With Alpine Trails and Grief

Here we are already, Labor Day.  For us, school began last week.  For many others, school begins tomorrow.  It is the un-official "official" end of summer!  As I look back on what feels like the fastest summer thus far, and try to figure out where the time disappeared to, I can't help but think about the two biggest happenings of our summer - those events we gave not only our time to, but our emotional and physical energy.  Here's to the best and the worst of Summer 2017.

The highlight of my summer was being able to take a trip in early June with my husband to spend a week visiting friends in Alaska!  The trip was certainly the biggest and most exciting thing we did this summer (or any of our summers, for that matter)!

And the activity highlight of the trip for me was the hike we made our last day in Denali National Park.  We had done the whale watching earlier; we had done the camping in Denali the last few nights; we had done the long bus ride as far as we could go into the park, and had even seen a bear, a wolf and a lot of moose.  But that last day we pushed the limits of a great trip, by pushing our physical limits, with a BIG hike. 

We began at the "end" of the trail.  We would begin at the end, and work our way back to where we had been staying, to the familiar, moderate ground.  We knew instantly this would not be easy to do.  The Savage River Alpine Trail stretched out over 4 miles, and during that distance increased 1200 feet in elevation.  It was one of the most exhilarating climbs of my life!  Physically, mentally, spiritually.  It was incredible - incredibly difficult and incredibly empowering, incredibly holy and incredibly eye-opening (and did I mention, incredibly difficult?).  In the end, that hike proved the most memorable moment of the trip for me!  

But, unfortunately, not the most memorable of the summer. 

We made that journey just weeks before we made the next incredibly difficult journey of our summer - the loss of our baby to miscarriage. 

And as I look back at both, I see remarkable similarities:  

Both journeys started out the same - rocky and straight up!  A LONG way up!  Hard.  Harsh terrain.  Barren and rocky.  Every step seems more challenging than the ones you just made as you claimed they were the most challenging you'd ever done.  Pain and fatigue seeped slowly but surely through your body and your pounding heart.  If you look back at the solid ground where you were before, panic and fear would take hold.  At times all you could do was push yourself to just keep going, even (especially) when you just wanted to collapse; every time you'd let yourself stop to catch your breath, you were certain you could not go on.  Certain you would never make it.  Questioning whether you should have taken the steps that got you on this journey in the first place, and sure you would never want to do it again.  Straight uphill on unfriendly terrain.  The journey starts out shakingly difficult, unbearably painful. 

. . .

Then strangely, the terrain starts to change a bit.  You have reached a peak.  The steps start to even out a little, though there are still so many to go.  You know you are nowhere near done yet.  But you can start to look back now without fear of falling.  The challenge, the pain, are still very fresh in your memory, in your cells.  But you can now start to see another path.  You are grateful for the people who have made this journey before, who trod this way and set this path where you now walk.  From where you are, not only do you have a view of the challenging "what you've been through," you can now start to see out "beyond."  Back, here, forward - all directions, all of it.  You are able to see a bigger picture.  You recognize how much wilderness you still have to get through, but now that you can see it all together, can you recognize how much goodness is also there.  There are little buds of color coming into view, layers of depth to the view, and a whole lot of GOD.  It is a strange mix of challenge-still and gloriousness.  And either way, you've made it this far.  You are quietly proud of yourself, as you push yourself to keep going.   

. . .

And then you start making your way back down.  It goes much quicker, but it's still not "easy."  Once again, the terrain starts to take on another look; this time you start to see life.  A lot of green, lush, thick life.  Slowly, but surely, with each twist on the path and each decent towards the place you want to be, life continues to pop up.  There are still challenges - mud, rivers to cross, slippery slopes (those deceptively quick steps down that catch you off guard), tree branches to avoid and other obstacles to overcome.  But it feels more possible. The pain is either subsiding or becoming such a part of you that you don't notice it as much.  And before you know it (seriously, didn't it seem like time moved in slow motion as we climbed, how did it speed up so suddenly?!), you're back to "normal" again.  Back to the kind of terrain where you started, where you were before this journey took you straight up.  

Except that after a journey like this - and the way your body, your heart, your mind, your Spirit all put themselves into it in ways you didn't know would be necessary, ways you didn't know you were even capable of - after a journey like that, where you started is not the same anymore.  

Being back to "normal" is a new normal.  It may be the "beginning" of the trail, but it is a totally different place than where you started.

For you are now changed.  You will never look at the world the same again. 

. . . 

And although you have completed the trail, you know that you are still not done. The most challenging, most ingrained in your memory, part of the journey may be over, but you will still have to continue walking.  All paths lead to another.  You will take many, many more steps.   Some will be straight uphill, others will be among green life.  Most will be spent somewhere in between.  And in Denali, as in life, those paths cross each other and morph into each other with little warning at times.  You did not walk a straight, linear path; your workout is more complex than the time spent between the "beginning" and the "end" signs.  You made it through the exhilarating part of the journey, with all its terrain and challenges and blessings and insights.  But there are still new paths that you will continue to journey, and memories of that trail will continue to penetrate your mind and heart, until you are finally home.

It's not a once in a lifetime experience.

It's an experience that opens you up for a lifetime. 

That is how the journey is - with Alpine trails, and Grief.   

Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb: A Book Review

Ironically, I offered to preview this book while we were still waiting to find out "for sure" about our latest little one, long before our latest journey of loss.  And so what began as a desire to help a fellow-writer on a topic close to my heart, became a fellow-writer's book helping me on a journey of my heart.

The book is Heidi Indahl's "Blessed Is the Fruit of Thy Womb: Rosary Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss."

I met Heidi at the Catholic Women's Blogger Conference this past March.  She is a Montessori home-schooling Mom of many and a wonderful witness for her (converted-to) Catholic faith!  She blogs, works on curriculum for other parent-educators, loves Mary...and the best part (well, far from "best," but it was what resonated with me the most and made me love her courage) is that she writes honestly about miscarriage.  That's right, at a point very shortly after we lost our third baby to miscarriage, I learned that Heidi too has lost three littles the same way.  But what's more, Heidi knows the additional loss of her daughter Kenna to stillbirth and her daughter Siena to infant loss.

Her strength astounds me.  Her faith and hopefulness through it all I am still praying to find.  And her willingness to share about it openly and honestly is something I find too little of.  Something that made my journey, especially my first loss, extremely difficult:  Why is this so silent?  Why do I have to pretend this never happened, like everyone around me is?

But Heidi shares her journey.  And in doing so, shares her faith.  And in doing so, shares a bit of the hope that all of us who have gone through similar journeys are longing to find.

So when Heidi shared that she had written a book on miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss and was looking for a few folks to review it for her, I wasted no time in zipping off my Facebook Messenger note!  

I first took a look at the book in May, and liked it.  

Heidi shares her own story and the journey her family have made through deaths and births and each again.  She shared the joys, the sorrows, and the unexpected grace that came through it all.  And although Heidi and I's journeys are different in a lot of the details, still I could relate.  What's more - I felt like she was relating with me!  It may seem a minor difference, if any difference at all; but for anyone who has experienced the loneliness of grief of any kind, I'm sure you can appreciate the intricacy and importance of this distinction - I wasn't alone, someone (even if only the character on a page) knew what I was thinking and feeling and going through; they were relating to me, and their understanding and affirming support meant the world!   

In addition to being sucked in by her honest story, Heidi had me with her brief reflections.  That's right, brief reflections. I almost hate to admit it, but as a busy, working, exhausted-would-fall-into-bed-before-my-kids-if-I-could Mom, I suck at reading!  I'm a slow reader to begin with, and add to it the lack of time and lack of energy to keep my eyes open, and my best laid plans and best intentions to read anything - from the newspaper, to novels to my prayer book - usually vanish quickly.  But Heidi's book was not a problem for me.  There is a reflection for each mystery of the Rosary (all four sets), and each is only one page long.

And they are beautiful!

Although brief, Heidi is able to bring in real-life elements of her and other women's journey of loss that closely relates to the Mystery and the experience of Mary.  I - the "Master" of Theology - found myself thinking about great theological and sacramental elements of our faith in a beautifully understandable and relate-able way. 

And each reflection ended with a reflection question or two.  I am an introvert, a brooder, a processor, a can't-let-it-go-er, a worrier, an I-miss-my-babies-er.  So with all those things, I can guarantee you I have spent a LOT of time thinking and praying and reflecting about my experiences of loss, and where GOD is in all of it.  But even with plenty of thought over the years and months, her reflections and her questions still opened me up to new thinking.  

Some opened up new insights.  Some opened up new comfort.  Some opened both, and more.  

But perhaps my favorite part of Heidi's book is that for each Mystery, after she breaks open a Gospel event, delves into Mary's love for us and all our children, invites us to think about our own experiences in new ways, then she challenges us to pray for others.  There is a saying that the best way to forget your troubles is to pray for someone else's.  I don't know if that is 100% true or not, but I doubt it can hurt.  And it was such a beautiful thing to me to be invited to pray for all those who would find out they were pregnant this day as I prayed the decade for the Visitation, or to pray for anyone in need of a miracle as I prayed the Wedding at Cana decade, and to pray in thanksgiving for those who walked with me in my grief as I thought about the Agony in the Garden.  Whether you read the book as a book, or as a prayer before each decade, or somewhere in between, the combination of reflections, questions and prayer intentions was beautifully done and opened up a place of grace for me (a place I even stayed awake for each exhausted night! :) )

I was certainly a fan of the book.

And then, the past few weeks happened....

But before I go there, I must make my confession: Mary and I, never best friends.  I mean, I love "Momma Mary" (as we call her in our house) and know that she loves me.  I love her faithfulness and strength and wish I could be more like her.  But we've never really been "tight."  I've tried talking with her at different times in my life, and it never felt like the right saint for me; I always seem to end up praying with someone else in the end.  Though there have been a few times (while pregnant with Layla and while praying for Stephen's name last summer) that I felt Mary speaking to me in a powerful way, I really can't list much more than those two encounters in my life.  So the Rosary (another confession) has been a prayer I tend to say when my brain won't stop worrying about something at night and I need the gentle repetition to help me fall asleep, and less to meditate on Mary's love of us and Jesus. (But I don't feel bad - did you know that St. Therese of Lisieux - one of my patrons, being the patroness of mission - didn't like to pray the Rosary?  And she's AMAZING!!  If she can become a saint without the Rosary, I might stand a slight chance too, right?  Different devotions for different people - the beauty of the church!  But I digress...)  

So without a strong relationship with Mary, and without a regular practice of the Rosary, when I first read Heidi's book, it was just that - a book.  A beautiful, spiritual, relate-able and grace-filled book...but still "just" a book.  It wasn't a form of retreat, as Heidi suggests it may be in her introduction.  Until...

This past week, as things once again spiraled out of control on our fertility journey and we lost our fourth little angel, I found Heidi's book in my bag.  Shoot! I was supposed to review that!  Between our trip, a crazy work schedule immediately upon return, and then the hell of going through this all again, I had totally lost track of my doing this.  So I placed it once again on my dresser beside my bed, and began to re-read it.  Only this time, it was more than a book.  This time, it was a prayer.

It was a prayer in that it spoke to me anew.  Those same reflections and questions that meant a great deal to me even years after my previous losses, had new and fresh meaning still after this immediate loss.  

It was a prayer to me in how it got me outside of myself.  Let's just say that the old saying proved true - during days when I can barely make it through the drive to daycare without crying out in prayers for myself and this journey of mine, it was a true blessing and felt like a load was lightened on my to be able to pray for others (to not be thinking about the pain 24-7; 23-7 is a little better :) ).

And it was a prayer to me in that I prayed.  I would read several reflections, and then pray those Mysteries on my Rosary.  My Rosary that hung next to my bed for years and has only been grabbed a few times, now found its way next to my pillow each and every night.  Maybe it's the grief, maybe it's the book, maybe it's Mary reaching out to me in a way that only another mother who has lost a child can know to do.  But whatever the reason, my Rosary and I are "tight."  Mary and I have a lot more in common to talk about than I realized.  And I can't thank Heidi enough for the gift of sharing her journey, and Mary's, with me just when I needed it!  

* * * *

Whether you "need" it or not, I would recommend this book.  It has beautiful insights into Mary, as well as into the loss that your family or friends (or yourself) may be going or have gone through.  

To learn more about the book and it's author, visit:

Heidi's blog: www.workandplaydaybyday.com

The publisher: Peanut Butter & Grace

A Seller:  Amazon.com

or St. Gerard books 

Finding Myself Inside the Sacred Heart

I've never been much of a devotional kind of gal.  Devoted? Yes.  But devotionals? Not so much.  I don't know why.  It's not that I'm opposed to them, but my faith life has just found expression in other ways, in other tenements of our tradition.  

So honestly, I've never really recognized the Feast of the Sacred Heart before.  I know about the Sacred Heart.  I know the image: Jesus' physical heart - wrapped in sorrow and suffering, yet burning with love - as the representation of his divine love for all of humanity.  But I never paid much attention to when the Church celebrates the solemnity or chose to celebrate it myself.  Nor have I ever found myself praying to the Sacred Heart.  Although it's one of the most popular devotions in the Catholic Church, it was never one I found myself turning or relating to.  

Until this year.

This year is different.  Because this year is all-too familiar.   

After three previous miscarriages, we prayed this time would be different.  But before we knew it we found ourselves in that familiar situation - the series of appointments, the scans, the blood tests, the tears.  This time would be the same.  

The difference is that this year, while still numb from the heart-breaking news, my body would move much more quickly into the physical part of the loss.  And on the eve of the Sacred Heart, I found myself having labor pains for a child I will not labor for.  This feast day was spent awaiting the birth of a child who will never have a birthday.  We find ourselves preparing to deliver a child who has already been delivered to heaven's gates. 

Already been delivered right into the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Into his pure love!  Into pure joy, complete unity, absolute beauty, utter peace.  This Feast day, my child knows the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the most true way. 

Meanwhile, I too am discovering its depth.  Though in a different way.  While our little angel is being invited into the burning love of Christ's Sacred Heart, I find myself being invited into the thorns, into the sorrow and suffering of Christ.

Our faith, and this devotional that strives to represent it, remind us of the suffering and death that Jesus underwent on Calvary's hill.  But more than that, it speaks to the sorrow that Christ continues to feel each and every day he loves us.  The sorrow of watching a world he loves turn away from him, of watching his beloved children suffer, of wanting goodness for a people who continues to know darkness.  His heart aches with our aches, he suffers when we suffer, he takes our pains and burdens upon himself.  And sometimes, when we don't recognize or return the love, it seems it could all be in vain.  That to me is the true crown of thorns Jesus wears.  

But Jesus' suffering was not - is not - suffering for suffering's sake.  It is suffering for the sake of love.   

GOD created our world out of love, all the while knowing full well that we would turn away, that we would make mistakes, that we would cause him pain.  Yet he made us nonetheless.  He knew our humanity would struggle.  Yet he chose to be in utter solidarity with us.  GOD knew that we would never be able to return the fullness of the Love by which we were created.  Yet we were made and loved from the start (from before the start).

What must it be like to bring about life that you know cannot, will not, serve you?  To love someone so deeply and completely that you ask absolutely nothing in return?  In which your only return will be pain and sorrow, but when done for the sake of the one you love so deeply and completely, that is enough?  

That is the love of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  It is self-less and true.  

Today, I am suffering.  I hurt, emotionally yes, but in particular this day physically.  And like Christ's pain, mine is for a child I know full well will not be with me, will never be able to return the Love in which they were created.  I made a life that now causes me pain, I am laboring one who cannot bring me any other return in this world.  And in this physical suffering, I am beginning to see the depth of the Sacred Heart. 

For each measure of pain is worth it.  

Though it aches my heart to know that each body ache is in vain, that no life will come from it, it does not diminish the love I feel for this baby.  Nothing can diminish that!  

I don't know how to explain it.  But when you love someone - love them from long before they are even on the horizon of present reality - that love can't be taken away from you.  There may be sorrow.  There may be pain.  There may be suffering.  And all of it because of them.  But you don't stop loving them because of it. 

If anything, your love grows.  Even in death.  

When you join the Divine in the creation of life, you also join Him in the self-less giving of your comfort, of your return, to that life - like it or not.

I will admit, I don't like it.  There is not a single part of me that "likes" this!  This is not how I would have chosen to discover the Sacred Heart.  But this is the invitation I have been given nonetheless.  It is the invitation to find myself inside the Sacred Heart, and all that that means.  

And inside the Sacred Heart I see not only the depth of Christ's suffering, but how the thorns and the flame are completely inseparable.  That is the depth of the Sacred Heart.  That like it or not, when you love, when you create, you take them both.     

And while mine is far from the selfless and true extent of Christ's, I too am invited to offer my heart today - with its thorns and its flame - for my little one.  

Today, I am crawling inside the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  My heart too wears a crown of thorns, a suffering for a life I have loved that causes me great pain, a life that will never be able to love me in return.  And yet my heart wears a flame, a burning love for a life that is worth every ache, every tear, every ounce of sorrow, a life that was destined to be loved - regardless of all else - from the very start. 

On this Feast of the Sacred Heart, my newest child gets to see firsthand the selfless and true love of Christ (one of the only consolations I find).  But their Momma, she gets to offer it.

And like it or not, it is perhaps the closest I will ever come to the Divine.   

"Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,
for I am meek and humble of heart;
and you will find rest for yourselves.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

(Matthew 11: 28-30, Gospel reading for the 
Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, June 23rd 2017)

For Baby #7, who would have been 11 weeks this weekend, may you always know how loved you are on Earth, until the day when I can share with you in the full extent of Christ's Sacred Heart in heaven.  

Holy Coffee

I was only in there for a matter of minutes.  But in that time, something profound seemed to happen.

I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday morning, in my usual hurry to get my weekly treat and head off to work on time.  A bit dismayed at the long line in front of me - and glad that I got in before the two people who entered immediately after me - a series of events quickly changed my annoyed tune.  As I was waiting in line, a man in front of me turned and said good-morning, a woman who had just gotten her drink and was on her way out smiled as she passed, and then I heard the Barista greet the next customer in line by name, well before he had spoken a word or shown his "loyal member" card to identify himself.

"Hmmm," I thought, "She must know him."

But they did not engage in any deep or personal conversation that would suggest they were friends or even acquaintances outside of the Barista-customer relationship.  "But she knew his name before he even got there?" I just kept thinking.

I placed my order, was called by my name (after I showed my "loyal member" card), and paid for my drink.  But not before I heard another worker at the coffee shop say "Hi Ahli" as he stepped forward to the till to help with the growing line behind me.  A man stepped towards his side of the counter, said "hello" back, and placed his order.

"Wow," I thought, "He knows his name too."

Having finished with my order, I walked to the other end of the counter to wait for my drink.  And as I waited, I watched the first Barista I had encountered this morning give the man behind me his total, before he had even reached the counter also.

"Holy Moly," I thought, "She knows him so well she already knows his order!"

I witnessed the workers of my favorite coffee shop call numerous customers by name, have their orders memorized, give a complimentary carton of coffee to EMT workers to take with them, and even offer to help carry drinks - all with a line of customers long enough to stress out the normal worker of any business, let alone their impatient customers in the line.  But as I waited and watched, taking in all the smiles, "hellos," names and interactions of folks on both sides of that counter, I realized that the line there this day was perhaps a bit more than just a line of "customers."

It was a line of community.

That small, crowded shop seemed brimming with a sense of unity, regardless of the diversity that filled it.  These people - who I had never seen here before, despite my regular stops - all seemed to belong here, to belong to one another in the various relationships they had with staff or one another.  Even I as the stranger felt like I somehow belonged to them as I encountered it all!  And each small action of outreach and relationship seemed to help spur one another on in cheer and a positive outlook on the day ahead.

It was a community!  


* * * * * * 

Now I don't pretend that the recognition of a few "regulars" automatically institutes a community.  Nor that rush hour at the coffee shop is equal to that of a strong faith community or family.  But I also realized in that morning experience, that the two are not mutually un-equal either.

For it was in the simple act of acknowledging another - with a smile or hello from strangers - that I felt a sense of welcome.

"How good and pleasant it is
when God’s people live together in unity!" (Psalm 133:1) 

And it was in the important act of calling one by name - an effort in building and acknowledging the relationship - that I could see individuals feel a sense of belonging.

"For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others." (Romans 12:4-5)

And it was from having experienced those first two things that people moved on to serving others also - offering smiles and hellos of their own to strangers (heck, even I offered to help someone carry her coffee trays, and held the door for someone entering as I left) as they entered into a sense of involvement. 

"And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another." (Hebrews 10:24-25) 

A few weeks ago at a talk by Alejandro Aguilar Titus, Assistant Director for the Secretariat for Cultural Diversity in the Church, he listed these three things - welcome, belonging and involvement - as the important stages that people need to move through in order to have community development within a faith community.  I have been reflecting on them ever since, thinking about the ways I have moved through these stages in my own various communities.  I even spoke about these stages at a talk I did in a parish earlier this week.  And yesterday morning, I saw them played out right before my eyes in a small coffee shop on my way to work.

And while I again do not pretend that the community built in that coffee shop holds the same value or power as a faith community, it was a reminder to me of how important those three stages of community-building are.  Of how very important community in general is!

As I got in my vehicle - iced mocha in hand, ready to face the day - I felt something other than the caffeine buzz stirring inside of me.  I felt joy.  I felt power.  I felt a sense of pride in my world.  It was honestly not a feeling I can say I feel all the time or even every day.  But this morning in what I witnessed, I felt an overwhelming mix of positive emotions, as I had no doubt I had just experienced holiness in that little corner shop.  For that is what community is - holy. 


* * * * * *

Although I was very proud of my preferred coffee shop on that morning (and now prefer it even more), this is not a commercial for the business.  It is a commercial for community.  The holy community that can happen anywhere when we slow down and take the time to acknowledge those around us and allow ourselves to open up to one another; when we share life together - from the simplest events such as morning coffee to the big celebrations of sacraments - with each other; and when we work towards each of the stages of community-building our church calls us to - even outside of the church. 

No matter where you find your community, I encourage you to think about the ways you encounter and interact with others within it.  Do you offer simple acts of acknowledgement and welcome?  Do you continue to build relationships, calling others by name as GOD does for us, so that they may know they belong?  Do you make efforts to involve and be involved?

And for those of us who are members - especially leaders - of a faith community, can we take a lesson from my Baristas and fellow costumers, recognizing that we too probably still have work to do in these areas.  There is no community too big, none too small, no gathering of humans in church or synagogue or mosque or office building or coffee shop or corner of the globe that cannot continue to work on building community with one another!

This is our call.  We are one human family - "neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male and female, you are all one" (Galatians 3:28).  

We are all one - coffee lovers or tea drinkers, students or businessmen, "regulars" or those surprised by grace on Friday morning! 

 

For those who cry the second Sunday of May

She meant well enough, the woman stretching next to me after my work Friday morning.  She meant very well, in fact.  How was she to know that her innocent enough inquiry was my least favorite question, the one that would pierce my heart as she asked: 

"How many children do you have?”  

It's the question that makes my body start to sweat and my heart skip a beat.  And in that fraction of an un-beating second, my brain and heart begin to battle, trying to carefully calculate my answer.  Do I give the answer they’re looking for – the number of children the world sees, those three children living in my home, whose names are spoken by many on a daily basis?  Or do I give the answer my gut cries out – the number of children seen by my heart, those additional three children residing in heaven, whose names are heard only by our family?  If I say six, will they ask for ages and details?  In which case, do I have the strength today to answer without crying; do I have the strength today to be vulnerable enough to let myself cry?  

In that split-second, that can feel like hours, I wrestle with how much of my story I will share.

For you see, my story is one of grief and loss.  But, unfortunately, like too many others, it is a story of an invisible loss, of suffering from an invisible grief.

My husband and I lost our first child to miscarriage over 7 years ago.  Since that time, we have been blessed with three beautiful children with whom we share our home.  Three lives bookmarked by two more miscarriages, suffered this past year.  Though only twelve, eleven and five week along in our pregnancies, each loss felt as if an entire lifetime had been stolen from me, forcing me into a journey physically, emotionally and spiritually that I could never have been prepared for, even after having experienced it before.  And along that journey, a hurricane of emotions follows – ranging day-to-day and sometimes second-to-second from sadness, to anger, to confusion, to peace, to guilt, to jealousy, to doubt, to faith...and back again.  It is a storm that leaves a path of devastation unparalleled to Hurricane Katrina, where nothing seems to be left untouched, unchanged.  For better or for worse, I am changed because of the lives I carried within me, the lives I have said good-bye to before they’d even begun.  

As a friend of mine once put it, “There's a void that remains from being so close to a miracle that you are touched and transformed by it even as it slips away.”

And while the tiny lives of our un-held babies have slipped away from us, the love and connection I feel for them has not.  They are still my children.  I am still their mother.  

And it is that very fact that makes this weekend a difficult one for me.  

Despite the special holiday supposedly meant to honor me, it is a day in which the void feels even greater.  Although I still find such joy in my little man, my Beanie and my curly-headed monster, although I still feel such gratitude for them as they bring me the only breakfast they know how to make (buttered toast) in bed and homemade pictures, although I still feel love in abundance on Mother's Day, I also feel the ever-present hole of those babies who I didn't get to know well enough to give nicknames, whose finger prints aren't in the butter, whose love I never fully got to share.  

The second Sunday of May becomes a well-meaning day that also pierces my heart.  

The stores are stocked with glitter-spackled, pop-up, singing, poetic and humorous cards of all kinds, with salutations to every proper noun imaginable - Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mother, Grandma, Nana, Grandmother, Godmother, Aunt, Sister, Friend...  You name it!  And each one designed to bring joy and love to any woman lucky enough to open it.   

But what about the women whose love perhaps takes a different form, whose joy is overshadowed by difficulty?  What about those who don't fit the flowerly Hallmark mold on the shelves?  What about the women who wrestle with non-glittery emotions this day?   

My own difficulty each Mother's Day, as I wrestle with the tension between the joy of those children I have been invited to keep and the loss of those who are now in GOD's keeping, has me very aware that this day can be much more difficult than the greeting card companies would have us believe.  It has me aware of the many other women out there like myself whose hearts are pierced a little (extra) each second Sunday of May.  

And so today, I am thinking of them: 

I am thinking of the women who have lost babies.  Those who wrestle with the life they didn't get to keep.

I am thinking of the women who have lost children at any age.  Those who wrestle with having outlived the life they brought forth. 

I am thinking of the women who don't have children.  Those wrestling with infertility or the search for their partner in parenting. 

I am thinking of the women who have given up their babies.  Those who wrestle with the love that led them to adoption, and the hearts that still wonder what if.

I am thinking of the women (and men) who have lost their mothers.  Those young and old who wrestle with the longing to be able to give a card, or a hug, one more May. 

I am thinking of the women in hospital rooms and war zones.  Those who wrestle against the odds, trying to find the strength to fight for their child's health or safety.  

I am thinking of the women who raise their children on their own.  Those who wrestle with the incredible challenges of parenting without the support they need, or once had.

I am thinking of the women who are separated from their children.  Those who wrestle with the distance - physically or relationally - keeping them from being with their children this day.   

I am thinking of the women who are called "Step."  Those who wrestle with what their place is.

I am thinking of the women who are expecting.  Those who wrestle with questions and fear and an unknown they cannot possible be prepared for.  

I am thinking of the women (and men, girls and boys) who have not had the mothers they need.  Those who wrestle with a past of let-downs or a presence of hurt from those they should be loved by the most.    

I am thinking of those women who are struggling.  Those who wrestle with questions of their own abilities amidst the daily challenges of parenting. 

I am thinking of the women whose dreams for their family have been ripped away by violence, displacement, poverty, oppression.  Those who wrestle with being able to provide for their children, who cannot even fathom the sparkling necklaces and perfect bouquets on TV.  

I am thinking of all the women who cry this second Sunday of May.  

It's an innocent enough inquiry.  I hear it all the time from clerks at the store, parishioners at church, old high school classmates, perfect strangers and long-lost relatives. 

But at this time of year, where all our attention is turned towards mothering, and those seemingly simple inquiries tend to multiple - "Do you have children?"  "How many children do you have?" "Do you have big plans for Mother's Day?" - I am reminded that it is not so simple for everyone.  

So for all those who wrestle with the tension of joy and pain this Mother's Day, and for all those for whom a pierced heart is the only thing they are given this second Sunday of May, I am thinking of you.  

You are in my prayers today, no questions asked!  

When sorrowful stories meet joyful psalms

It was our annual Mission Rally (read about the event here), a day when we gather the members of the parish mission groups that have been serving the global and local church in our diocese in one capacity or another for over 100 years, even longer than our Mission Office itself has been around.  Our numbers weren't huge this year, but those who were there seemed excited about the day.  They were quickly trickling in, as I chaotically worked to get our technology set-up (without nearly enough caffeine in me), and now it was time to take a deep breath and dive into the day.  The clock was striking 9:00!

And before it had even reached 10:00, the tears were already noticeable in people's eyes.  Our first speaker had shared a powerful story of 19 men who were caught for over seven months in a horrible situation of labor trafficking.  Their food pantry was locked.  They were given no change of clothes or shower.  They were forced to work 12 or more hour days yet given no pay, or not their full pay.  Verbal assaults.  Physical assaults.  Separated from their families, who underwent threats.  Their legal documents and identity paperwork confiscated, giving them no way out.  It was a powerful story, and unfortunately not the only one of its kind.  And this happened just miles from where I live, where I try to teach my children to be fair and kind and to be giving to others.

With this story still weighing on my heart, the clock ticked forward as we heard our second keynote presentation - this one the story of Jenny, a woman who spent nearly three decades as a victim of sex trafficking.  She was only 14 years old when it began.  She was targeted and groomed by her trafficker within only 36 hours of leaving home.  She was arrested multiple times for prostitution before she was 18.  Violence.  Addiction.  Five felonies, and five suicide attempts.  She spent the next 28 years living a dehumanizing life of abuse, and much like the men I had met through story just minutes before, with no way out.  It was a powerful story, and unfortunately one of more than 500 a year at just one helping agency alone.  And this happened just an hour from my home, where I try to teach my children to see themselves as beautiful and holy and to be gentle with each other. 

As our speaker finished, there was a heaviness that could be felt in the room.  A still weight upon us, and despite the 135 moving bodies, a silence to the point where we could almost hear the quiet ticking of the clock.  I remember turning to a friend as we moved into the next part of our day and said, "I'm going to the bathroom now to cry if anyone would like to join me."  Her response was, "It just makes me so angry."

Sadness. Anger.

Injustice. Violence.

Horrible, horrible stories.

Horrible, horrible realities in our world.  

And then, the clock told us that it was time for Mass.  And just minutes after I watched tears form in numerous eyes, after I heard the confusing and difficult stories of dehumanizing abuses of my brothers and sisters, after we had opened wide the wounds of our world and our hearts ached in solidarity with them, I found myself singing the most joyful Psalm:    

"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"    

The upbeat piano, the joyous Easter melody, and each stanza singing pure praise to a Lord of nothing but goodness.  

It struck me as out of place.  How did this fit in the context of what we had just been sharing?  Sure it was the Easter Season, but we had just heard of the very real and unimaginable suffering of our brothers and sisters.  

It just didn't seem to fit!  

Or perhaps better said, it just seemed hard to reconcile.  So much so that I've spent the last few weeks working on it.

* * * * * 

I see it everywhere now, these stark contrasts.   

The barren, cold white of the snow, clashing with the bright, lively green of the grass.  A striking mix to me.  Winter and spring, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The radio announcer's solemn recounting of a tragic stabbing on a college campus, intermingled with the cute giggles of my little girl singing and playing in the backseat.  A striking mix to me.  Sorrow and joy, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The pain of knowing that a friend has suffered yet another loss of a child, intertwined with the excitement of hearing about another baby on the way.  A striking mix to me.  Pain and hope, death and life, harsh and Easter. 

The tears of a colleague whose race and culture has left her and her community feeling as if they matter not, on the heals of colleagues rejoicing at legislation that makes them feel as if their community has finally been heard.  A striking mix to me.  Abandonment and voice, death and life, harsh and Easter.   

My world of late seems full of these drastically different realities, even in our church.  

Here we are, in the Easter season, our churches decorated in color and flowers as we sing joyful hymns; yet for so many the color of their environment is dark with war as they listen to the 'arada (Syrian funeral band).  Here we are, celebrating First Communions with parties and pristine dresses, while the Body of Christ continues its hungry cries throughout the world.  Here we are, Easter people proclaiming the reality of life and hope; yet we continue living in the un-ending Lenten reality of memento mori ("Remember death"). 

We are surrounded by sorrowful stories, yet we sing joyful psalms.  How do we make sense of this striking mix?  

* * * * * 

As I said, I have been wresting with this contrast, trying to reconcile the glaring dissimilarities for weeks now.  As a woman of faith, yet a woman in the world, I find myself wondering:  To which do we give more credence - the hopes or the struggles?  Which voice do we raise - the joyful or the sorrowful?  In which reality do we see more of Christ - Easter or Good Friday?  

And still, I have no answers. 

But I do have some reminders:

The neighbor who noticed something wasn't quite right for the farm workers, who encouraged them to get help; the attorneys helping them with their case; the multiple communities expressing interest in being trained to help combat human trafficking issues.  The way out. 

The power of prayer that helped guide Jenny to safety; the hope and faith of her family through all those years; the good she is now doing by sharing her story and helping others in similar situations.  The way out.

The green grass fully visible and getting jungle-like tall again.  

The laughter of my children so loud it hurts my head at times.

The hope of new life bulging from bellies every where I look.

The important conversation with fellow ministers that goes over time.  

The knowledge that the 'arada also traditionally plays at weddings, and that memento mori means that someday we will be in paradise!  

Joy. Love.

Compassion. Peace.

Wonderful, wonderful stories.

Wonderful, wonderful realities in our world. 

These are the reminders to me that sometimes, even amidst the sorrowful stories, there is still room for joy. 

Do we ignore the struggle?  Do we belittle the fear?  Do we ignore the death?  Certainly not!  But we also refuse to stop seeing the good, upholding the hope, trusting in the life.  It is not easy.  Sometimes it feels too stark a contrast to reconcile.  But I am finding that we can sing "Hosanna" and cry out "My God, my God" in the same breath.  (I don't know about you, but sometimes I have to) 

Because sometimes it is the combination of the two - precisely the striking mix and seeming contrast - that is our way out.  Because they are both us, human and divine.  They are both Jesus in our midst. 

And so I will continue to wrestle, I will continue to cry, but I will also continue to (even when it doesn't seem to fit) sing joyful psalms.   

"How wonderful your works in all the earth!"   

But I didn't earn it

Things had turned from good to bad very quickly.  Maybe it was his fatigue at an unusual day that drained him; maybe it was mine.  It could have been his having to transition from a day with special one-on-one attention to suddenly having his sisters around again (it could have been my having to).  Perhaps it was just the way this Tuesday night was destined to go.  Either way, the sweet, listening, fun-loving boy I had spent several hours with earlier, was now screaming how mean and stupid I was, as he threw his dirty clothes across the room at me.

I wish I could say this is unusual behavior, and for the most part it is.  But unfortunately the truth is that about once a week, it is usual, as our little man's temper fuse gets lit unexpectedly, and burns hotter and hotter as the night comes to an end.  It's something we're working on (but that's another post for another time - GOD willing when I have more answers as to how to deal with it).

But on this particular night, amidst the rising tempers on the sides of both generations, he was informed that he would not get to spend the next day with his Nonna if he did not calm down.

And of course, he didn't.  At least not as soon as we had hoped.

The next morning Adrian woke up, and after a few minutes of our usual routine, he looked at me with suddenly downcast eyes and said, "I'm really sad that I don't get to go with Nonna today."

Squatting down, I put my hand under his chin and lifted his gaze to mine as I said with a smile I was sure would bring about his, "You do get to go with Nonna!"  Expecting him to be ecstatic and so grateful for my offering, I was not prepared for his response.  What he said next is still burned within me.

"But, I didn't earn it." 

I was struck!  It was said with a horrible mix of sadness and question.  He was right, he hadn't.  He was confused, that wasn't our deal.  He was still sad, this didn't make any sense. 

I'll admit, it was a mystery even to me.  It seemed too good to be true, so much so that he didn't know how to accept it.  The reality of his undeservedness weighed heavily on him.  Why would I forgive and grant something so special to someone who had so blatantly chosen to disobey, disrespect and turn away just a few hours before? 

Looking into those sad eyes, I was caught in a moment of motherly what-to-say.  Within a split second I had what felt like a year-long debate with myself, before out of nowhere I heard myself saying:

"I know.  But Jesus forgives us, so we need to forgive each other."

That was it.  That was all I could figure out to say.  But, with my hand still under his chin, I saw the adorable little grin I had been expecting a few moments earlier, finally emerge.  And it was so beautiful!    

* * * * * *

I wish I could say that I meant to teach my son a deep theological lesson.  I wish the truth isn't that I just didn't want to admit that it had been an empty threat, that plans were already in place (and because of our work schedule and lack of other options) he was going to be watched by his Nonna regardless.  I wish the truth isn't that in that split second I was searching my memory for something good he did in the terror of last night's tantrum to warrant this reward he was hoping for. 

I wish I had actually meant to recognize the powerful mystery going on, and who gives it to us.

But the truth is, I just said something that popped into my head after all those other thoughts. 

It wasn't until I saw that beautiful smile - the sweet relief that mercy offers and joy that being loved brings - that I realized how powerful forgiveness might be, for both of us. 

* * * * * *

Forgiveness.
Mercy.
Being granted something we haven't earned.

These are powerful things.  Beautiful things.  

And while theologically I know this, seeing it realized between my son and I that ordinary Wednesday morning, brought about an altogether new understanding for me.

Pope Francis said in his book The Name of God is Mercy, that "The most important thing in the life of every man and every woman is not that they should never fall along the way.  The important thing is always to get back up, not to stay on the ground licking your wounds."

My son has always been one to "lick his wounds."  His anxiety, his dealing with feelings of guilt and self failure, his deep sensitivity and his hesitancy to accept forgiveness have often led to sorrow taking hold of one who seems too young to me to have to bear such weight.  Yet he does.  And it can push him down, keep him down.  His is a personality in which it can be difficult to get back up from sometimes. 

And I know where he gets it from.  Dealing with that same personality, how many times do I fall under the weight of my own undeservedness?  Feelings of guilt at all I have done wrong or what I could have done better.  Being overwhelmed by all the blessings I have done nothing to earn.  Being loved even when I am at my worst.  These things catch me off guard sometimes, and I find myself pushed down by the sorrow, unsure how to get back up and questioning the mysterious hand often extended.     

I imagine we all find ourselves fallen along the way at times.  Maybe you too find yourself lying there, "licking your wounds," easier to stay down than to accept the mysterious gift of the one that would help us to stand again.    

But there is forgiveness.
There is mercy.
There are things offered that we haven't earned.

Powerful things.  Beautiful things.

It is a mystery.  It seems too good to be true, so much so that we don't always know how to accept it.  The reality of undeservedness weighs heavily.  Why would He forgive and grant something so special to someone who so blatantly chooses to disobey, disrespect and turn away?

But Christ puts his almighty hand beneath our chin, lifts our gaze to meet his, and smiles at us . . .


* * * * * *

We can't earn so much of what we are given in this life, especially GOD's mercy.  But we are given it nonetheless, given it by a GOD who wants so badly to see us smile, that incredible smile we make when we know how loved we are.

I wish I could say that I meant to teach this theological lesson to my son that morning.  But the truth is that as quickly as my brain scrambled to figure out what to say in response to his comment, my brain was flooded with thoughts about what my response meant for us.  And in the following split second, I learned that, unlike my feeble attempts at parenting, GOD's mercy is not about empty threats.  When he promises love and life, he follows through!  (Or perhaps, in a way, it is about empty threats - because no matter what we do, we are still going to get the prize!) 

I learned that, unlike a Momma frantically searching her inner-dialogue for answers, GOD doesn't have to search His memory too deeply to find goodness in us, something to warrant His love.  We are His children, and thus there is always the last-chance for goodness to redeem ourselves, no matter how late we scream into the night. 

I learned that like my son and his struggles, my struggles too are met with a merciful hand to help me back up.  I need not stay down. 

I learned that forgiveness, mercy, being granted something we haven't earned - these are powerful things, beautiful things.  I learned (again) to trust this truth. 


And by the look of that beautiful little smile, Adrian learned these things too. 

* * * * * *

I didn't set out to teach my son a lesson.  Yet together we learned to understand a deeper reality that we are invited into when thrown together into the messiness of being human and family and followers of Christ. 

I didn't earn it.  

It was in itself yet another offering of mercy, blessings this undeserving mother with a deep sense of relief and being loved...and a smile.