“The Dive”

Featured

Posted on by
2

How does one reconcile it? Grief that is. To reconcile is to have “cause to coexist in harmony – to make or show to be compatible”. So, here’s my unanswerable question; how does one reconcile the reality of our vulnerability toward suffering with the opportunity – the order even – to live in each moment with joy? Cuz I’m not gonna lie. I don’t find grief to be compatible with life.

I recently saw this video of a swim instructor quite literally tossing a small baby into a pool. It took my breath away, as she was standing on the side of the pool and threw the baby in as one might do a small child once they are capable of knowing how to handle such a situation. I’ve seen instructors quickly dunk a small baby underwater, but they are in the pool, holding tight to them, and able to respond to the baby’s needs.

After tossing him in, this instructor very calmly gets into the pool herself and makes her way over to the baby, who had, thanks be to God, righted himself and was floating on his back with his face up and out of the water. Even then, the instructor didn’t reach for the baby, but rather held her hand above his face and started snapping loudly to hold the baby’s attention and encourage him to stay face up.

Come to find out, there is a name for this innate behavior, called the “bradycardiac” or more commonly known as “the dive”. It is a reflex we are all born with that causes young babies, up to about six months of age, to open their eyes and hold their breath when they find themselves underwater. It doesn’t mean, of course, you can leave them to their own devices and hope for the best. But the beauty of God’s design proves once again brilliant. He has, in every way, given us what we need to survive.

A friend of mine very recently lost her precious son to injuries sustained in a terrible car accident. This tragedy has rocked my world and that of every parent who knows this beautiful family. The depth of this grief is so very deep and one any of us could easily find ourselves drowning in. I have been struggling – immensely – over the past few days to right myself, bring my face above water and breathe.

I once read something that said, “when one mother grieves, every mother grieves”. This speaks perfectly to the river of tears I know are being shed on behalf of our comrade who is heroically living what any of us would define as our worst nightmare.

From the moment I read news of the accident and her request for prayers, I found myself locked in this place of numb disbelief, trying to reconcile the sadness and fear with the necessities of life that don’t end when all stability is interrupted. The physical heaviness in my chest kept signaling my need to breathe but suddenly everything about my day and the generalities of life felt inappropriate.

News of his passing, and the heroic donation of life through the gift of his organs, came through this beautifully scripted message from his mama through which she somehow righted herself, if even for those few moments, took a breath and shared with the world the stunning, irreplaceable beauty that was – and will forever be – her son.

Grief. It is so heavy and none of us can make sense of this tragedy that is the risk of living and loving. But somehow, the tragedy of not living each moment with joy, and loving with everything we are, is so much worse. And so, we are all called to look to Jesus standing above us, snapping His fingers to keep our attention and focus. In Him, and only in Him, we right ourselves and we breathe.

What Is Prayer?

Featured

Posted on by
2

It’s something you are never too young for, yet never too old. You could spend all day doing this, yet a few minutes works just as well. You can do this walking or sitting, singing or talking, when you are angry or sad, happy or grateful. You will never, as long as you live, run out of reasons to do this nor will you ever regret the time you dedicated to it. 

You can be an expert or a novice with the same result. It can be incredibly challenging and entirely easy all at the same time. You can do it in any language and you will always be understood. It is never – and I mean never – a poor use of time. It is appropriate for any and all situations, under any and all circumstances.

Our world is in desperate need of this and honestly, it can’t be overdone. There is not one person walking this earth that doesn’t need this – nor one person that doesn’t deserve it. It changes things. Plain and simple. It heals what is broken, makes new what has failed and finds what has been lost.

It is not magic, yet it can often be mistaken for something that should be as easy as the snap of your fingers or the wave of your hand. It can take moments or years and sometimes requires a dedication of time and energy that leaves you tired and weary, yet you continue, as you know no other way to be.   

At some point it becomes part of you, as natural a rhythm to your day and life as the beating of your heart. You no longer need to make a conscious choice to do it. It somehow becomes as necessary as the air you breathe. In and out – in good times and in bad. In and out – a plea for help or an unloading of gratitude. It is a constant grounding in truth.

It works best in the quiet but can also break through the noise around you in a way nothing else can. It’s better than a long-awaited homecoming, more comforting than the embrace of your favorite person and more refreshing than the feel of the ocean on a hot summer’s day.

It is always available and never runs out. It can be specific or general, rooted in frustration and anger, joy and thanksgiving or fear and foreboding and it will always be received. There are no firewalls, spam folders or undeliverables – only acceptance, openness and answers.  

It requires honesty and vulnerability – a submission to the truth that you do not know it all and an openness to answers you may not expect or understand. There is freedom in that, but it takes a level of “letting-go” that can, at first, be entirely disarming. Once you feel the peace this brings however, you will run to it over and over again like a child running to her parent’s open arms.

You won’t know if you don’t try. It may feel awkward at first or you may feel somehow inept or unworthy, as if you need some sort of certificate or degree to participate. It’s a risk, you know. You may try it and not get the answer you were hoping for or maybe it just doesn’t come on your timeline. Do it once and you’re sure to want to try it again. It can be addictive – a little here, a little there and all of a sudden you find yourself entirely dependent – in the best way.

“What is prayer?”, you say? Yes. That’s it. Prayer. Prayer is (always) the answer.

Gluten Free

Featured

Posted on by
3

Funny (but not) how life can shift so quickly. In the course of a week and a half, we went from a happy-go-lucky gluten-consuming family to assessing every crumb that passed our daughter’s lips. The loss of three pounds from her 13 year checkup to her 14 year exam triggered enough of a concern with our daughter’s pediatrician that extra blood work was ordered. Results hinted at a gluten intolerance which led to the scheduling of an endoscopy to take a closer look. Those results were conclusive and we left with a diagnosis of Celiac Disease for our goldfish-obsessed, pasta-loving, yes-to-all-things-baked-goods daughter. All of a sudden, that stop at Dunkin Donuts we promised on the way home was no longer an option. It was merely the tip of an iceberg of restrictions she would now have to live with.

I dove into the research. I had so many questions. My understanding was limited at best, framed only by the presentation of an upset stomach should someone with a sensitivity ingest gluten. I had absolutely no idea the havoc gluten can wreak on a body that reacts to this otherwise innocent protein. I was even more surprised to learn someone can have Celiac with no outward symptoms, as is the case with our daughter. 

Come to find out, all the trouble takes place in the small intestine. For those who have Celiac, once gluten enters the small intestine, their immune system mistakenly identifies the protein as some sort of enemy and attacks. The healthy villi – otherwise known as small hair-like thingies – that line the walls of the small intestine are the real victims of the attack and after extensive exposure, these guys start to lose strength and eventually fall flat. This is a real problem because the villi’s job is to stand tall and proud and increase the surface area of the intestine in order to absorb all the good stuff passing through – proteins, vitamins, minerals and yes, fats and sugars too.

Our daughter’s endoscopy showed a smooth interior to her small intestine. The villi is there, but they have all been worn down by the exposure to gluten and they’ve got nothing left to fight with. The good news is, once we remove gluten from her diet, her small intestine should heal and within a year or so, those villi warriors should be upright and hungry for nutrients. For now, we are supplementing some extra vitamins and doing our best to play gluten detectives with careful evaluation of every label – not so easy when it can be included in many things other than food – toothpaste, chapstick, makeup, shampoo…the list seems to go on and on.  

I’ve learned a lot in the past few weeks, not the least of which is this lesson that seems to keep repeating itself in my life. I can be presumptive of things I know little about. If I’m going to be completely honest, I may have questioned (only once or twice) the need for the gluten-challenged to be quite so diligent and cautious about what goes into their body. I’m going to go out on a limb here and make a generalization…while there are definitely outliers, overall, I’d say we humans are kinda good at that, no? Making assumptions that is. Deciding our position on one subject or another and closing off all entries of other opinions. We can be quick to build barriers – often unintentionally –  around what makes sense to us, what we find to be comfortable, our definition of what is ok and what is not. Before long, if we aren’t careful about what we take in, we tend to attack those who think differently (whether outwardly or not) and our ability to find the good in others who may not carry the same opinion falls flat. 

We are a few months out from the current firestorm of opinions, currently wreaking havoc on our country, making landfall in the voting booths. People are scared. Some feel threatened. Many are operating as if their opinion somehow cancels out the humanity of those who feel differently. Attacks are being launched on social media with generalized statements becoming personal for acquaintances, friends, even family who don’t see eye to eye. It’s not always easy to identify who or how someone may take offense as we don’t all show outward symptoms of our deeply held beliefs. Comments can hide in an otherwise passive Facebook post, a seemingly innocent remark when chatting with a neighbor, the list goes on and on.

In the end, I’d submit we’d all do well to remember that not one of us can be reduced to a label. Democrat, Republican, Independent – the commonly held views within these groups may be one ingredient to what drives us in life, but first and foremost, we are individuals made up of unique lessons, experiences, disappointments, hardships, successes, and joys. A nation as worn down as ours will take significant recourse to heal. But I think it’s possible. Especially if we aren’t afraid to follow the example of the One our nation was created under. If we live a life free of concern for how our decisions might affect others, a generalized intolerance will be quick to follow. Rather, we all need to aspire to look at others as God looks at us. He sees the good first, always leads with love and selflessly risks everything to build peace in our broken world. 

Amazingly enough, our daughter has transitioned beautifully to this new lifestyle with little to no complaints about all the foods she used to love that are no longer a part of her menu. She continues to be this shining example to us of all that is possible when we choose joy over anger, gratitude over frustration and take every opportunity to lead with love.

Never Eat Shredded Wheat

Featured

Posted on by
3

“When you are giving me directions, please do not use words like South.” This funny quip, artistically displayed on a drink coaster, caught my attention when out shopping. It describes me perfectly. My name is Nicole Johnson and I am directionally challenged. It’s a pretty severe case, quite possibly one of the worst out there. My husband will tell me to, “turn left” and immediately follow with, “your other left”. 

Never Eat Shredded Wheat; I do know the foundational setup of our universe – that up is North (never), right is East (eat), down is South (shredded) and left is west (wheat). I’m guessing I learned that at some point in elementary school, but the basics never translated to any sort of useful comprehension. Maps absolutely stump me; it’s like trying to read a book in a foreign language.There are literally synapses in my brain that fail to fire when someone is trying to give me directions. I hear words like east and west, directives to go strange distances like 500 feet, and my brain is like a garage door, slowly closing all access to understanding.

I’m fascinated by people who have good direction sense. My husband could find his way from one end of this country to the other and never feel the paralyzing fear of being lost. I can’t imagine what that’s like. Google maps has definitely been a game changer for me, not only because I have someone literally telling me where and when to turn, but also because this nice person who lives in the app always knows how to turn me around when I defy all odds and get lost even with her instructions. I love that she never loses patience with me. She just stays true and simply helps me recalculate until I’m back on track.

“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it, when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.” Isaiah 30:21

I often wonder how people navigate this complex and layered journey of life without faith. I imagine some people hear words like pray and sacrifice, directives to do strange things like trust and surrender, and they are quick to close their hearts to the possibilities that lay down what seems like such an uncertain path. I would guess people who choose not to ascribe to any sort of doctrine are fascinated with those of us who place their whole lives in God’s hands and never let on to the potentially paralyzing panic of handing over all control. I can certainly understand that. Trying to make sense of faith can often feel like deciphering a foreign language. It’s easier to do what you know, depend on what is concrete and tangible and hope for the best.

As someone who was raised Catholic, faith in God is as foundational as the truth that we should Never Eat Shredded Wheat – His presence and dependability as unchanging as the coordinates that give order and boundaries to this big circle we live on. I count on His direction on a daily, often moment-to-moment basis and am grateful He never tires of helping me recalculate when I need some redirecting (which is often I’m afraid). 

The tricky thing about finding your way is, sometimes, we have to first recognize we are lost. The vulnerability in that recognition too often keeps us clothed in the lie that we are enough all on our own. We are standing on one side of the garage door, He on the other and we are the only ones with the opener. The incredible thing is He will stand there, unmoving and hopeful, excited and expectant, until we are courageous enough to press the button. And when we do, He never asks what took us so long, but rather greets us with a welcome unlike any other, gently reaching for us with one hand and leading our way with the other. 

The Circle of Life

Featured

Posted on by
4

It’s kind of crazy to think about. It was twenty-six years ago that I sat next to my soon-to-be husband as he recovered from major jaw surgery to correct a bite that was so misaligned only a few of his teeth matched up when he tried to chew. This morning, I’m sitting next to our first born son who is recovering from the same surgery. He’s the same age my husband was and his beautiful fiance is scattering to and fro attending to his every need – and here I sit wondering how on earth enough time has passed that I am now here and she is there?  It’s one of those moments when it’s impossible not to marvel at the unfolding of life, this beautiful circular rhythm that reminds me, no matter how much changes in the world around us, this cycle of learning, growing, and teaching promises a today that matters and a tomorrow where you are sure to see the imprint of your yesterday.

My husband Joe and I will celebrate our twenty-fifth anniversary in a few months. Nursing him through his surgery all those years ago was, I now realize, a pilot of sorts for the seasons to come. We went into the surgery with the kind of blissful naivety we entered into marriage. We knew, theoretically anyway, it was a major operation and would require several weeks of healing. We didn’t know the immense amount of patience that would be required and the need to continually call upon our faith to walk through the more difficult days.

When Joe’s six-hour surgery was complete and his parents and I were finally able to see him in recovery, we were shocked at the sight before us. It’s a vision that is still as clear today as it was then, for both me and my mother-in-law. His face was nearly unrecognizable, the swelling had taken over immediately and he had tubes on either side of his face draining the buildup of blood and fluids. It was this unforgettable moment of, “Oh, ok. This is serious.” I remember feeling panic stricken that this person I loved so deeply was suddenly so fragile and there was little I could do to relieve his pain and discomfort.

Although I couldn’t appreciate this at the time, it would foreshadow all the moments we would face together when life threw us a curveball and we would have to figure out how to support one another as we healed. It’s always this careful balance of giving and receiving love, knowing one another’s limits and pushing your own to care for this person you love more than you could ever love yourself.

 As I watched my future daughter-in-law struggle with seeing her best friend in pain and do all she could to comfort him, I wondered if Joe’s parents saw as solid a partnership between me and their son as I see between my son and his bride. It’s not all that common for such a young couple to be challenged with a situation that places one so definitively in the role of caretaker and the other in this place of vulnerable dependence. They may not fully understand it now, but they are building something as strong as it is beautiful. The beauty is in their love and the strength in the faith they have woven into their friendship and lives.

I remember, when traveling back and forth to the hospital during Joe’s recovery, his parents would always pray the rosary and I would join them. On the way to the hospital this morning for our son, we did the same. We had chosen the best surgeon, the best hospital, done all we could to prep for surgery, but the peace we were searching for would only come with our decision to place him in God’s hands. We learn, we grow, we teach. My in-law’s decision to place their son in God’s hands that day mattered. And in their tomorrow, they see the imprint of that choice not only in their own lives, but in those that learned from them. 

It hasn’t been twenty-five years of perfection, at least not by the world’s definition. The challenges have been real and our faith has continually been tested. There was a stretch of years where my anxiety left me nearly unrecognizable and the building of our family came with more vulnerability and grief than I ever expected to face. The perfection is in our commitment to one another through it all and the deepening of our faith with each passing day.

When we got the ok to visit our son in recovery, we weren’t sitting by his side for more than five minutes before I turned to Joe and found him with his head between his knees. It’s not an uncommon sight when any sort of medical procedure is involved – or being discussed – or referenced in any way. He picked his head up just enough to reveal the ever-recognizable pale complexion and a forehead covered in sweat. I didn’t even have a chance to react before I heard the recovery nurse shout, “Oh no you don’t! I’ve already had two dads hit the floor this week. You will not be the third!” At which point she swiftly grabbed a cool face cloth, slapped it on the back of his neck, popped open a can of ginger ale and escorted my husband right back to the waiting room. Oh how I love that man. The scene brought me right back to the day our son was born when he saw the size of the epidural needle, nearly hit the ground, and suddenly everyone was more worried about the nauseous guy in the corner than the one getting the needle inserted into her spine.

We give. We take. We learn. We grow. We teach. I’m grateful. Incredibly so – for all he’s given through the years, all he’s allowed me to take, the lessons I’ve learned in his example, the growth I’ve found in myself when I am patient enough to listen. I hope for twenty-five more years and twenty-five more after that. And I pray our love for one another and our commitment to our faith teaches our children all they need to keep the circle going.

Moments

Featured

Posted on by
3

I walked into the kitchen to find my husband and two sons; my three favorite men. No one was rushing off to do anything or go anywhere. They were just present. And it was awesome. To some, this may seem ordinary or commonplace. But to know the life of a mother of adult children is to know this constant search for moments such as these – these fleeting periods of time when I can rest in my heart being complete.

I walked upstairs to bed and heard my two boys talking over the click, click, click of their video game controllers. For a moment, my heart found its perfect rhythm in the affirmation that, even though they have very much grown into their own people and most often go their separate ways, their bond runs deep.

I was putting away the laundry when I suddenly found myself in the mix of a wrestle session that had spontaneously broken out between two big brothers and their little sis who was undoubtedly relishing the attention from these heroes of hers who spend more time out of the house these days than in.

The hour was painfully early, but in the dawn the house was quiet as I sat snuggled next to my furry alarm clock, floating in the bliss of knowing each bed upstairs was filled with its proper resident.

Moments. They are what I live for as the mother of two adult sons and a teenage daughter who is more happy and confident in her independence than I ever thought she would be. The little years went too fast. I want more time. So much I do. But to dwell in that truth means I miss the moments that bring it all back and remind me – I’m still needed. And there is so much more to come. It is in these moments when “my soul is on its knees” and my heart whispers “thank you” to the One who entrusted these amazing beings to my care.

I often wonder if they get it. Do they realize that the moment their heart beat beneath mine, I was changed and my completeness would forever more depend on their presence? In thinking about this, I am left humbled and grateful for this unique glimpse into the heart of God – this intimate understanding that He is never at rest, never complete, without the presence of each one of His children. 

It’s an interesting perspective that leaves me feeling both unique and special but also reminds me I am one of many. The heart of God is not complete without me, yes. But what about that person next to me who I’m pretty sure I’m somehow better than? Yup. He or she is just as unique and important a puzzle piece to the heart of God as I am. He leaves the 99 to find the one. 

The love of a mother for her child is fierce, unbreakable and disarming. It can all at once hold you together or leave you in pieces. I pray somehow my children understand their place in my heart. I also pray someday I understand my place in God’s. 

When Your Cross Becomes A Gift

Featured

Posted on by
2

How can our Catholic parishes be more responsive to this reality? 

The reality being referred to is the prevalence of those within our communities struggling with their mental health. The question was posed from one of my fellow catholicmom bloggers, Janelle Perogy, in preparation for our conversation on her Family Life Friday radio program through the Diocese of San Diego. Janelle interviewed me about my recently published memoir, “My Unexpected Journey. My Surprising Joy”. When reviewing the list of questions she forwarded, this one stumped me. But it’s good – so good. And really deserves attention.

Interestingly enough, the answer loops back to her very first question of, “why did I want to write this book and share my story”? The short answer is because I strongly feel it’s what God wants us to be doing. The long answer involves this whole concept and understanding of community. God gave us one another for the purpose of communing. We are meant to share, to learn and to grow with and through the experience of those around us. But we can’t do that, of course, unless we are open with our story. And I don’t mean “social-media” open. I mean really, transparently open – the good, the not-so-good and the just plain ugly.

In essence, the church is the very definition of community, for it is far more than the brick and mortar. Rather, the church, or the parish, is the group of people who come to commune – to pray – to serve – to be fed – to praise – to cry – to ask – to be broken or whole or just plain human. So when we ask if our parish is supportive, we need to look both at ourselves and the people around us. What are we doing to build one another up?

“Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up.” 1Thessalonians 5:11

The month of May is Mental Health Awareness month. The fact that Janelle wants to have this conversation  now says a lot about her particular diocese and the effort to support those struggling with their mental health. It’s not about solving the problem necessarily, but rather having conversations that quell the stigmas and help every person feel accepted, supported and not alone.

Many of my close friends who have read my book have shared how surprised they were to learn of my immense struggle with anxiety. “I had no idea.” “I wish I would have known.” “Why are we women so good at hiding what is really going on?”  I think one of the most common misunderstandings about mental health is this assumption that we would know if those around us are suffering. Many think mental health issues are this total loss with reality; the extreme stories we see on the news. While I had threads of anxiety throughout my childhood, it did not become debilitating until after the birth of my children – the chemical changes simply leaving me in a place where I was overcome with daily fears and anxieties. 

“As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another.” 1 Peter 4:10

Now on the other side of the worst of the anxiety, I often thank God for the cross. If I hadn’t carried it so intimately, I wouldn’t be able to empathize with and support others carrying the same cross. It has been an unexpected, yet incredible, gift to connect with other moms who are trying to name the source of suffering in their life and make sense of it in the midst of keeping it together and loving on their families. Far too many of our brothers and sisters are aching to be understood. If we look at our own crosses as opportunities to share and connect, I believe we can serve in the way we are called.

It’s a fabulous question and one that can translate to any subject – any challenge – any cross. How can we be more responsive to ____________. Just fill in the blank and then ask yourself; how can I help? (Click the link to watch the interview!)

https://fb.watch/s6-4H7Ckm1

Faith in Bloom

Featured

Posted on by
1

You know how some people are really good with plants? They feed them, prune them, give them their time in the sun – even talk to them from time to time. Green-thumbers I believe they are called. Ya, that’s not me. In fact, that is about as opposite from me as you can get. I actually don’t care for plants or flowers of any kind inside my house. Outside is fine, but inside they just feel like clutter to me.

I have one plant in my house and mostly just because I liked the container so much, I needed a resident to justify using it. I chose the plant based on the simple fact that I like the shape of the leaves. Anyway, here’s the thing. I’m reactive in caring for it. I don’t pay it any attention unless I see the nicely shaped leaves drooping – badly – like near death. I bring it to the brink of death and then I water it. 

Although I deserve nothing less than the plant giving up and shriveling into a dried brown mess, this thing comes back to me every time. And it’s not a weak effort of simply putting some arch back into its leaves and showing a baseline sign of life. This loyal plant actually goes so far as to bloom for me from time to time. I’m undeserving, but grateful all the same.

I do wonder what this plant might look like if I gave it the care it needs to be all it was meant to be. I’m guessing it would have grown out of its container by now and assume it would be covered in blooms more often than not. 

There are not many things in life that give you much more than what you deserve and respond immediately at the first sign of attention and care. Reminds me of a story I once heard about a mustard seed and a little thing called faith… 

Surrender

Featured

Posted on by
2

It’s usually about 5:15am. If we make it to 5:30am, we consider ourselves fortunate. For several months, it was the tunes of High School Musical – the likes of Gabriella and Troy ushering us (however much against our will) out of REM and into consciousness. These days, it’s the dueling lyrics of the surfers vs the bikers from the Teen Beach movie series. As soon as one song ends, our feisty thirteen-year-old daughter barks an order to “Echo” to play the next song of her choosing. This is usually the point where one of two problems occur. The first is, because our daughter insists on listening to her music at sonic-boom level, Echo usually can’t hear the next request being yelled to her. And so begins the utterly painful repetition of “Echo! Stop music!” voiced with increasing volume and frustration until Echo can hear over her own volume (?) and respond appropriately.

Once the music stops, my husband and I know to take a quick breath of relief and prepare ourselves to listen to problem number two play out. Because our daughter has Down syndrome, her speech is not always as crystal clear as Echo needs to understand her request. And, just to be clear, past experience has taught us we are not to get involved (i.e. door slammed in our face as we break the sacred teenage closed-door boundary to offer our services). So, the back and forth begins – Mary tells Echo to play one song and Echo comes back with entirely the wrong tune. The two of them go on like this for some time until Echo finally gets it right and the singing and dancing can finally continue. 

Every morning. This happens e. v. e. r. y.  m. o. r. n. i. n. g. Like all seven of them in the week. All 28 to 31 of them in the month. I fully consider Echo a part of our family at this point. I actually find myself empathizing with her when her best efforts to get it right don’t pan out and find myself cheering her on in my head – “C’mon Echo. You’ve got this.” I am always impressed – and oddly grateful – when she does figure it out and makes my daughter’s wish come true.

As I listened to Mary sing and dance her way into a new day this morning, I myself was downstairs snuggled on the couch, coffee in hand, trying to listen to the daily teaching through the Hallow app for the 40 days for Lent. (Side note: if you haven’t yet tried the Hallow app, sign up now. It is so – so – so good.) The entire series for the forty days of Lent is based on one word: surrender. Does anyone else’s skin crawl at that word? I’ll be totally honest in confessing that those nine little letters present what I find to be the most difficult challenge in life. Oh, how I love control. It is all at once my best friend and my deadliest enemy. 

My faith life is just wonderful when I’m talking to God and he’s right in line with my every need and desire – and perfectly-planned-out-plan. I’m just the most fabulously faithful person around when I bark a request and God understands and plays just the tune I asked for to keep me singing and dancing happily along. It’s when he doesn’t seem to hear me just right and asks me to dance to a different tune. That doesn’t sit well with me. The worries and anxieties are quick to pile on, his voice is drowned out by the noise of the world, and I find myself in the all-too-familiar back and forth of insisting I know best and asking for all the wrong things.

I’m learning, slowly but surely, that true surrender means having a grateful heart in all things. It is my daughter who gets up every day and, no-matter-what, begins with song and dance. Her life isn’t easy. Her extra chromosome makes so much of what we take for granted immeasurably hard. She’s vulnerable. Oh, is she vulnerable. And she feels fear and stress and doesn’t have the words to even explain it. But the joy. This inherent, indescribable strength, perseverance and joy in this beautiful little soul. It is the purest – most powerful – example of surrender.

Of course, surrender is not a one-time thing. It’s different for everyone, and for me anyway, it’s often a moment-to-moment request. “Jesus, I surrender myself to you. Take care of everything.” In this seemingly simple prayer, we are promised to find our freedom and asked to greet each day with expectant and grateful hearts. We’ve got this. I’d say it’s time to dance. “Echo, play music.”    

Featured

Posted on by
6

I’m not necessarily known for being merciful. That’s not to imply I’m mean – but I am real. I don’t hold much back and, for the most part, people get to know the real me pretty quickly; sometimes as early as our first encounter. Such was the case I’d say for my future daughter-in-law.

The first time she came over for dinner, the four of us – myself, my husband, my son and his then brand-new girlfriend – played quadruple solitaire. This oxymoron is a deliciously fast-past competitive game where each player deals his/her own deck of cards solitaire style, yet any aces placed in the middle are free for all to play on. My five cousins and I would play this for hours on end growing up. There was always a significant amount of pouncing, a fair amount of yelling and a dose of legit rage every now and then when someone swooped in and played the very card you were trying to get rid of. Years of experience with this has left me a bit (ok, totally) blind to the somewhat viscous nature of the game and the trauma one might experience when trying it out for the first time. Enter future daughter-in-law stage left. 

Seated across from this young woman, we reviewed the rules of the game and I proceeded with the same aggressively competitive nature I have been raised with. Cue Katelyn grabbing one of her cards and reaching to the middle to place it down only to be beat out by my swift and merciless hand that snuck my card under hers, slapping it down with enough force to wordlessly declare to the universe that I owned the play.

While I never actually intended it, I now realize I couldn’t have planned a better hazing opportunity if I had tried. Katelyn had every reason to be horrified by my manner, yet not only did this girl take it all with ease, she came back. And, she still plays this game with me. Sometimes. If I ask nicely. 

Some might feel the need to apologize for such questionable behavior, yet I am more inclined to simply say, you’re welcome. No point in putting on airs. This girl deserved to know the truth of what she was getting into right from the start. 

It feels surreal, really. My guy – my first born – is getting married. I guess I’ve been training for this his whole life; each stage of letting go slowly preparing me for this handing over of sorts. As any mother might, I do wonder; have I done enough? Maybe not. But he has been raised in the presence of love for twenty-two years now. I may not be ready. But he is. 

He knows what love is. He knows it’s abundant in the easy but also hidden in those moments when what was easy becomes a decision. 

He knows love doesn’t mean perfection, but somehow it’s enough for two people who come in many pieces to form one beautiful whole. 

He knows love doesn’t mean grief won’t find you, but it does mean it won’t break you. He knows when one of you can’t carry the weight of it all, the other will be there to give more of themself than they ever knew was possible. 

He knows true love demands putting God first – even over you – because if he doesn’t invite God in, he can’t be the best friend, husband and partner he is called to be.

He knows love is work, it is sacrifice, it is wanting more for the other than you do for yourself. 

He knows love is in the messy bun and pjs as much, if not more, than the put together version that first caught his eye. 

He knows love means laughing together – often and loudly – even when it is at his expense. Not in a self-deprecating way, but in the acceptance that you are each a work in progress and there is always room and time for growth.

He knows love is in the unspoken glances that somehow say more than words ever could.

He knows you are a gift, handpicked just for him. He knows you are the other half that will – with time, through the mountaintop highs and valley lows, the easy and the hard, the living and the loving – make him whole. 

______________

And when her son was taken down from the cross and placed in her arms, she knew every moment – from the annunciation to his last breath – was God gently preparing her to let go and do the very thing a mother’s heart innately fears. Every precious moment together was this slow and steady realization that he was never really hers at all. She was given the gift of nurturing him, feeding his body and soul, protecting him, teaching him and loving him like no one else could. But it was all for this moment when he would give himself to the world in the most complete and selfless way he could. She no longer had to wonder if she had done enough. He was ready. And to all those who would open their hearts and receive him, she quietly proclaimed, you’re welcome.