The List

I recently read about an exercise for "inspiration." It's fun, could be a game if you're the game type (I'm not necessarily when it comes to exercises, aka "assignments to improve yourself"). You make a list of 100 things you love. It's supposed to be something that's good for the psyche, good for your mental happiness, I guess. I found it in a book about right and left brain "work outs," and though I'm very comfortable with all the exercises for the left brain, I had to force feed myself the right brain ideas. But this one I could do. And the book was right, I admit--it was fun. So, I offer it as a "suggestion," as my grandmother would say (she would not mean it as a choice but as an imperative) for the ending of a year and beginning of a new chapter. Here is my list so far:

The List

1.          Coffee

2.          Babies’ feet

3.          Black eyed peas

4.          Ponds cold cream

5.          Powder

6.          Perfume

7.          Rain

8.          Puddles

9.          Crunchy leaves

10.        Acorns

11.        Tchaikovsky

12.        Sequins

13.        Leather

14.        Ballet shoes

15.        Blue ribbon

16.        Grosgrain ribbon

17.        Headbands

18.        Pearls

19.        Ruffles

20.        Lace

21.        Small waists

22.       Small wrists

23.       Meg Ryan

24.       Bookshops

25.       Librarians

26.       Roasted marshmallows

27.       Old friends

28.       Praying

29.       Bookmarks

30.       Popcorn

31.       Dogwood trees

32.       Easter

33.       Incense

34.       Magnolia blossoms

35.       Sidewalks

36.       Our Lady

37.       Rosaries

38.       Surprise parties

39.       The Nutcracker

40.       Fireplaces

41.       Dark wood

42.       Heavy blankets

43.       Argyle

44.       Ireland

45.       Pencil skirts

46.       Fake eyelashes

47.       Sugar

48.       “Punkin”

49.       Big Red chewing tobacco

50.       Nightgowns

51.       Fireflies

52.       Dandelions

53.       Indian paint brushes

54.       Names of nail polish

55.       Lipstick

56.       Gummy bears

57.       Books

58.       Football

59.       Chips and queso

60.       A good run

61.       A library carol

62.       The seam in ballet tights

63.       Giraffes

64.       Smell and stick of rosin

65.       Cheese grits

66.       Buttons

67.       Crayons

68.       Poinsettias

69.       Lists

70.       Mousse (the hair product)

71.       Bobby pins

72.       Pink spongy rollers

73.       Saying “good morning”

74.       Velvet

75.       Holding hands

76.       Peppermints

77.       Tiaras

78.       Lagniappe

I Didn't Know

In this Christmas season, there is much to be grateful for. And sad about. And worried and hopeful and disillusioned and contemplative. One of our friends lost his job a few days ago. A friend of Steve's knows the man in IL who was killed (along with his three children) by his wife last week, one day after school. I busy myself filling up the space under the tree, making sure I'm lighting the right candle on the Advent wreath and hosting a Bunco party with give-aways and spiked punch.

My favorite song this season is "Mary, Did you Know?" I heart "Santa Baby" (especially when my mom sings it), and all the renditions of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" make me smile (what a lovely time when a woman asked for a comb!). But, the reminder of what all this fuss is about is captured painfully in this song and video:

Mary, Did you Know?

And I didn't know. I didn't know He was her son, her baby, until I had Ellie. I had celebrated her life and honored her role in the story of the Universe, but I had not known that He was Ellie to her, He was a part of her. Did He look like His mommy? Did He have the same nose as His grandfather or the same mannerisms as His uncle? Did Mary look at Him and see her family, like we all do when we look at our children? Did He laugh like her? Were His hands her hands? I did not realize she looked at Him and loved Him and guarded and protected and encouraged and knew Him like we know our children. "When you kissed your little baby, you kissed the face of God." Don't we all, though? Don't we all hold our children and our confidence that no one loves like we do? That no one is capable of loving their children as much and as "good" as we love ours? How can they?

And that no matter how lost and distracted we get, that Precious Baby loves us more. I did not know in this great love, I did not know it existed or could be held inside one fallible and finite heart. May we stay in the presence of our Savior during this time of heightened commercialism and remember His poverty and humility. May we celebrate the loves of our lives rather than the things. May we kiss our children more and know the peace He brings.

Shoulders Back

"Katie. Remember. You are a student of the Judith McCarty School of Dancing." That is the last thing Leigh said to me before I walked down the aisle on my wedding day. And she knew those few words, spoken firmly in happiness, would convey all I needed to feel. Remember who you are. Remember what that beautiful, lovely, classy lady we called "Miss Judy" taught us in those years of ballet classes. And radiate that essence--that confidence and grace and beauty--as you walk to your future. And above all, for heaven's sake--keep your shoulders back and don't fall.

I was a ballet student for a time, but Miss Judy taught us to always be a student of class and dignity and loveliness and grace. I hold my shoulders back because I cannot imagine, even today, Miss Judy seeing me slumped over. My sisters and I gained invaluable lessons--yes, about ballet and posture and shuffle steps and forward rolls--but the lessons imparted to us came from dedicated, loyal ladies. They taught us how to celebrate and love and listen and never, never stop trying.

"You are a student of the Judith McCarty School of Dancing." It comes to me at the strangest, though most appropriate moments, when I later realize I most needed it. It's almost like a prayer; it is certainly a passionate reminder. This week I have heard it more often than usual. I heard it in the airport, when I was sure Ellie, Steve and I would never make it out of O'Hare in one piece. Ellie's blanket had kissed the floors of countless airport bathrooms and become friends with rental cars, Grandma's carpet and Embassy Suites free breakfast buffet. I let her clutch to it like she was going to meet its soul. Because it kept her from crying. That's the only reason. A doctor's appointment did not go as expected Wednesday, and somewhere, in the place of me that remembers the music and the smell of rosin and the way Miss Judy's feet sounded on the wooden floors, I found composure and strength. I was disappointed, confused and insulted, but I could honestly hear Leigh's confident voice. And I pushed those shoulders down and back. I held my manners and my tummy in, and I didn't cry until I relaxed on the steering wheel.

When life hands you lemons, we learned to pirouette through them. When we weren't given certain gifts--those of beauty or talent or spirit or natural confidence--we learned to put on a little lipstick, wear more glitter and tap to dizzying speeds (but never give the front row, as Miss Judy would say, more than they paid for :)). We learned, in other words, to find serenity in circumstance and potential in pain. And never at the cost of class. We were taught, above all else sacred and dear, to be a lady.

"Grace under pressure--definition of 'guts.'" E. Hemingway

Precious Gift

This morning, Steve is competing in a Tough Mudder 13 mile obstacle course. Because it's cold (number 1 reason) and it costs $40/person to be a spectator (ridiculous), we are waiting for him to finish and then meeting the entire team at a traditional spot to celebrate Tough Mudder (evidently): Hooters. Awesome. This week has been filled enough with explanations and questions and fears regarding sexual topics. Penn State (and ESPN) have filled my boys' heads with images and concerns and sadness. My family has been consumed by this. The last thing I wanted was another talk about sex. But God had other plans, and I was pleasantly humbled by them.

Jacob (this is predictable) followed me into my room after mass and asked me about Hooters. I described in benign terms what it was like, and the description led to a discussion about Father Tom's homily (while I was trying to go to the bathroom, change my shirt and remove my hose :)). It was, appropriately, about the sanctity of women and marriage and the most precious gift we're given of being man and wife and co-creating life. Jacob loves that stuff. Seriously.

While talking about Hooters, I taught him the "die on a hill" concept. This was not, I explained to him, something I was willing to die over. I could have made the situation difficult for Daddy, created a division when really he wanted some excited support from his family. I guess getting muddy and running through electrical wires and into ice ponds and wading through waist-high mud is something to be celebrated? At any rate, I conceded that we would bring two cars and if Hooters was like Buffalo Wild Wings, I'd take the fat cheeseburger and greasy fries (moral support for Steve's high energy morning). If we thought it didn't feel quite right for the boys, I could politely exit with them.

Jacob then asked (good question) what would be different between Hooters and a place I would die on a hill for. Enter strip club topic. We talked about marriage and respect and love and dignity and protection. . . And for all my verbosity, he was like Occam's razor with his understanding. "Why would a man go to a place where women are treated as objects when he loves his wife (imagine confused, quizzical brows)? Why would they look at naked women and expect their (big emphasis and sarcastic expression) wife to not be naked with anyone but them?" And then he said (he was on a roll), "You know. A strip club is taking our most precious gift and treating it like trash. And people pay to do that? You know what they need to do, Mom? Get. A. Life." Well said, little grasshopper.

I'm going to make a Hummingbird Cake now. God was busy this morning with Jacob.

Excuse Me

Ok. I've had it with the "it's not rude, it's just different" mantra of people who don't have manners and live above, oh I don't know, Little Rock? It is rude.

My kids and I went to the Liberty Science Center today. This is why I like living in/near a big city. It's what I always told my mom I would do with my kids if I lived near museums--take my kids to them. So, I do. And we love them. All 952 exhibits and 2,345,624 kids that come along with them.

When you bump into someone, run them over with your stroller, knock a baby down or step in front of someone else who is reading about the water frog's habitat, you should say "Oh! Excuse me!" I'm not asking for the really nice "Oh, gosh, sweetheart. I am so sorry! Excuse me for bumping into your precious little shoes! Aren't those just the cutest little things ever! Here, can you see the water frog if I pick you up myself??" I am asking for manners. Have them. Share them. Teach them. Practice them.

I don't care if you think that other person you just rudely stepped on, squashed, bashed, bulldozed or bumped is a spiritual being living a human experience. I don't care if you even believe in a God. I don't care if you think that person is valuable or worth-while or ugly or wrong or dumb or silly or too little or too big to be in the 2-5 year old exhibit where you play with rice and paint with water. Excuse your body from interfering with another body.

Nick commented later in the afternoon when we were all tired and spent from being bulldozed by 3 year olds in groups of 500, "You know, Mom. I don't like little kids. And you know. . . their moms aren't much better." No lie. He said that. 13 year old boy. And he was right.

People tell me all the time what nice manners my kids have. They don't have exceptional behaviors--they're just decent young men who recognize there are other people in the world. They say "thank you" when someone holds the door for them. They teach Ellie to say "please" when she'd like her milk. Clearly, they think, she has confused whining and thrashing her little hands for the patient signing of "please." They know it's just nicer to smile and take a deep breath and ask for something than to demand it with an obnoxiously high decibel yelp. Nick and Jacob say "yes" and "no" (they add the ma'am when speaking to Mamalise or me). They don't say "yeah" or "huh??" or "what" or "nope." I know the time will come when they themselves get confused regarding manners and hormones, but I will be there to gently remind them. :)

I'm not expecting them to know which side of a lady to walk on (the left) or which fork to pick up when eating salad versus meat versus shrimp (depends on how the table is set). I am expecting them (and all other children while we're at it) to treat others with dignity and patience and deference. They're human beings, too, you know.

"Don't compromise yourself. You're all you've got." J. Joplin

How I Was

I like lists. A lot. My self-esteem bubble is not that robust, but checking off lists makes it tolerably full. I even put things on lists that I know I HAVE to do, but somehow a longer list looks better (no one is looking at this but me, of course, so what does it really matter, Katie???) than a short one. Quality over quantity, like I always say!

There's a burden, though, that comes with the glory of the list. You have to finish it. Or you fail. You have to accomplish all, not some, of the items on the list during the day. You may not add as you go. So, if in the morning you didn't plan to do something really time consuming or stupendous like waiting in line at the post office for the commemorative stamps but you did. . .good for you. But it is not list worthy. Those are the rules. And it can be as easily oppressive and daunting as satisfying and gratifying.

What if we made lists in the evening rather than the morning (you know, like starting a diet on a Tuesday rather than a Monday? It's a radical thought, I know.)? And what if, it recorded what I was rather than what I did? I know practices are typically reserved for Lent, but I've got Advent to work with in just a few weeks, so I'm going to try out the exercising in December rather than March and see what happens. I'll practice making the backward kind of list. How was I today? Was I kind or short-tempered? Was I gentle and compassionate, patient and present? Was I busy or bored? Was I reflective or preoccupied? If that little dash in between is all that represents our living, maybe I should try being as I'm doing? How will I be when I'm standing in the proverbial (and literal) grocery store line, the most boring and trying of all activities? How will I be when Jacob is trying to earnestly describe his lego landing gear he just built and I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HE'S TALKING ABOUT and frankly, don't really care? How will I be when I'm cooking or thinking or sliding down the slide or talking to my family? Will I be intentioned and attentive or distracted and dismissive? My behavior and my being-that is what I'll write down. Not the actual doing it at all.

My parents visited over the weekend. I hate it when they leave. It's like a piece of you goes with them. And it hurts, dag-gommit. It just aches. You get over it, clearly, but you kind of don't want to. I love them, and so do my boys. I love that they laugh and eat good food. I appreciate that they love their kids and accept each of us for what we are and what we're trying to become. They see the potential in us and celebrate, truly, the lives we've created. They have opinions and "suggestions," but how can they not? They raised a good family and were good at being.

A friend recently emailed me a little reminder of our "responsibilities" and demands on that list. "It is interesting," he said, "to think of life in the terms of flying a kite, suspended by the winds of choice and circumstance.  Many of us think the tethering of the string as a hindrance; our parents, our spouse, the amount of money we have, the responsibilities demanded of us. But in reality, the restraint of the string is the only reason we fly." 

Oh, to the heavens above, thank you for my life. Thank you for my roots. Thank you for help making me a kite (please let it be a thin one with vertical not horizontal stripes) who floats and dips and soars because of the string.
 
"If I won't be myself, who will?" A. Hitchcock

Hope

"Everything that is done in the world is done by hope."

How true. Everything--the good, the bad and the difficult--are all done with a hope it will go as planned, as dreamed, as predicted. Though St. Paul tells us the greatest of the three--faith, hope and love--is love, I wonder how far love could go without hope? Isn't "hope" called "good planning" or "accurate goal making" today? Don't we read that "hope is not a strategy?" But what if it is? What if it's enough?

I went to college with a blind, bright hope it would mold me, change me, better me. I married in the great hope Steve would be all I thought he was. And more, of course. I moved, bought a house, had a baby, left friends, made friends--all in hopes it or they would be what I expected or needed or wished them to be. Some did not turn out as I had. . . hoped. Others far exceeded my dreams. We go to doctors hoping they have answers, we go to chiropractors hoping they have strength, we go to priests hoping they have guidance. I actually went to Target yesterday with determined hope! "Man, I hope this works" I thought (out loud of course) as I found the Goldbond. Jacob's feet are detectable from New Hampshire. A friend once told me that all life is is "controlling our expectations." Not a pretty way to look at it, but I suppose he's right.

Steve asked me last night, while we were watching Jacob's baseball practice and Nick was home with Ellie (call it a mini-date. . .I did!), "Katie, does it ever occur to you that you can't do it all?" Oh. Right. Yeah, um, no. It doesn't. Ever. I actually don't ever look at that dust on the floor, or that dirt in the carpet, or that recipe or practice or workout or challenge and think, "Hmmm, not today. I just can't do that AND this today." He said, "With a 13 year old boy, a 10 year old boy--both in sports and after school hobbies--and a baby and a house and, can I say, a husband who all need and want your attention, do you really expect yourself everyday to do it all?" Oh man. Yes, yes, I do. I have a hard time, as many people do, accepting "less than" what I think is manageable. Allowing yourself some grace each day is not just important, it's spiritual (my friend Shelly taught me that). It's critical that we learn not just how to prioritize the necessaries but how to prioritize OUT the "can waits." It isn't failing, Katie. It's learning how to love better and live better--it's what I hope life is teaching me! How much joy do I get out of vacuuming the upstairs' landing? About as much as I suspect Steve gets from draining a puss wound. Little. But, it's part of being me right now, and that's part of being him.

My sister posted this quote recently: "Remember that you have only one soul; that you have only one death to die; that you have only one life, which is short and has to be lived by you alone; and there is only one Glory, which is eternal. If you do this, there will be many things about which you care nothing." St. Teresa of Avila. One life, one day like today, one death, one chance. This is not a dress rehearsal, people!

So, today, my hopeful prayer is that while Ellie is pulling at my shirt and her brand new shoes are getting fig newton branded into them (because her "picnic" turned out to be a tap dance class) and my washing machine STINKS because I just attempted to wash Jacob's shoes in it, and Steve doesn't really want to know about the afternoon events and how I might need his help because it makes him feel tethered, I'll find a small peace within and hear that song, "No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I'm clinging! Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?"

Sing. . .Sing a Song!

 "A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song." L. Holtz

I was reminded this morning of that quote when I went for a little autumnal jog. Sounds odd, an "autumnal jog," but I am so enjoying this seasonal weather, the morning run felt like that Dogwood Trail again, brisk, crisp and happy. And I could hear the geese making their way out of here because, supposedly, it's getting bitterly cold at some point. And they were so loud. Sounded so excited! And I laughed--gosh, do they know something I don't?! They're singing, not because they have to, but because they want to. Oh, to be a bird!

And my children. These past few weeks have been such fun. From collecting pumpkins to picking apples to finding JUICY caterpillars and making first tackles in 8th grade football. It's been happy.

 Does your face light up when you see your kids? I heard Maya Angelou ask that question once. Does your face register how you feel inside? Do they know, from your expression, that they are worthwhile and loved? It's such a simple thing, such a quick, fleeting little "hello." But doesn't it make all the difference? I think we can each remember how our mothers made us feel. I can remember how my mom made me feel special, really special, just by how she'd look at me when I walked in from a late night dance class. She really looked happy to see me, and I can remember feeling surprised! Gosh, I didn't know I mattered that much to her that my "hey, Mom" would make her happy! Though the moment was so short and the feeling brief, I knew she loved me and I knew I was worth it. Do I show my kids they're worth it? Do they know I love them just as they are, even when they don't brush their teeth for days (Jacob) or hole up in their room and only come down for feeding times (Nick) or break a figurine because it doesn't survive a quarterback-like pitch down the kitchen (Ellie)? I hope so. Because I do.

A Faith to Die For

I'm praying a "Seven Day Rosary" this week. It's a rosary developed by John F. Kippley and it's beautiful. It uses eight sets of mysteries rather than the traditional four, and it incorporates biblical passages. Yesterday, I prayed "The Parables" rosary, which focused on the parables of the "good seeds," the "good Samaritan," the "two barns of wheat," the "talents" and the well known "prodigal son." I prayed (and had to read) it while driving yesterday all around New Jersey (not the best time to be reading, I know, but I took what time I could get!). In the first day of the rosary, the mysteries were about the preparation of the people for Jesus' public ministry. It included the familiar Nativity and the Visitation stories but ended with something I wasn't expecting--the martyrdom of John the Baptist.

The notes on this mystery said, "St. John the Baptist is the first adult martyr of the New Testament. He is the only person in the Bible to die specifically for his witness to the marriage bond" (http://www.nfpandmore.org/rosary.shtml).  I didn't realize this. I don't think I actually knew why he was imprisoned to begin with. Not the specific reason, anyway. Because he refused to validate Herod's marriage to his brother's wife, he was jailed and then beheaded. In this act, he prepared the way for the sacrifice of his cousin.

This way of praying the rosary has made me feel many things--sadness, joy, amazement, desperation, hope, revelation. And it made me wonder that day--what would I die for? Not who, because that's easy. I know who I would give my life for, and I'm no saint for that list. It's the easy people--the people I love, the person I co-created, the people who love me. I doubt if I could die for someone I don't know, or don't love or don't, heaven forbid, like very much. But, the question surprised me in the car that day (yes, again in the car)--what cause, what belief, what issue is great enough to you, Katie, that you would die upholding its rightness? What is worth it to me? And, most frankly, do I even have the courage to know? How do I know if I would DIE for something? I mean, really? I would let someone cut off my head or burn me alive or shoot me against a wall--that would mean leaving my children and my husband and my family and my life!!!--for a CAUSE? For a belief? I'm afraid I would give in. When I think of my most beloved truths--the True Presence in the Most Holy Eucharist, the God-given freedoms of every individual, the liberties and justness afforded you because you were born human, the dignity of and protection for our most vulnerable and precious--the unborn. . .I still don't know if I could be like John and offer my greatest gift (not right or entitlement. . .gift) for an idea. What, then, does that mean about my strength in these ideas and beliefs and truths? Are they like my family and loved friends, or those people I don't know or would rather not?

Twisting Half Moon

Any of you who practice yoga will know how I feel. Twisting Half Moon. What? Everytime I get my legs and arms and torso into this position and hear it announced, I laugh. Really? Am I actually trying to get into a twisted shape that resembles a half moon? What does that mean, anyway? And I'm supposed to be "clearing my mind" and "thinking about nothing." I can only count the remaining seconds and wonder what a twisting whole moon would look like.

It's how I felt all day today when I answered questions from my 10 year old about puberty. Those kind of questions. The ones that involve words I'm too embarrassed to type. Questions about diseases and activities and changes in a boy's body and dreams and contraception. Oh, and sins. He wanted to know what was sinful and what was not. "I thought you weren't supposed to do some of these things Mom because it would mean not sharing your most precious gift with the person you love?" (I guess he was listening in our previous educational talks.) This all happened, too, in the Target facewash aisle. Holy moly. I finally realized what twisting half moon was supposed to feel like! There I was, looking at exfoliants and toners and trying not to act stunned so he'd keep asking questions and I could keep helping him, all the while feeling like a twisted half orbiting body! Can't wait to do yoga, again.

The Mud Between our Toes

 Ellie and I went to Louisiana this past weekend to, as my grandmother would say, "get the mud between our toes." We (or I) needed to refill our spirit, and there is no better way to feel you again than to surround yourself with people who know you better than you do (insert "mother" and "sister" here). There is something inside of me that relaxes, something in the very center of my very center that rejoices and unwraps itself when it is hugged and loved and known by people who love me despite myself.

There is something so wonderfully familiar and happy about the words "snoball," "beignet," and "hun." Susie, my niece, loves snoballs. Frozen sugar in a cup your mommy lets you dump all over yourself--how could you NOT love them?

 Ellie learned new words, too. "Mine," "no," and "hold you!!!!" (what Susie says when she wants you to hold her--"Want me to 'hold you?'"). Ellie learned that showing something to Susie also meant giving it to her. She learned that sponges tasted just as good wet with sprinkler water as they do wet with bubbles in a bath.

 She learned that two shovels are better than one--kind of.

We breathed in the powdered sugar of Cafe Du Monde, and I thought of my grandmother who would have loved being there with Susie and Ellie. Mamere would have been proud to share her New Orleans with them, and being there makes me miss her.

 And the beads. Oh, how the beads became a source of joy and sparkle and happiness and jealousy. :) The girls learned to share (again. . . kind of) and be happy (kind of) with the beads they had. Susie liked to call them her "ros-ries," and I think that made our Blessed Mother smile. Why can't Mardi Gras beads be rosaries? I think it's a great idea.

We read books Leigh and I enjoyed as kids, played "This Little Piggy" and "cooked" in the beach sand of Gulf Shores. Ellie is so much like her daddy--she didn't like how the sand made her hands messy! Makes playing in it difficult. I was thankful for the few days of relative relaxation we shared, and I cried when we left. I felt like we were abandoning a piece of ourselves there in the swamp, and though I celebrate the new adventures God gives me, I cherish and cling to the smells and tastes and sounds that raised me.

Do it Big, or Stay in Bed

So, I'm struggling with lukewarm. I'm struggling with the American trend of accepting it all and refusing the specifics. I don't like being lukewarm, and though I'm sure I am at times, I pray those times are few. My brother-in-law will tell you the O'Banions heat up their food and coffee 15 times before they finish it, at least three times before they sit down with it. I had never noticed that before James pointed it out! But, I want it hot, not kind of hot. And if the a/c is blasting, I want it cold. Like the bottom section of the blue diagram that indicates "freezing." That setting. 


We are surrounded, literally, by a culture of mediocrity and relativity. I feel as if I'm battling against it all to protect my children. I value diversity. I like and honor different traditions from my own. But, good grief, BE that tradition. Commit to it and love it and wrestle with it. Everyone I talk to seems to want to be all faiths and all nationalities and all cultures at once. How is that possible? How are we not all suffering from a fundamental identity crisis? It's not trendy to be commited to anything. To be "labeled" by beliefs or practices or prayers or right and wrong. What happened to loyalty and dedication and work ethic? I don't like the loss of these values, either. I just watched a beautiful tribute to a man named Welles Crowther. This is commitment. He is a hero, one who died saving others.


http://espn.go.com/video/clip?id=6929979


We have crucifixes in our home, and I am proud of them. I am proud to worship Jesus Christ and believe in His sacrifice and promises. We are surrounded by a culture of fear, a culture of walking on eggshells. So, as we are taught, those who are lukewarm will have some trouble. . . . 


Rev 3:16


Somewhere, I read that funny quote, "Do it big or stay in bed." I've always liked it--if you're going to bother doing it, do it like you mean it. Or, better yet, just mean it. I am trying to remind myself and teach my children that we must mean it. We must cling to the cross and seek Mary's help and reach out for the saints' intercession when we waiver. 


"The wonderful thing about saints is that they were human. They lost their tempers, got hungry, scolded God, were egotistical or impatient in their turns, made mistakes and regretted them. Still they went on doggedly blundering toward heaven." -- Phyllis McGinley


And, a personal favorite. . . :) "If you start to take Vienna, take Vienna." -- Napoleon Bonaparte


Dear Lord, please, please, help me stumble persistently towards heaven. I'll try to bring Vienna with me. 

Missing my People

It's my sister's birthday today. And I miss her. I'd like to meet her today for lunch or for a swing. I'd like to walk with her and tell jokes or, really more comforting, say nothing. You can only really do that with people you know best-say nothing. I miss her. I miss my people. The boys started school this morning. It's raining outside and a little chilly. I'm excited for them (5th and 8th grades!), and I'm excited for me, too. :) But today, I ache somewhere inside. I want to know people. I want to run into someone I know in the cereal aisle. I want to go to a birthday party or be asked for a cup of sugar. I miss my parents. I miss the comfort of being myself around people who love me even though they know me! Today, on a day of new beginnings for my kids and my sister, I find myself just wanting the old and missing the broken in.

Silence in the Walking

So, Nick is 13. All the way. He's cute and funny and has a great smile. His little eyes really twinkle. His voice has changed, his skin is different and he listens to music. A lot.

And our drives to football practice are now silent. He isn't mad. He just doesn't talk. And I pull the "let's see how long HE can last if I don't say anything" game. And he can last--the entire 7 miles (yes, I've clocked it). And I'm the one who is miserable. Lesson learned. Initiate the conversation or sing with Mariah. I grew up with brothers; gosh, I walked the Trail with David. And he didn't always talk. In fact, I think he preferred the silence (Maybe he was praying, for that is the ONLY time I "like" silence). I should remember how pleasant the quiet walks actually were, how you could hear the leaves crinkling and the wind moving the trees. When Katie accompanied you, often, you couldn't hear those forest sounds because, well, there was so much to say!

We sang our way through Irene and heeded Daddy-O's request to "blow the rain to Texarkana!" Irene wreaked havoc on much of New Jersey, but the Gale family fared well in the. . . gale. After their experience with Katrina, Jacob and Nick thought the category 1 hurricane was kind--our house didn't flood and our power was only out for a day!

And Ellie. Like riding a bike or popping up on waterskis, she just stood up and walked today. Really walked. Lapped the sofa. Brought us keys, stuffed chickens and her "CCCCOOOOWWWW." She gripped her little ice cream purse Mamalise gave her, and decided today, our official Gale Pajama Day (in honor of the final Friday of summer!), would be her Walking Day. 

Oh precious one. This is so fun! Each of my kids seems to be in a bright spot in their trail. Steve and I are the luckiest to get to watch them become themselves. 

"Wherever you are now call it perfection and know that in this moment it is really enough."