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. 

The Barn and the Bitter-Sweet Tango of Today

Today is a strange day, a bitter sweet day.

Today is Easter Monday - a day of continued celebration for the life and amazing joyful surprises that Christ's love means for us!  Today is a "stay home day," as my kids call it, when we can play and live and come up with joyful surprises of our own.  Today is a happy day! 

But today is also April 17th - a day when my Grandpa would have celebrated his birthday and all the amazing surprises that 90 years of life can mean.  Today is also the day that the Barn, where Grandpa milked cows, made his livelihood and raised his family for decades, had to come down.  Today is a grieving day.

But as I have learned - in grief and in life - it is seldom only bitter, seldom solely sweet.  The two are excellent dancing partners, working well together in their tango of mixed emotions.

This past weekend I had the chance to visit both my Grandpa's grave site, and the Barn.  Calling up memories (oh, so sweet memories) and saying good-byes (oh, so bitter good-byes) at each.  The bitter-sweet tango.

The following is a poem I wrote after visiting the Barn this weekend.  Here is to all the years of memories, relationships, scrapes, life and laughter that fell upon generations of Nystroms there, and to the memories, relationships, scrapes, life and laughter (and pieces not falling upon us) that await future generations!

The Barn
Here's where Jake fell off the conveyor, 
a pebble from the concrete below wedged in his hands, 
but where we refused to tell any grown-ups, for fear of getting in trouble for climbing.

Here's where I learned I was terrified of heights, 
as I went up the ladder through the hole in the floor,
but where I learned to rejoice when I got there, and celebrated the site of "stars" at Midday.

Here's where I named all of Jordan's first litter of pigs, 
watching in amazement the vision of new life and growth,
but where I quickly learned not to get attached, as death is also a part of life.


Here was where I could smell the special scent of milk in the bulk tank,
even years after we had stopped milking,
and where I watched that room wither, and the scent fade as more years went by.

Here was the backdrop to where my brother got kicked in the head by a cow,
where my Mom's imaginary friend got buried in the corn-crib when Grandpa had had enough,
and where my cousin got married, on the day I told my future spouse I hoped it would be us one day.

Here was where Grandpa and Grandma raised their family,
where their family continued to gather to feast and celebrate and play Starlight-Moonlight,
and where my kids now see only dilapidation, an empty climbing adventure. 


This was the structure that stood strong through generations of farming,
raising cows, to pigs, to goats, to great-great-grandkids,
but where wood now falls down, an unsafe haphazard has-been.

This was the red wood that felt like "home" to many,
whether we lived across from it, or visited only once or twice a year for bonfires,
but this home is now ready to move on.

This was "The Barn" in all its glory,
all its joy and life and love and farm and family,
but this is no longer the Barn of my memories.


Each memory I have there both bitter and sweet,
a mix of joy-filled and difficult moments,
where pain and fear and fading life, met adventure and accomplishment and new life.

Each year of its aging both bitter and sweet,
a tango of celebrations and tragedies,
where the Good LORD giveth, and the Good LORD taketh away.  

Each piece of wood both bitter and sweet,
having seen the sunshine as well as the storms,
where generations learned how to weather both, and how to shelter one another accordingly.


Here's where Grandpa farmed,
where his son tried,
and where his grandkids started again.

Here's where memories were made,
where stories of those memories were told,
and where new memories will now unfold. 

Here's where our family started,
where our family continued,
and where - despite its absence - our family will go on.


This was "The Barn,"
This was an important symbol,
but this was never the important things themselves.

Our family will still be family,
The farm can still be farmed,
Memories can still be made.

Each memory both bitter and sweet,
like so much of life,
like saying good-bye to the barn,

like The Barn itself.  

 

What I Learned from Praying the Stations with my Kids

I had a plan this Lent, an ambitious plan: I would make this year a powerful experience of prayer and deeper theological understanding with my kids!  

I dug up several great resources to use to talk with them about prayer, fasting and alms-giving.  I dug up lots of great child-friendly Stations of the Cross and Lenten calendars and count-downs.  I dug up plenty of everything I could think of to help them go deeper this Lent!  And, like the darn fool that I am, I dug up the idea that I could actually use them all!

But then, Lent came.  And then, much of Lent went.  And before I knew it, it was April and many of those dug-up treasures were still hiding on my flash drive or sitting on my dresser.  None were in my children's hands or minds or hearts.

But, being the stubborn Italian-German-Polish-married-to-an-Irishman that I am, I refused to give up!  So on April 1st I finally grabbed the resources I had for praying the Stations of the Cross with kids, and I made a new plan: I would make these two weeks a powerful experience of prayer and deeper understanding with my kids!  

The first day I sat down with Lilly and Adrian on the couch complete with color sheets, crayons, a pop-up poster, stickers, a map, and all my best ideas ready.  This was gonna be beautiful!  And then the whining started.  And the disagreeing.  The fighting over who got to do the first sticker (and what the pattern would be for who would do each subsequent one), the different preferences for which version of the Stations we used, and the short attention span evidence.  With the start of all that, we barely even got started on the Stations.  In fact, we got through one - count it ONE - station that day.

New plan:  I would make these these next two weeks a slow and easy, little at a time, experience of prayer and understanding with my kids!

So we tried praying one station per day.  That worked for a few days, until the "I don't want to color" riot broke out.  So we dropped the color sheets.  A few days later, the "I don't know what to pray" riot broke out.  So we dropped the personal prayer after reading the station.  A few days later the "It's my turn - no it's mine!" riot occurred (again).  So we dropped the stickers on the poster.  Which was, as it turns out, the last activity I had, meaning that after about a week, we had dropped praying the Stations all together.

New plan: I will just be a complete failure who can't manage powerful and deep experiences with my kids!   

 

Things did not go the way I envisioned, that's for sure.  But now, as we find ourselves at the end of Lent, I look back and realize that the only plan that truly failed was my last one.  Because through my attempts, and the time that I did spend with my children praying this Lent, I learned a few important things:  



#1.  Different People Pray / Enter in Differently

Adrian has the capacity to "go deep."  His little brain is an absolute sponge and we've always been able to talk to him about things that feel above his age, and he somehow manages to be right there with us, surprising us with his depth.  But he also likes to play baseball and build things and NOT sit there doing boring "church stuff."  (I really thought I had until at least pre-teen years before that started, but once again my son is well beyond his age!)  Lilly on the other hand, takes better to more simple thinking.  But man, oh man does that girl care about others!  So the Stations were right up her alley - especially when it came to stickers!  I was not sure how to help everyone get what they needed out of  - or what they could put into - this experience! 

Praying the Stations with my two big kiddos helped remind me of how different each of them is.  They have different personalities, different learning styles, different doing-styles.  And from day-to-day, each of them even had different preferences as to what activities and types of prayer they wanted to be a part of in our Stations ritual.  We all pray differently.  We all enter in differently. 

And more so than previous years, this year of attempting to pray the Stations with my kids helped me see the different characters of the Stations as each entering into Christ's death in their own, different, ways.  Some threw a fit, some rioted, others wanted to wash their hands of the whole thing.  Some couldn't handle the sorrow, others stayed right there with it throughout.  Some were new to what was happening, others had been with Jesus from the start.  From Veronica to Simon of Cyrene, from Mary to the crowd, from Pilot to Jesus himself - everyone played a different role.  Every one resonated with a different part of His journey. 

Perhaps this is the beauty of the Stations (like the beauty of our church): there is no one right way to walk with Christ.  Each one of them, like each one of us, enters into Christ's journey to the cross differently.  We may find ourselves on any given day accompanying Christ in different ways (some days I'm Veronica, some days I'm more like Judas).  There is no one right way.


#2. It's OK to Do Only a Little at a Time

My plans this year were overly ambitious.  This is usual.  And my plans did not pan out.  Once again, usual.  Nevertheless, my overly zealous goals this year helped me see the need to go slowly.  My kids clearly did not have the attention spans to go the distance all at once.  Nor did they have the space on their hearts to take in all the depth of what the Stations include.  But as we tried to pray through the journey together, I realized that the need to go slowly did not only applied to them!

It has been a difficult several months for our family.  From work struggles, to difficult schedules, to kids behavior issues, to more loss, to pain-in-the-butt cars and appliances - you name it, it feels like we've been dealing with it already in 2017.  So when Lent came, I was determined to solve everything with good prayer and deep reflection.  Figuring out the whole of the Spiritual journey would certainly help me figure out the whole of this crazy life, right?  (Yes, overly ambitious is an understatement)  I have had to learn that I cannot figure it all out.  Some things, I may never figure out.  As difficult as this is for me (the over-achiever and control freak), I need to be ok with taking it one day at a time, one baby step towards peace and answers at a time. 

Perhaps that is the beauty of the Stations (like the beauty of our lives):  there are many steps on the journey, and we need only take them one at a time.  Jesus was the only one who knew the full extent of what was to happen on his journey, try as the others may to figure it out or claim they could share his cup.  We too, try as we may, do not need to know it all, but only to trust in the One who does, and accompany him on his journey in whatever - slowly-but-surely - way we can.  One step at a time. 


#3.  Don't Expect to Finish

We fell behind on our stations a few times, and would manage to catch up a day or two later.  But by the time we were four stations behind and running out of days left in Lent, I had pretty much given up even trying anymore.  The Stations are back on my dresser, where they sat for the first month of Lent. 

But despite the fact that we only got through half of Christ's journey, I can still see the effect it has had on my kids.  A few nights ago, Lilly prayed for "all the people sufferin'."  As her big brother retorted that she didn't "even know what suffering means," it struck me that what had likely struck her brother also is the fact that Lilly has never used that word before.  She certainly knows the general concept, but not in such a strong term.  Perhaps, just perhaps, those Stations and the part of the journey we did enter into, helped Lilly's vocabulary - and understanding.  But at the same time, as I watched that word escape the innocent lips of my sweet little girl, I realized how big a concept it is.  So big, I still struggle with it on a daily basis!  Certainly too big for a little girl (at least in its fullest understanding). 

And that's when I realized that Jesus' journey is too big for any of us!  His suffering is too deep.  His love is too profound.  The Cross is too heavy.  Though we get glimpses in our life, it is simply too much for us to handle all at once.  To fully walk with Christ to the cross, we'd fall behind.  We cannot make it all the way with him. 

Perhaps this is the beauty of the Stations (like the beauty of our faith): we cannot - do not need to - finish what Jesus has already done for us.  Jesus made it to the end, and beyond.  That is our hope, the hope we hold tightly to - even, especially, in our and our worlds' greatest times of struggle and sorrow.  And because of that hope, we do not need to carry the full depth of suffering, the full profoundness of love, the full weight of the cross.  We would fail if we tried.  Jesus has already done it for us. 


* * * * * * 

It was a crazy Lent.  And while my plans did not come to fruition exactly the way I envisioned, I certainly cannot call it a failure.  While my children did not exactly sit on my lap marveling in the Love of Jesus for our world and the redemption of sin for all humankind, they did talk about love and helping others.  And while most of my dug-up treasures are still untouched and ready for us to use next year, there were certainly lessons learned this year. 

And in the end, it was I who found myself having the powerful experience from our prayer; it was I who needed the deeper understanding.

And so, even if it didn't happen until the end of Lent, I would say that this year was a success after all.  Which brings me to the last lesson I learned from this year's praying of the Stations:

#4.  Every Lent is a success, (precisely) because it ends with Christ's journey to the Cross!  

 Happy Easter! 

Claimed for Christ, Claimed for One Another

Two years ago, today was Holy Saturday.  And for the first time since we had kids, we got the whole family dressed up and headed to church for the Easter Vigil.  The reason we ventured out for this late night and long service with a four, three and six-month old in tow was to get said six month old baptized. 

Layla's baptism was absolutely amazing!  Despite the squirrely three and four year old, it was a beautiful night of prayer, community and sacrament.  In fact, it was one of the most profound Sacramental experiences I have been blessed to be a part of.
 

Let me see if I can share the story....

Our parish community has a special tradition at baptisms.  Beginning in the baptistry of the church, before the opening song, the child to be baptized and their parents are asked what they ask for their child, asked what name they give their child, and then the priest makes the sign of the cross on the baby's forehead, claiming them for Christ.  This is the way of the Rite; but what makes our community's practice a little different is that next the parents and Godparents, followed by the entire community (represented mostly by those on the ends of the pews along that center aisle) are invited to do the same.  People young and old reach out their arms, beckoning the parents closer so that they too may trace a cross on the infant, marking them for Christ, as the family works their way up the aisle during the opening song.  It is a ritual of welcome.  And thus begins the Mass of thanksgiving.

I have always found this beautiful and profound.  That we ALL help claim the child for Christ.  That we ALL claim responsibility for helping raise the child in the faith.  That we ALL, as claimed children of GOD ourselves, participate in the grace of the Sacraments of one another.

But on this particular night, for this particular baptism, it felt even more beautiful.  Even more profound.

Perhaps it was because it was the Easter Vigil - the whole of our Salvation History told from darkness to light.  Perhaps it was because of the extra full church - all those hands to welcome and claim my daughter for the faith.  Perhaps it was the light of the Easter candle - the symbol that had just been dipped into the holy water, symbolizing the impregnating of our lives with the Holy Spirit, now leading my husband as he carried that newest presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives who would soon also be immersed in the water, throughout the church (this special night we didn't confine the procession of the child to the center aisle!)

Or perhaps it was because of the song sung in the background - the Litany of the Saints (which gets me every time anyways!), calling upon all those holy men and women who have gone before us, as those holy men and women sharing the presence with us claimed our new little one to be a holy woman of the future.

But whatever the reason (or because of all of them), two years ago I was struck by a whole new level of beauty and profoundness as we carried our daughter up and down the aisles of our church, following the Easter candle to the names of the saints and martyrs, with the hands of young and old, friend and stranger alike, tracing the cross on Layla's forehead.

I cried at the profound sense of "She belongs to something greater than herself."

I cried at the profound sense of "We are church."

I cried at the profound sense of "We support one another." 

I cried at the profound sense of "How beautiful is the community - transcending time and demographics - that is the very essence of our faith." 

And while it's true that I cry at almost all baptisms, this night two years ago, I sat closer to GOD and my church than ever before, as I cried at this one.


But the story does not end there....


The next night, after eating too much food as we honored both Christ's rising and Layla's with a family party, the phone rang.  We almost missed it as we fought with the three and four year old to get them to stop splashing in the bath tub.  But never have I been so glad to pick-up the phone. 

The caller was my friend Trina.  Trina lives in Venezuela.  She and her husband, Deacon Oscar, are friends through our diocesan partnership with the diocese of Maracay, of which both Trina and I were the primary communication liaisons for our respective dioceses.  It had been a while since I had heard from Trina, as the situation in her country had been growing more and more volatile in numerous ways, and throughout it all communication was becoming a growing challenge.

But Trina wasn't calling with a work question or update on behalf of her diocese.  She was calling with a personal question and a message on behalf of herself and Oscar.  She was calling to ask how Layla's baptism went, and to wish her welcome to the church!  

As we talked, me sharing how beautiful I found the Liturgy and sacrament were and her sharing how they had been praying for Layla in their home and parish that morning, I was once again overwhelmed.  

We had carried our daughter up and down the aisles of our church, while the incredible power of solidarity had carried her all the way to Venezuela.  We had followed the Easter candle to the names of the saints and martyrs, while the Light of Christ had led this holy man and woman into our lives.  We had offered her forehead to the cross-tracing hands of young and old, friend and stranger alike, while Christ was offering her to the hands of the church - all peoples, all races, all locations and walks of life.  

I hung up the phone, and I cried at the profound sense of "She belongs to something greater than herself, or even us."

I cried at the profound sense of "We are church, across borders."

I cried at the profound sense of "We support one another, even amidst our own challenges." 

I cried at the profound sense of "How beautiful is the community - transcending time zones and all human boundaries - that is the very essence of our faith." 

And while it's true that I've been known to cry at bedtimes from time to time, this night two years ago, I sat closer to GOD and my church than ever before, as I cried at this one. 

That night, I tucked-in my squirrely three and four year old's and laid my six-month old down.  I kissed them all good-night, marking them with my love and claiming them for our church, for our world.  And I thanked GOD for the ways in which His Love had marked them and how His church and world had claimed them - welcomed them - to be a full, beautiful and profound part of it.


But the story does not end there....

Here I sit tonight, after having lit a candle at dinner to honor Layla's Baptismal Birthday, with each of us laying hands upon her and praying for the gifts we see in her.  Here I sit, after having tucked in my squirrely five and six year old and my two and a half year old, kissing them goodnight as usual.  Here I sit.  But tonight, like each night since April 4th two years ago, has been different.

My sense of church has grown.  My sense of community has grown.  My desire for my children as a part of it has grown.  Because of the Love, because of the solidarity, because of all the beauty, all the profound ways in which GOD worked in our life that Easter, because Layla (and Lilly and Adrian) has been claimed, marked, welcomed into something so much bigger, something beyond human limits, the story goes on.  "World without end, Amen!" 



* * * * * *
  
Sadly, that was one of the last times that I was able to speak with Trina.  The situation in Venezuela has grown continuously worse over the past two years, making communication and our partnership activities nearly impossible.  But she and Oscar remain a regular part of our family's prayer.  It is a small way, but still a way that we can be church for them, as they were church for us in such a powerful way two years ago.  And we pray for all our brothers and sisters in Venezuela (and invite you to do the same).  We belong to each other.  We support each other.  We are church.  

Prayer for Venezuela

O God, who sees within and beyond
the limits set by the human heart,
look into the hearts of Venezuelan leaders and people alike
at this time of struggle and division
and satisfy their need for compassionate truth.
Fill the hearts of both rich and poor Venezuelans
with a vision of mercy.
Show them ways to put aside violence
intended for control and intimidation.
Strengthen within them a desire for peace so strong
that the walls of division will crumble and be replaced
with openness, freedom and unity.  Amen.

 

It all started with an idea that came to me in the shower

"It all started with an idea that came to me in the shower."   

How many stories in your life begin this way?  Or "that came to me while I was running/driving/doing dishes," or "during that boring homily at church" (NEVER happened at mine – I have a phenomenal preacher, plus my kids wouldn’t let me focus long enough to know if it was boring or not, let alone have a thought of my own), or "as I was drifting off to sleep."  

Because let's face it folks, if you're anything like me, your best ideas come to you at the most random times.  Usually, the times when you can't do a darn thing about them!  Not even write them down. 

That's usually when I get my ideas for reflections and blog posts.  In fact, that’s when I got the idea to start a blog in the first place.

But in most cases, I get my brilliant ideas at the most inopportune times, and then...I lose them.  By the time I’m out of the shower and get myself ready for the attack of crazy that is our daily life, the idea is gone, or muffled at best.

Sometimes I can hold on to little snippets of these ideas, and I write them down on a scratch paper somewhere – post-it notes, corners of deposit slips in the checkbook, my bookmarks, the kids’ school papers they brought home, anywhere I can find a corner. 

But finding a corner of my messy house and my busy schedule to sit down to write in is a different story.  More often than not, my scratches never materialize.  By the time I find time (and energy) to write, either the idea is past – outdated and no longer relevant (“maybe next year,” I tell myself often), or the idea is simply no longer fresh and I can’t quite flesh it out as elegantly as it seemed in the shower.  (WARNING, WARNING, PERFECTIONIST ALERT!)  Or else my scratch paper is past – already out with the recycling, covered in coffee drips or colored over by the five year old.

It seems that attack of crazy – and busy and messy – gets in the way one way or another.  And before I know it, my brilliant shower idea is a vague memory, rather than a shared reality. 

More and more, as life gets busier and busier, I find this to be the case.  Lots of chicken scratches, lots of inner-brain-memos, lots of thoughts and feelings to share, all still stuck in the land of can't seem to do a darn thing about them. 

And hence, my blog (as you may have noticed) has sat quiet for some time.

* * * * * * * * *  

A few weeks ago I had another idea in the shower.  I had heard about a conference – the Catholic Women Bloggers Network Midwest Conference.  A few great writers I follow and admire would be speaking, and I have been thinking about how I need to find some inspiration to end the hibernation my blog seemed to be in.  So, I thought as I rinsed off my conditioner, why not go?  And this time the idea stuck with me long after I was dried off (as much as my nervous-self tried at times to get rid of it).  So I took a risk and signed up.

And man, was it out of my comfort zone!  Driving to the Twin Cities…alone...a room full of strangers…having to force my introverted-self to be sociable all day long…meeting bloggers I had since only admired from afar in person…“pretending” I am a blogger around all kinds of wonderful real women bloggers.  I was pretty sure I was headed into something way out of my league! 

But somehow I managed to not turn the van around that morning, and there I was.  Sitting in a beautiful historic home on Summit Avenue, surrounded by close to 40 other Catholic women, learning about the incredible topics they write on regularly and the great talents they promote through their blogs.  (panic)  There I was.  Listening to speakers sharing about how they’ve turned their blogs into businesses – one who has published three books already, one who supported her whole family for a year on just her blog’s income, and one who sells adorable clothing and parenting goods from the confines of her home. (panic)  There I was.  Feeling overwhelmed and under-creative.  I don't craft, I can't sew, I don't cook, I have no patents pending, and my goodness if the apocalypse won't be here before I find time to write another blog let alone a whole book.  (panic)  There I was.  Realizing the hobby-ness and infrequency of my writing, surrounded by so many “real” bloggers.  Heck, I don’t even have a working computer, let alone the time to write on one – how on earth could I compete with these other bloggers?!! 

But that’s when I realized, I don’t have to compete.

The conference speakers really encouraged us all to keep at it.  Blogging need not be a “competition.”  There is room in the World Wide Web (they don’t call it wide for nothing) for everyone!

These women, each of whom started out just like me, writing on a whim (perhaps even one that came to them in the shower or during that uninspired homily), aren’t necessarily where they are at today because they are writing new and other-worldly ideas.  They are simply writing from their own lenses, their own experiences, and their own unique ways in which God is speaking to them and their lives.  The conference invited us all to acknowledge the unique voice and perspective we have on things, even those things that have already been written about - in the blog world or otherwise.  We don’t have to have shower epiphanies that change the world, we just have to have our own worlds and share them. 

“Keep at it, there’s room enough for everyone,” I kept hearing a voice say.  Perhaps that was Nell’s voice, or Laura’s, or Halley’s.  Or perhaps, it was my own (it does sound an awful lot like the voice I hear spouting out wonderfully poetic thoughts in the shower).

I love writing.  I love discovering – about myself, about God, about love and life and family and faith – as I write.  I love how I feel and who I am when I’ve written.  And I want to keep at that!   

In addition to encouraging us all to continue sharing our many voices, the speakers also stressed that the main purpose of blogging as a woman of faith ought to be bringing glory and honor to God. 

Because I love to write, because I discover so much in doing so, because writing makes me feel better and is a form of prayer and release and revelation for me, I know that I am a better mother, better person, better disciple for doing so.  What could be more holy and glorifying than that?

And so I need to keep at it.  Not for the speakers sake, or for the other fantastic women who share this blog-world with me; not for the sake of any potential business or broad acclaim, but for the glory of God, who created me and my love of writing. 

 
I don’t have to have my thoughts perfected.  I don’t have to have multiple brilliant ideas a week.  I don’t have to do any more than I am able to do in my busy life right now. 

But what I do do, the ideas I do have and the ways I can put them into words – that I should be sharing.  That is what makes me a “real” blogger.   

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So while my "best ideas" may never quite make it to paper or to screen (some may never even make it out of the bathroom with me) I can still share the few that I am able to.  And I can be proud of that.  And who knows, like Doc Brown’s scratch paper of the flux-capacitor or Archimedes’ bathtime revelation about his king’s crown problem, maybe someday one of my posts will change the world.

After all, at some point this whole big blogging world was merely an idea that came to someone in the shower one day.