life and children don't actually consider religious life to be the obvious alternative (WHEW! I'm SO glad I wasn't going to be the cause of TWO syncopal episodes in 30 seconds!)
4. Some people don't know how to handle the fact that you might actually KNOW you are ore AREN'T called to something, and so the calm revelation that their pet project isn't in your discernment process is sufficient to stop the spiritual assault.
*
Now, lest some of my commenters get huffy and think I am not being charitable, realize that I DO think the best of this dear lady who clearly was very interested in the number of children she assumed my reproductive system could handle. I further recognize her concern with regard to wanting to encourage me in finding my alleged future husband, even though he does not exist. These are laudable things. They are false, but the intent is laudable. I was not offended and she was not offended. Therefore, none of you should be offended, either.
I do find it humorous even as I see the serious points, and realize that we have a LOT of work to do to educate even the best Catholics about the reality of Vocation.
Yes, I continue to seek mine. I know I am not called to marriage. That isn't a bad thing, as some want to assume. It doesn't mean I'm about to don a habit. It doesn't mean anything right now. It means only that I am seeking God's Will, His timing, and coming to know myself through knowing Him.
And dammit, it's a painful process, at least for some of us.
I'm seeing more and more, though, that it's hard even after the reality is discerned...because those who are married and do all they are supposed to are STILL subjected to random public opinion.
You know...the Church would be GREAT and we could all be so Holy...if it weren't for all the people around us......(1 Corinthians 12: 7-10)
...Just making an observation..... ;-)
Saturday, October 17, 2009
An Autumn Tale of Beauty and Disaster
Tonight is Story Time With Adoro. Why? Because it's been awhile and my readers are bored.
I love Autumn. It's my favorite season. The vibrant colors of the trees capture me, the cooling temperatures soothe my heated brow, and the scent of leaves and bonfires sends me soaring.So many see this season as a time to begin school or other things, and indeed, I see that, too. I await with dread all the things that "ramp up" and wish I could just escape into the beauty, rather than into the imprisoning chambers of work or school that prevent me from touching the majesty of God's creation.
This year it's been awful; a week ago when my street was supposed to bloom into full golden glory of color, it froze, it snowed, and then a wind blew. Less than twelve hours later all of the trees were bare and both the gold and the green leaves were plastered to the ground. Those leaves left on the trees were already turning pruny, and the next day were brown and dead. No glory this year. We went from pretty and lively to....dead and hopeless.
Not helpful, God, but I love you anyway. I'm sure there's a metaphor there somewhere, to be figured out when I get around to it.
But! Instead of lingering and moping about my street's lack of beauty, I have decided to remember what I love about this usually-beautiful season, and share with you one of my favorite memories of this time of year. It's one that unites the heights of joy and the depths of humiliation and agony.
Are you interested? Read on.....
The Red Maple
When I was a little girl, growing up in a little country neighborhood, I was enchanted by the Maple tree that graced our front yard. It was my favorite place. I could sit down and rest against it, I buried my dear guppies there with great ceremony (hilarious story I must tell one day), and that tree is where I first learned to contemplate...and to fly. Maybe even to trust.
Everyone knows that children are inventive. I grew up while video games existed, but were considered to be indulgent luxuries. We knew all the great cartoons, but spent most of our days playing in our country neighborhood, exploring the hills, talking walks, playing with other children, and...inventing new games and new adventures.
You can imagine, then, how my older brother saw the Maple tree not as something simply beautiful to behold, but as our own personal jungle gym. It seemed an obsession with him...every time we left the house, he would head directly to the tree in his quest to conquer it and rest among her branches.
His constant quest to climb higher constantly aggravated Mom, but intrigued me.
I wanted to do what he did. I wanted that courage. I wanted the vantage point he described. I wanted to rest in those branches, too!
It wasn't long before I went to the tree and, with heartfelt tears, complained I couldn't climb because I couldn't reach the lowest branch. Initially my brother teased me, but eventually good will overcame him and in a rare show of brotherly love, he pulled our picnic table to the tree and instructed me to stand on it, feeling I would be able to reach the branch and climb from that point.
I was still frightened, but my brother encouraged me, directed me and finally, I made it to the first branch. I don't recall whether he pulled me up or pushed me up where needed, but I do remember that I didn't make my first climb alone. It took several tries before I finally figured it out. He tried even to encourage me to venture out into his favorite branch, but I refused at first, needing to become accustomed to the lowest before ascending to what was higher.
The unfortunate part of this was that "my" branch was our JUMPING branch; it was...our exit from the Maple Tree.
Oh, yes...what goes up must come down. And if it's fun, it must come down REPEATEDLY and with much enthusiasm!
We had a new hobby!
My brother and I would rake up leaves beneath the lowest branch (which wasn't that low), and in a rare show of sibling support and love, we would get along in this great endeavor of survival. Where usually we argued, in the Maple Tree we had peace. It was an unwritten and unplanned sanctuary. It didn't matter what hatred we had for each other below...but while in those branches and leaping from them, we loved each other and willed each other's good.
That meant that we developed rules.
The first rule was that I had to learn to climb the tree by myself, but there was a grace period given to me for that, based on my height and ability. You see.,.my brother was a good teacher and a good brother, at heart, and knew I couldn't do anything on my own or without his wise direction. Or limits.
I hate to admit it, but he was right. I respected him and dang it...learned to climb that tree because of HIM and no one else!
Our second rule was far more serious, for we had the basic understanding that anything hitting the ground from any height tended to explode. If it worked with eggs, it worked with us.
Our exit custom involved raking the colorful leaves into a nice big pile under the designated exit branch, and after my brother had experimented with the softness of it, he finally convinced me to take this great leap, rather than having him assist me down via the picnic table.
Oh, what a terrifying leap it was! Oh how I stared at those terrible leaves, trying to imagine them as feathers, trying to trust the brother who so normally tortured me...but would never will my ultimate demise!
I still recall perching on that forked branch, there among the red-colored leaves, knowing my only way down was to let go....
And so it was....
I still remember the leap and the soft landing, the explosion of color, and the rapid ascent of us both as we sought to repeat the thrill of weightlessness and color.
Of course, it wasn't long before Mom came outside in terrified horror (or was it horrified terror?) to inspect our new game. She saw that, in fact, it was a good game, we had our own rules, and established in stone that we could ONLY leap from certain branches. She saw our rare cooperation and thought it a good thing, over and above the danger that we might be injured. She saw love before she saw anything else, and in the end, gave her approval.
Not all such games were good, though.
Stupidity and concupiscence always enters Eden
Our neighbor, a teen I greatly admired and even adored, didn't have a tree in her yard. She saw what we were doing and, because the leaves from the forest and her neighbors were plentiful, she had no problem raking them into a big pile in her own yard.
One day as I played alone, she invited me to join her which was a very big deal. Why would Annette ever want me to play with her? But I went, and we had a great time leaping from the top of a ladder she'd erected, landing in the leaves. From the ladder, maybe it was lower than the branch, but it was an easier climb which meant more chances to free-fall into the crunchy, colorful leaves
They were so soft that they led me to misunderstand physics.
So it was that I climbed the ladder, and, from the top, bent my knees hoping to land on them in the same way I landed on my springy feet. I didn't understand how the human body absorbed shock, I didn't understand that the leaves weren't really "springy"; my legs were. The leaves just helped a little.
I remember leaping, and in mid-air, hearing Annette scream at me in alarm, "DON'T DO THAT!"
She was older and understood physics in a way I did not. It wasn't scientific, but practical.
Annette couldn't do anything to save me from the disaster that awaited me.
I remember landing, my legs bent beneath me. I didn't "bounce" as expected, but rather, the concussion of the landing compressed my entire body, the landing a complete, abrupt shock.
I didn't "spring" or "bounce" or anything. Instead, I was driven into the ground as a whole and rolled to the side, stunned, unable to move my legs, unable to stand.
It was pain...but it wasn't. To this day, even KNOWING about spinal injuries, I can't describe the sensation. It was a pain I'd never felt, but which told me that this time, it was serious. I quite literally couldn't will my legs to move, I couldn't stand up although I tried.
Annette asked me if I was alright but all I could do was cry. I wasn't "alright" but was afraid Mom would find out what I did and punish me. I felt helpless and hated Annette's comments, telling me I was fine and telling me to "GET UP! You have to get up! Stop crying!"
I couldn't get up. I tried. Several times. I couldn't. My back and legs hurt so badly that I couldn't move, my legs actually wouldn't work at all, and I realized I had to do SOMETHING.
To her credit, Annette told me to just wait a minute. I wanted to go home. She didn't want to let me go home.
It was years before I realized Annette was terrified, too; just as terrified as I that I'd been seriously injured. From my perspective, I didn't want Mom to know. From her perspective...she was older and felt like she was at fault. I wish I'd listened to her and just laid there, waiting either for someone else to come, or just to feel better.
But I have never been one to wait when things are wrong, and, well...she let me go.
In tears, I went home. In tears, still unable to stand, barely able to move at all, I CRAWLED across her yard, across the street, and through our yard, hoping Mom wouldn't look out or think anything strange of my behavior. (Yeah, right...Adoro crawling across the street. Not strange at all...never mind the gravel...)
All I knew was that something was seriously wrong with me, I didn't want any attention, and hoped that if I just got home and ignored it...it would go away. I don't know how, but I managed to crawl all that distance (in excruciating pain), across the gravel road, into the house and to my room, pulling myself into bed. Hoping that maybe a nap would make it all better.
I remember thinking about Jesus, and how He fell when carrying His cross.
I remember Mom yelling at me from some other part of the house when she heard the door open, asking what I was doing. I just said I was tired and wanted to take a nap. Mom probably figured that was a blessed event, and never actually came out of the kitchen to see what I was doing. I was glad...I still couldn't stand up, and I was exhausted from all that crawling.
It didn't take me long to cry myself to sleep in terrified exhaustion. I never wanted to jump out of anything ever again.
I remember opening my eyes that afternoon and moving my legs. I remember carefully sitting up, carefully standing. There was no pain. It was all gone. I stood in my room and even JUMPED, waiting to collapse to the floor. It never happened.
I wondered if it was a dream, but no...my knees and my palms told another story, one told by gravel and dirt, and not all of it could be washed away.
Mom NEVER knew and STILL doesn't know of that event. I still puzzle it over, having had some medical training. I have a few theories but can't say I totally understand. Obviously, much of the pain was muscular, but when I consider the distance of my leap and the compression upon my spine, I am amazed I DIDN'T have a spinal injury, and have NEVER had back problems that didn't come from a different DIRECT injury (later in life - a result of an assault at work.)
As it was, I lived to walk another day, to run, and even to leap. I never again leapt from Annette's ladder, although I do recall she was overjoyed to see me walking later, and even teased me a little. Yet...she never brought it up again. My brother and I, we continued to leap out of the tree and a year later, used both the lower and higher branches to exit in to our respective piles of leaves. One branch became "His" and I would bring books up there so that, if he was gone, I could sit up there and read, or contemplate, or imagine. I "wrote" stories in my imagination, concealed myself in color and perhaps learned that the best place to be, ever, is in the present, especially when one is enclosed by colorful leaves and resting in the strong arms of a majestic maple tree somewhere in the Midwest.
Ah....to return to those days....
Why do any of us ever have to grow up?
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Monday, September 21, 2009
Family Obligations
A few years ago I read of a religious sister who was FINALLY able to enter a community with a very strict age limit, one that long excluded her...but accepted her for a few reasons: they agreed she had a Vocation (or seemed to), they agreed it seemed God was directing her to them and they to accept her, and, well..it was her life circumstances that prevented her entrance. Not her will. Not her delay, but God's.
In short...they saw that her priorities were in order for her state in life. She was responsible for caring for her parents, there was no one else, and so just as they gave their lives to her, she knew she must return that until God called them Home. It was not a chain, but a freedom of conscience, knowing she was within God' s will for her.
That story has always struck me; the beauty of her Vocation, of her Call, of her love for her parents. She honored God by honoring them, even though her heart broke as she was not able to answer God's Call in the time frame that applied to so many others.
The fact is, that the cutoff age for many many communities is thirty, or maybe thirty-five.
The fact is...I'm thirty-five now. I began "discerning" in my late 20's, and tried to rush because of all the cutoff ages. It was God who slowed me down, I know it was God who directed me to that story to remind me it was HE, not me, who was in charge. His timeline. Not mine.
Ultimately, a given community's age limit isn't an issue; God makes the limits, and He will impose HIS will in all cases. If that door remains shut, it simply indicates that God has other plans.
The Importance of Family
As I continue to discern, I realize that my family is a part of it, too, whether I like it or not. That doesn't mean that they get to decide anything, but only that God is in the familial relationships and moral demands upon us, and often, through our families, reveals His will in that moment.
I have a dear friend who feels called to marriage, but is still single, well into her 40's, but knows she is doing what God wills; caring for her aging father. All the other siblings are married off. She is the only one left, and embraces her call with a love I only WISH I could imitate. God bless her and all her family. They are very close, very supportive of one another, and...ALL are converts to the Catholic Faith.
Until today, I really didn't identify with the woman in the story I mentioned. My Dad passed away when I was twenty, and although Mom is declining before her time, she still lives on her own, so on the surface it seems that there is no obligation for me to step in as caretaker.
After all, she has my brother, who is a very devoted son, sees her a lot, and has space for her in his house.
Um... BUT!
This afternoon my brother called me at work because we've been unable to connect in other venues. In our conversation, he told me that Mom had some kind of pulmonary disease and mentioned what he called an "early symptom" of said disease. Which seemed nearly plausable to me, but didn't ring a bell and I couldn't actually make any direct connection between what he said and what he claimed to be the problem.
A web search didn't help.
Mom hadn't mentioned this particular diagnosis, but I admit I took my brother at his word, thinking it was because Mom had told him and, well, because before Dad died he predicted his death. Then again..he'd been predicting his death for YEARS with faulty timelines.
I don't know really, why I believed my brother. Charity? Good faith, knowing brother loves Mom and loved Dad?
Well, tonight I called Mom, and asked her directly about the conditions my brother claimed she had. Um...no. He took her actual diagnosis and symptoms out of context and made up his own.
Certainly the disease he named is POSSIBLE and PROBABLE. but isn't what the doctor has diagnosed. Nor do the symptoms exactly match what he took out of context.
My brother doesn't have medical training (I have some, enough to think critically with a foundation of knowledge), and Mom does as well. Further...Mom doesn't hide her conditions. She announces them and talks about them incessantly. Her entire identity is wrapped up in her most recent diagnosis or health problem, and her entire source of entertainment is her menu at various functions if she attends.
Suddenly...
I realize that maybe the reason I'm not where I think I should be, in ANY Vocation, might have more to do with God's plan than anything else. I wonder if it may well be that I be involved in caring for my mother until death.
It is clear to us that, although things aren't so bad as my brother tried to say, it IS clear that she won't be living alone for much longer. My brother has a good heart, but in reality, isn't equipped to provide medical care nor does he have enough knowledge to do so or report it with any accuracy.
I have to discern this carefully, for on one hand, it might be a distraction. On the other hand...it might be reality.
I've known of Novices who have had to leave the convent to care for sick or dying family members, simply because there was no one else, or no one...equipped.
In taking our small family history in to context, though, I see God's wisdom in this. Because of all the trauma we experienced growing up, between Dad's alcoholism, Mom's bipolar, and their divorce, well...there are some very very deep wounds that we share.
The ongoing years help, but I have to wonder if God is perhaps calling me to, at some point, serve our mother as caretaker, legal guardian, or something in her last months or years. That isn't a negation of vocation, but simply part of who I am...a daughter. It is part of honoring one's only surviving parent.
I don't know, but I know God will lead. And I know that where He leads is for our good. Perhaps such a situation would lead to the healing our little family needs. Perhaps it wouldn't, and it would be better for me to enter a religious community before Mom's death, if only so that she can see that her only daughter has a home and is not alone. Or maybe in all this mess I'll meet my husband, somewhere in this jungle and discover that, after all, I AM called to marriage and only fled it for so long because I've been so damaged?
No one knows. God does. He has a plan.
I'm glad my brother called me today and gave me misinformation. I'm glad I called Mom to check it out, and I'm so grateful right now for my family and that I still have them that it hurts.
I don't know who I am or where I belong or what I was called to be. But I DO know that I am my mother's daughter, I am my brother's sister, and that they are all I have. It is they who have formed me and continue to do so. God put us together and through this very very torn family, we have learned to love each other even when all of us preferred to walk away...and in a sense...I did. But I'm back now, and know I would not be the woman I am without them or without the suffering we have endured.
Family is a part of discernment to ANY Vocation, and perhaps as I continue to seek God, maybe I need to spend more time with my family. Maybe it is through them that I will finally obtain clarity.
Please pray for my family; my brother once discerned the priesthood but has fallen so far away I fear he will never come back. And Mom...I don't even remember the last time I saw her smile with true, abandoned happiness. She's been living the Passion for at LEAST 30 years. And yet she continues to give. Pray for her, pray for us all. I am the ungrateful daughter, the adulteress, unfaithful Jerusalem. I look at my Mother and I see the Cross and know that no matter how confused I am, how far I fall...there is my life and my salvation.
I know my readers will all understand the metaphor.
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As in all things...God's will be done. I am only His unfaithful servant.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Family
I've been musing a lot about the significance of our Catholic "family". One of the things I've long loved about being Catholic is the ability to go from parish to parish, state to state, country to country, knowing that there are always other Catholics. We believe the same things, we hear the same readings, we receive Our Lord. For just as St. Irenaeus said (or was it St. Ignatius of Antioch?) "There is one bishop, one altar, one sacrifice..."
I love that being Catholic means we'll never be orphaned, for the faithful are around us everywhere, so no matter where we go, there is our Father...and our family.
We are united. We are family.
When I was living in Mexico for a semester and didn't know how to get somewhere, even though I wasn't practicing my faith at the time, I prayed, and found upon entering the combi, two religious sisters in habit. It didn't matter that I'd never seen them before; I recognized them as Catholics. They were family. They were MY sisters, even though I was thousands of miles away from home and barely understood the language.
The presence of recognizable "family" gave me the courage that day to speak up and ask the strangers in that combi for directions to get to the next day's destination.
Recently, on my trip out East, while I was lost on the platform at Newark NJ- Penn Station, I ran into another religious sister, and find it so ironic...every time I'm really lost, God sends me "family" so that, even if that person doesn't know where we are, at least neither of us has to be lost all by ourselves. And together we find our way home.
Who is my family?
Reflecting further upon this topic, and going back to July, I had written a post musing on whether I'd be meeting my "family" in these visits. As it was, when I arrived at the convent and was shown to the parlor, the General Superior was not available to meet with me. Another Mother, one of the foundresses, came to speak with me for awhile, another Sister brought food for me (as I'd been traveling over the lunch hours and hadn't eaten), and one by one, the Sisters I knew who were there for the summer also came to greet me. Even though I'd never been there before, I knew I was welcome and that, for the next week at least, this would be my home.
They made me feel like family, and even more so by the time I left.
When I went on to the next community, I had the same experience. I'd never met these Sisters, although there had been some email contact. It was enough. They, too, were family, and no matter what happens in my discernment, my life is better because I met these dear Sisters.
Although I was a bit wary in visiting the last community (as it seemed so insane to me to be visiting them!), those nuns, too, even in their silent way of life, were family. The conversations I had with the few I met were fruitful, friendly, and I left with a deep appreciation for their lifestyle, spirituality and...as members of my own family.
Yes. Each Sister I met this summer...is my sister. Our Sisters.
Where is Home?
Today when I entered my parish for Mass, I saw the same people entering who always arrive around the same time as I. One of the priests was greeting people as we entered, and I asked him if he'd had contact with a mutual friend of ours, reminding him to get in touch with her to hear her own good news.
I entered the Church and immediately saw people I knew, friends in every corner, many familiar faces. At some point I became aware that other friends of mine were seated in the pew behind me, and as I looked around, I realized that these, too, are my family. Nearby were another friend's parents, whom I jokingly call "Mom and Dad" just because it makes them laugh. Several pews ahead was another family I know, the head of which I once served with in parish leadership.
Yes, this is my parish. This is my home. All these people...my family.
My work parish has a slightly different dynamic as I also have friends and perhaps know even more people there, but as I am staff there, it seems there is more of a barrier. Even in a family, where there is authority of any sort, a barrier is erected, and it's something I can't quite yet explain in words, and definitely not in this same post. Yet, it's still a comfort to go there and know that it, too, is filled with my brothers and sisters.
I've written of it before, but it bears saying again: I love being Catholic! I love our faith, how it brings us all together even if we are nations apart. I love learning about thousands of years of theology and wisdom and sacrifice that has made us what we are today. I love knowing that we don't have to invent anything new. I love the fact that "I'm Catholic" is a call sign that says that even if we disagree, we have something in common and an indelible, invisible mark upon us that makes us adopted children of God.
"Who are my mother and my bretheren?" And looking around on those who sat about him, [Jesus] said, "Here are my mother and my brethren! Whoever does the will of God is my brother, and sister, and mother." ~ Luke 3:33 -35
Thank you, Jesus.
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Saturday, July 04, 2009
Independence
This evening I was watching a movie about a young woman with a protective father, and how her feminism, by the end of the movie was softened, granting her not less, but more independence. This one tempered by a greater wisdom, one gained through a greater understanding of love.
Suddenly I was struck as I considered my own history. How I had to be "independent", and therefore, a "feminist" long before it was time. How my own ventures in adulthood through a few careers were, in a sense, seeking what I lacked. Not only was I seeking God, but I was trying to become what I didn't have.
I don't really know how to say this, and yet, it's so true, that perhaps all I can do is be blunt.
It has to be said. Please bear with me as I try to find the words.
The Psalms Speak God's Heart
When I pray the words of the psalms in the Liturgy of the Hours speaking of the "precious daughter", almost always, I tear up, at least a little. If not that, then I at least pay closer attention to what is being said. Trying to find the meaning, to understand it, and even to identify with it.
When I consider great Biblical women, cherished by their fathers, and Mary, held so close to her own family and then given into St. Joseph's protection, well, I can't really understand that from a personal perspective. I have a "romantic" sense of it, knowing it was real, but it seems like a fairy-tale to me. It's never been my experience, so even praying these psalms is a scary act of trust.
Never in my life have I EVER felt "protected". I've never dwelt in the security that comes from knowing there is someone to defend me.
I've never been defended.
In The Princess Bride, the Dread Pirate Roberts quips to Inigo, "You have an overdeveloped sense of vengeance."
I'm not interested in vengeance. I've no need.
I have an overdeveloped sense of defense.
Everything I've done as an adult is about...defense. Defending the less fortunate. Defending the law and seeking justice. Defending the powerless. Defending those whose lives have been in danger. Defending the Church, defending our Faith. Defending myself from those very same threats.
It's as though, at some point in my teenage years I went into full survival mode and I've never found the occasion to come out of it.
Even now, living alone as a single woman, I'm very conscious of my safety. I chose a German Shepherd partially for defense, partially because I've always loved Shepherds. I still have my guns and consider my training. I'm still willing to shoot first and ask questions later if someone breaks into my home.
If there is no one to defend my honor, even honor that has already been lost, then I will do it myself. I have no choice. There is no one else.
If I called for help, all I would hear is crickets, if even those.
But I weary of this state of vigilance. For once, I want to be able to relax and know that someone else cares, someone else is there to defend me, and...dare I say it? I want to finally know that I am that cherished daughter worthy of defense.
Perhaps this has been so much of my struggle in my discernment. Even as God invites and says, "All that I have is yours" I have a hard time believing it.
Even as He welcomes me home from the battlefield, I flee from His care, not trusting, never having been given a reason to trust.
God throws open the doors, He kills the fattened calf, He holds out jeweled rainments, and still I stand ready to flee, not believing any of this could be for me. I don't want to be a daughter for a day. I want to be a daughter for life. I want to be that cherished daughter.
And yet I fear that if I step through that door, I'll find that it was never what I wanted or who I was meant to be. I fear that I'm sentenced to a life on this battlefied without backup, skulking in the shadows so as not to be noticed, staving off the attacks because there is no one else to do it for me.
Can I ever let go of my vigilance? Can I ever stop being on the defensive?
Can I ever really, truly believe...and live...the reality that abandonment to God is where I'll find true freedom and protection?
Can I ever really believe those words Our Lord whispers in the silence and through the psalms, that they aren't speaking to history, but through it...to me?
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