enough already

Let's just get this over with, shall we?

I feel like I've been away so long that I don't know how to come back. It's like going back to the gym - and I like going to the gym - I just don't like going BACK to the gym. It feels like every one is looking at me, wondering where I've been. I can just imagine what they're thinking: she's gained some weight. I bet she's been noshing on chocolate cake every day during the hours she used to work out with us. Who does she think she is? She's not one of us anymore.

It' silly, because after 30 minutes on the eliptical (OK, 15, it's been awhile, right?) I feel like I'm right where I belong. No one cares that I've been away for awhile. They're truly glad I'm back. And so am I.

Same goes for the old blogity blog. I feel shy whenever I've been away for awhile. I think all of my followers are ticked at me. I don't think I'm a real blogger anymore. I'm hoping you'll graciously welcome me back, and not wonder whom I've been cheating with while I've been gone.

Nothing can take the place of my blog, and the kind of writing I'm free to do here. But I'm happy to report I have been doing something good in my time away.

The new job suits me nicely, I think. The hours are wonderful (8 am to 3:30 pm) and while I'm there I'm able to combine my two loves: my writing and my faith. I don't like to over-spiritualize things, but I'm convinced God placed me there for a reason.

For, I don't know, years, I suppose, I've been asking Him to give me an opportunity to use my "gifts" in a larger way. I used to get so frustrated, wondering why God would give me a love for writing, and some talent in it, and not want me to use it.

The whole concept of "in God's time" is being played out right before my eyes. I believe I'm right where I need to be, and that He has put me here, today, because that's where He can use me.

Last summer, I was so disappointed when an opportunity I thought was just perfect for me was pulled out of my reach. I found out last week that that whole thing fell apart - I thought I was missing an opportunity of a lifetime, and it turns out it was no such thing.

It's easy to tell each other to trust Him, isnt' it? When we're not on the receiving end of that advice, it all seems so clear. But the truth is it's a bear to hang in there when we're seeing nothing. It's exhausting to keep trusting when we see nothing in the way of "results."

I was starting to wonder if He heard me at all. And now I'm just in awe of how He put it all together for me. Yes, for me, His girl, the one He always looks out for.

If you're waiting for Him, please be patient. He will never, ever forget you. He's got something planned for you that is just right.

Trust me.

Better yet, trust Him.

stop whining and start praying (I think)

So it's all over but the whining.

Is anybody else as drained as I am? Not by the outcome of the election, but by the response to it? I am disappointed in the results (particularly that Proposal 2 failed in Michigan -- embryonic stem cell research got a big green light) but I will not give in to the urge to whine, complain, and/or move to a foreign country or neighboring planet.

As I mentioned in my last post, I intend to do my best with what I've got. Elections and politicians will come and go. Laws will change, statutes will evolve, and, while cultures and nations rise and fall, God will stay the same.

I felt sad yesterday, and when I talked to friends and family and popped around on the net I felt even sadder. Some of my loved ones are not just disappointed, they are bitterly angry. I'm praying that they will come to a sense of peace. President-Elect Obama is not in charge here...God is. We have to return to that fact again and again.

Speaking of prayer, I got into a very passionate discussion on the subject with the Big Man and our eldest son last night. I was sharing my thoughts on prayer, that I have felt lately that it is rather ridiculous to submit a request list to God and then feel let-down when my demands are not met. I can ask God to bless our nation with a president who respects life. But God is certainly not going to say, "OK, Cathy. You have said enough rosaries and prayed enough Holy Hours. You have met the prayer quota, so I'm going to place your candidate in the White House."

My experience, and I believe Catholic theology, tell me something quite different about prayer. Prayer is communication with God. We can offer praise, adoration, seek reconciliation, or complain. We can, of course, ask for things or situations, graces and blessings. But prayer does not change God. It changes us. And God will always respect our free will. He will not answer one man's prayer by forcing HIs will on another.

I admit that when I hear that Bob is ill and asking for prayer, I don't ask for a healing. I ask that Bob be blessed with the grace to bear his cross. I ask that God's will be done through Bob's sickness.

Some of this attitude certainly comes from the fact that I have seldom seen my prayers answered in the way I'd like. When I prayed for a bike when I was 12, I didn't get one. When I prayed for career successes, they didn't materialize. (At least not yet! :))

When I asked God to spare my daughter's life, she died.

I am not bitter, don't get me wrong. I consider myself a realist (my husband and son prefer pessimist) who accepts the truth that life, well, sucks. (Pardon the expression.) Since Adam and Eve chomped down on the apple it all went downhill. We are not promised happiness in this world (remember Our Lady's words to St. Bernadette?)

That is not to say that we will not experience genuinely happy moments this side of heaven. Most of us will have our share -- the birth of our children, the love of our spouses, good health, enough to eat, roofs over our heads. We have the beauty of nature and the blessings of creative, good people who try to serve others. But all the happiness in the world is just a shadow of the real happiness we'll experience in heaven if we stick it out here.

The conversation with my men did not end well. My husband muttered something about wanting to end it all after chatting with me, because my view of life is so depressing. My son kept his positive spirit, but was clearly disappointed in his Mom's belief that not much good will come our way here.

He had a few good questions for me. "Why do you write on your blog if you don't think anyone will read it or care? Why did you write your book? Don't you have hope that someone will hear what you have to say?"

I admit I do hold onto a shred of hope that some of my worldly dreams will come true. I just know that God is not Santa Claus and he won't automatically wrap up my requests and put them under the tree.

I figure Jesus died on the cross for me and everything else is gravy.

Am I wrong? Or should I just pray a little harder for that new bike?

bearing fruit

"There is a great difference between successfulness and fruitfulness. Success comes from strength, control, and respectability. A successful person has the energy to create something, to keep control over its development, and to make it available in large quantities. Success brings many rewards and often fame. Fruits, however, come from weakness and vulnerability. And fruits are unique. A child is the fruit conceived in vulnerability, community is the fruit born through shared brokenness, and intimacy is the fruit that grows through touching one another's wounds. Let's remind one another that what brings us true joy is not successfulness but fruitfulness."
~Henri Nouwen

I just totally hacked this quote from a lovely lady's blog; "Not Quite Mary Poppins" (isn't that sweet?) at Crazy Acres. Before you read on here you must promise to visit her when you are done, and show her a little bloggy love since I stole from her so blatantly.

I was visiting her just now, and when I read this quote on her sidebar I was struck by its wisdom. Success or fruitfulness. What is it that I truly seek?

If I am honest I will admit that I desire both. I want worldly success. I want to sell books and publish articles. I want to speak at conferences and do radio interviews. I want to be liked and admired for my intelligence, talent and wit. I want to be appreciated, and I want to see visible signs of that appreciation.

I also long for fruits. I want my sufferings to yield a bountiful harvest. I want my children to grow up loving the Lord, they being the best fruits I have to offer. If fruits truly come from weakness and vulnerability, as Nouwen says, I should be experiencing them bountifully, right? Because lately all I glory in are my tender points, my paper-thin skin, my quivering upper lip.

Nouwen doesn't mention if our fruits must be seen or experienced by us to bring us joy. Perhaps their existence brings us grace even if they remain hidden, only to be revealed to us in some distant space. (Heaven?)

I'm struggling. I have seen and felt, truly, some of the specific fruits that old Henri mentions. I know the community of brokenness, the intimacy of tending wounds. I have been so blessed by my children that it takes my breath away.

I've known success, as well, but the problem with success is that it is never, ever enough. It is inherently insufficient. What I achieve today pales tomorrow. My work will become nothingness, even though I've vainly convinced myself God wants to use it for His glory.

My friend Kate (how did I merit such a wonderful cyber-friend?) quotes Amy Welborn today on her blog - about writing.

She says "...I've learned some important lessons about faith from writing. Writing involves courage in sharing from deep within, without any certainty that it will do a bit of good. It involves a lot of waiting without a concrete reason to hope."

My heart and my words are intertwined, and on some occasions, like today, I just have to be courageous. Courageous without certainty....waiting....waiting.

I don't know if my longings for success and fruitfulness can be effectively balanced, nor am I confident of the path I have chosen. My fear is that I will be neither successful nor fruitful, just overcome with busyness, frantically doing and working and striving and always coming up short.

Welborn's words continue with thoughts on our Christian faith: "It strikes me that being a disciple of Jesus is also about stepping forward and waiting - every day. Holding on tight to the promise that its fulfillment - and our joy - will surely come."

There's that word again - joy. So joy comes from fruitfulness, from promises fulfilled. (And all this time I thought it came from seeing comments on my posts!) I am so far from Nouwen's mysticism and Welborn's wisdom that I find only sadness today in pondering the truth. It is quite easy to live a life that is neither successful nor fruitful, and if I am not careful, my selfishness will seal that.

Nouwen believed that what is most personal is also universal. It is in that spirit that I write today, hoping that I might heal and be healed by the sharing.

be not afraid

Last night, with a sunset in front of me and a mountain to my back, I set off on an adventure that the Big Man assured me would be exhilarating.

We're guests at a lovely resort in Northern Michigan, courtesy of the Big Man's employer. As we schmoozed with financial types on the patio, enjoying the free drinks at a reception, my dear husband decided it was time to escape the titillating conversation by making me an offer I REALLY wanted to refuse.

He offered to join me on a ride up and down the ski slopes.

Sounds like fun, you say? Who wouldn't enjoy a jaunt up and down such a scenic hill on such a pleasant summer evening? Who wouldn't want to see the expansive view encompassing three counties? Who wouldn't want to risk her very life, riding up a steep mountain, feet dangling yards above the earth, with only a lightweight bar in her lap and NO SEAT BELT?

Did I mention that I'm just a little scared of heights?

OK, that's an understatement. I'm TERRIFIED of heights. My husband's offer did not make me feel exhilarated. It made my palms sweat. It made me slightly naseous.

The Big Man assured me I would feel better if I worked on conquering my fear. He told me he would keep his arm around me the whole time, and he promised me he would not tease me or threaten to remove the bar.

Trusting my husband, I swallowed the wine remaining in my glass and said, "Yes, dear. I would love to accompany you on a chair lift ride. Sounds like fun!"

That's not at all what I said, not even close, but I did it. I rode up and down the mountain, and I lived to tell about it.

But I'm not exhilarated, and I'm a little sad.

Why am I so afraid? My rational brain kept telling me all the truths about the situation. I knew that the cable was sturdy. I knew that hundreds of people, including small children, rode this thing without fear all the time. I knew that I would not fall. But still I was afraid.

Could it be that I'm not really afraid of heights, but of something else? I don't have the time, money or inclination to spend years on the therapist's couch with this one, and I imagine that might be what it would take to help me unearth and conquer the fear. So we talked a bit about it, and I tried to let it go. So I'm afraid of heights, so what. Everybody's afraid of something, right?

This morning I woke up thinking about the experience and had something of an epiphany. I realized that it was not just being in a high place that made me feel uneasy. I was filled with anxiety for a much more basic reason: I had no control of the situation.

I'm a bit of a "type A" gal at heart. I am a hardworking perfectionist. I like things done well. (That is, done by me, of course.) I am also a "rule follower," obedient and loyal. When I can't follow the rules, I tend to walk away. Ever wonder why I home school my children? That's one of the reasons. I just didn't want to "jump through the hoops" so I brought the young 'uns home where I could do things my way.

Like everyone else on the planet, the truth is there are many things over which I have no control, but I live with the comfortable illusion that I am the master of my world. But when I am faced with situations that blantantly challenge this illusion -- like my little trip up the mountain -- I'm filled with anxiety.

If leaves me wondering what I might've done if it had been me instead of Peter called out for that little walk on the water. Talk about having no control! Old Pete, a regular type A guy himself, convinced himself for a moment that he really trusted Jesus, and that of course he could walk on water. Everything was fine until the wind kicked up. Then Peter forgot his intention to trust his friend, and down he went.

The sad truth is that often I have much less faith than Peter did. I don't even start to trust Jesus as I should. I'm not talking about my adventure on the slopes, although it wouldn't have hurt to trust that Jesus probably wasn't going to allow me to fall to my death. I'm referring to those opportunities I get every day to trust God with my life.

I need to work on letting go of this illusion of control. Feeling so anxious last night made me realize something about myself. I'll never feel safe and at peace in this world if I continue to feed the illusion of control. I must accept the fact that much of life is simply out of my hands.

But it's in God's hands, and that's where my fears, and everything else, belong. I'm still scared of heights. But next time I'm in a high place (tonight, in fact, when I take another trip up that mountain) I'll remind myself that no, I'm not in control. But Someone infinitely smarter, greater, stronger and more powerful is.

the art of disappointment

It's a craft I should have well-honed by now, but it looks like I still need more practice.

I started off today with a very disappointing experience. The details aren't terribly important. Suffice it to say that I missed out on an opportunity, one that I very much wanted to take advantage of. In fact, I thought I was perfect for it -- I even felt called to it. I thought God had presented me with a beautiful, exciting invitation to share my gifts and reach souls in the process. Apparently I was mistaken, and that isn't the plan, at least not for today.

I exist therefore I've suffered disappointments before, so my wealth of such experience should have softened the blow, right? I should have calmly received the disappointing news, maturely weighed the facts, and accepted God's will with joy. Is that what I did? No, I cried like a spoiled child.

Now I'm a bit disappointed with myself, but with that being human stuff and all I guess I could cut myself a little slack. (My husband, my wise and wonderful best-thing-that-ever-happened-to-me husband,told me I should give myself at least 20 minutes to bounce back.) I am able to acknowledge and name my feelings, and I am flat-out disappointed. That's the way it is.

So what to do with that? I've wiped away the tears, penned a quick note to see if there might be a chance the opportunity still exists, and decided to get on with it. I'm sitting here wondering why I think I know better than God, because at its root that's really what disappointment is, isn't it? My will seemed so perfect, so right. I knew this was the greatest idea for me. I was certain that I would be able to do so much good, and I knew my motives were completed other-centered. Now I'm not so sure.

It's hard for those of us who love the Lord and want to use our talents to share the Good News to accept this simple fact: it's up to Him how He uses us.

Again and again I am distraught when my plans to reach souls are thwarted, through my own mistakes or the decisions of others. I've read enough saint biographies to know that I'm in good company. St. Therese longed for the mission field, but died unknown in a local convent. St. Bernadette was visited by the Blessed Mother herself, then when on to a life of suffering and death at a young age, too. Bernadette called herself "the stupid one" and acknowledged that God would put her a corner, like an unused broom, brought out only if He needed her for some menial task. Yes, that's what she said, and she had been visited by the Queen of Heaven. Just who do I think I am????

A small part of my soul wonders if God is trying to make me a saint when He gives me these disppointments. (I'm not being overly pious here; it is of course His will that we all become saints, right?) I just don't understand His preoccupation with little 'ole me. Doesn't He realize that I could do so much good if he just gave me the chance?

He is giving me the chance. The chance to grow, to mature, to endure, to suffer. The chance to give my fiat, again.

I guess I've done the best I can today. I've wrapped up my self-pity and my tears and my disappointment, and offered it back to my Abba, my daddy who really does know what's best for me. His will be done.

just do it

Oh my glorious field of blue, how I've missed you! I don't even know how to begin. You know I adhere to that crazy belief: if I don't have anything nice (read: perfect, thought-provoking, profound, insightful, clever) to say, I'd rather say nothing at all. Hence the recent silence on this blog!

It's hard to get back to this. But this phrase has been my mantra today: JUST DO IT.

So here I am, doing it. Just do it, girl, quit making excuses. You know you need to make that phone call, schedule that appointment, say that prayer, talk to that friend, clean that bathroom, run that mile (OK, walk it if you have to),try that new hairstyle, WRITE THAT BLOG!

Do it, do it, do it.

OK. Feeling a bit overwhelmed these days? Of course, as always, but committed to the dual task of getting the job done while seeking excellence, not perfection. Truth be told, I crossed quite a few items off the to-do list today. Let's talk about one that's new to me: running that mile.

I've been walking daily for the last few months, and today I decided it was time to pick up the pace. I actually made the decision a few days ago, after walking several miles and feeling quite fit and self-satisfied. Walking is getting so easy, I thought. How much harder can it be to run?

It's harder. A lot harder.

When I say I've never run in my life, I'm not exaggerating. I have truly never, EVER, "gone for a run." I was an unathletic child, one who preferred books to playground games. When the other 'tweens were signing up for summer baseball and cheerleading, I was writing poetry. In highschool I was forced to get active by a stern, masculine-looking phys-ed instructor. I had planned to spend the semester whiling away blissful hours in a creative writing class, but that course was full. Phys-ed was my destiny, and I was astonished to discover that sports could actually be fun. We played badminton and tennis, basketball and field hockey, and swam hundreds of laps. But when that semester ended, and no personal trainer appeared to take my new favorite teacher's place, I sat back down and picked up my pen and opened my books once more.

I didn't give exercising much of a thought until my mid-thirties, when I decided it was time to get moving. There's so much to share here; body image issues, weight loss battles, baby fat gained and lost, gained and lost. For now I'll just say that I discovered the joy of moving my body and feeling strong.

I've been craving that strength lately, bigtime. So I've begun to walk again, and today, to run.

For the first time in my life, I rode my bike to a track near my home, bent to retie my shoelaces, and started to run. Many things prevented me from trying this sooner. Will people laugh? Will I hurt myself? My knees might give out. That foot might not be ready for this. I might fall, or wet my pants!

Many thoughts went through my mind this morning, but chiefly this one: Oh dear Lord, why is it so hard to breathe? Running is harder than walking. Yup.

So I ran, and not far, but I ran. Then I walked, and I ran some more. And tomorrow, I just might do it again.

Because once I was able to catch my breath, and realize that even if someone was laughing I didn't care, I began to feel strong. I was proud of myself. Because I was doing it.

I've done lots of things in my life, but I tend to focus on my failures instead of my successes. As I ran this morning, feeling powerful because I was doing something foreign and uncomfortable, I thought about the many other things I've done in my life. (I think I'll list a few here just to make myself feel good.) I've given life to seven children. One is already waiting for me in Heaven, one is married off to a wonderful young man, and another will soon be a wife as well. My four boys are kind and funny. My marriage is solid.

I've written and published a book, earned a college degree, performed in community theatre, and home-educated my children. I've built many friendships, and kept strong ties with my family. I have done some silly things and taken some odd risks, but that's good. I've been laughed at more than once. A few years ago I put in my name for consideration for a city council position (admittedly, something I knew nothing about and was unqualified for, but why not, right?) Upon hearing this, a gal I know burst out laughing. (Right to my face, can you imagine? Didn't even have the courtesy to laugh at me behind my back!) She thought it was hysterical, but I did get two votes from council members, the most of any candidate. So there!

So I've done lots of cool stuff, tried some challenging things, set some goals and met them. I really should feel proud and content, but of course, like most people, I don't. I remember the laughing friend, not the two votes. I think of the articles declined for publication, not the book that's in print. I contemplate the lost opportunities instead of the ones I've embraced.

How ridiculous. Today I went for a run. And I just might go again tomorrow.

What are you thinking about doing? Feeling scared, inadequate, uncertain?

You're not the only one. Try it anyway.

Just do it.

"...and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us." Hebrews 12:1

graduation day

Twenty-two years ago to this very day, on May 10, 1986, a young girl received her bachelor's degree from the University of Detroit. She was nervous, excited, unsure about the future, glad "it" was over, glad "it" was about to begin. She was planning a wedding, a wedding which would happen about a month after the birth of her first child. Yes, it had been a busy year, a year filled with good and bad choices and their consequences. And as she waited anxiously on the floor of Calihan Hall to receive the piece of paper that said she had indeed "done it", her baby leapt within her womb, and she wondered what the future would hold for them.

Today, May 10, 2008, a young girl received her degree from the University of Detroit. Not much has changed in the last 22 years, save the fact that it is now U of D Mercy because of a recent merger with the school down the road. The young girl is nervous, excited, unsure about the future, glad "it" is over, glad "it" is about to begin. She, too, is planning a wedding, but this one is only two weeks away, and there is not yet a child on the way. She, too, waits anxiously to receive that important paper, not remembering the last time she was on the floor of Calihan Hall. Of course she doesn't remember: she was just a baby waiting to be born then. But of course her mother remembers. Of course I do.

I remember so many things. The shame, the confusion, the excitement, the pride. I was seven months pregnant that day I graduated, and it had indeed been a difficult road. But we had traveled it, Rachel and I, and we made it together. Some said it was a journey we should have abandoned.

"I would have had an abortion." I heard that more than once, and I felt a pain that seared my soul. I had made a bad decision once, and by the grace of God I was committed to making better ones now. I sought God's will, God's grace, God's strength, and I was not denied. I graduated that day, my daughter beneath my heart, and I looked ahead to a future filled with God's love. Again, I was not denied.

So twenty-two years have passed, and my daughter graduated today from her mother's alma mater; her "nurturing mother." She is setting out, as I was, to do God's will, to marry the man she loves, to take chances, to make dreams come true, to prove people wrong.

Our God is so great, so good, so gracious. Today I praise Him for the gift of unplanned blessings, for the beauty of goodness that comes when we seek His will. I thank Him for the awesome gift I carried that day as I received my diploma and started a new life. I thank Him for Rachel, my beautiful daughter.

Join me in congratulating Rachel Catherine, Bachelor of Fine Arts, Magna Cum Laude.

tossin' and turnin'

Inspired by my friend Kate, I decided to post what's been keeping the sandman on the fly 'round here these days.

1. A year from now I could be a grandmother.

2. A year from now I could be pregnant.

3. My sixteen-year-old son has a girlfriend. 'Nuff said.

4. Who else didn't get their invitation to Rachel's wedding????

5. What have I done lately to offend my (husband, daughter, son, mother, father, friend, neighbor, second cousin, music minister, mail carrier, chiropractor, bank teller, hair dresser, parish school principal, grocery store clerk, insert-your-name-here)??? All of these relationships are currently in need of repair.

6. It's B-O-O-G-E-R, isn't it, Kate?

I like Kate's list better.

turn, turn, turn...

f
Remember that song?

"To everything, turn, turn, turn, there is a season, turn, turn, turn, and a time, to every purpose, under heaven." (The Byrds)

It's been haunting me lately, that tune from my youth. It is a new season for me, both figuratively and literally, and I'm struggling mightily to transform from dry winter wood to delicate blossom with courage and grace.

Where in the world have I been these past few weeks? I hate to take the "dog ate my homework" route with this blog, but I do have some really good excuses this time. Spring has come to my Michigan town (at least off and on) and with it a flurry of activity.

I've been spending lots of time with my six-year-old son, Luke. He and I have been taking walks around our neighborhood nearly every day. Like all my children, he is extraordinary. He is so intelligent and sensitive, so alert to the beauty of the world. He is special to me because I am seeing more and more that he is a bit of a "mini-me." (Finally, on child six, and in a positive way -- he imitates my GOOD qualities!) A Michigan spring is glorious, and Luke has been glorying in observing the changes. As we walked on his birthday, he stooped to collect a tiny flower growing in a neighbor's yard. "Look Mama! A tiny blue child!" he exclaimed. I'm in heaven.


I've been spending lots of time with my daughters, Rachel and Lauren. Both are getting married this summer, leaving our little nest to start families of their own with wonderful young men. I am overcome with joy and wonder. Where did the time go? I know I am starting to sound like one of those old women who pinches the cheeks of everyone under 30. But seriously, I swear it was just yesterday that I was selecting their First Communion dresses. And now, in three weeks, my eldest child will be a married woman.


Truth be told, I've not been spending nearly enough time with my other children, AJ, Joey and John, although we did manage to wrap up the so-called homeschooling that had been going on here this year. Joey did get his share of attention these past few weeks as we've decided to send him to "real" school next year. My little boy will be leaving me, boarding a real live school bus every morning and leaving his mother! My goodness, the child is only 13 years old! Oh dear, I think we will manage, but I must admit a good bit of my heart will board that bus with him.

My husband will tell you he is getting no attention at all, but that's not entirely true. He started a new job this month, after 18 years with the same company. For me that means he is no longer three minutes away, but thirty. It means I have to find new doctors with our new health insurance, and eventually meet all those new folks he's working with. It means that I'm praying for him every day, knowing that he is so talented and hoping his new employer will keep on seeing that. It means that each day I'm eager to hear all the details about his new daily life, and that even though the children are keeping me so busy lately I want to keep reminding my husband that he is my priority. I am so proud of him and love him so much, but sometimes it's hard to make that seem real, isn't it?

Long overdue is the good deal of time I've been spending taking care of myself lately. I renewed my gym membership, rediscovering the intense pleasure of pushing myself just a little harder each day, walking a little faster, lifting a heavier weight, doing just one more rep. It makes me feel strong, reminds me that I am strong, strong as I need to be to keep my life in balance.

That's what it's been this past month, a balancing act, a test of my priorities. I only mentioned a tiny portion of what I've been thinking about, what I've been doing. Didn't spend any time at all talking about the relationships with my elderly parents, best friend, and neighbors, responsiblities at church, household repairs and yardwork, or even that crazy garage sale we're having this weekend. (What am I thinking?) Don't even need to mention that we were visited yesterday by the fire department (the microwave is fine but the biscuit is toast) and spent time in the ER (in an unrelated incident involving Luke's forehead and a door.) Oh dear, oh dear.

You've guessed by now that this blog and all other writing projects did not make the cut these past few weeks. With no regrets I must acknowledge what I know is true. It's just not in season. It is a time to observe the wondrous transformation going on all around me and within me right now. Like a Michigan spring, it is magnficent and beautiful with chartruese budding trees and magnolias that bloom on a Monday and cover the ground by Wednesday. Like all things truly beautiful, this time is fragile. If I close my eyes for even a second, I will miss it. And I cannot miss it. There is a time for every purpose under heaven, and this is the time to glory in spring, in all its transient beauty.


Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven:

A time to be born, and
a time to die;
a time to plant, and
a time to pluck up
that which is planted;

A time to kill, and
a time to heal;
a time to break down, and
a time to build up;

A time to weep, and
a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and
a time to dance;

A time to cast away stones, and
a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and
a time to refrain from embracing;

A time to get, and
a time to lose;
a time to keep, and
a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and
a time to sow;
a time to keep silence, and
a time to speak;

A time to love, and
a time to hate;
a time of war; and
a time of peace.

in full bloom

Words are a net to catch beauty!

When I read those words years ago, as a college student, I felt a shiver run down my spine. Yes! my soul shouted. That's just how I feel! Words were my friends, as near and dear to me as my sorority sisters and the boys from Sigma Phi Epsilon. I had fallen in love at an early age, and had never quite gotten over this first crush. Words spoke to me (of course they did, that's what words are for, right?) But it was as if we shared a secret language. I would reread books just to enjoy the sentences composed by my favorite writers, savoring the delicious morsels prepared just for me from that delectable storehouse of goodies -- the alphabet.

Strange? More than a little, I guess, but true enough. Once I learned how to read and write, to understand that these precious little gems of language could be combined in myriad ways to delight, educate, astound and scandalize, I was hooked. I longed to be caught up in that net of beauty, awash in the truth and power of language.

So when I saw those words, written just so that I could love them, I knew I had found a story that I would turn to again and again. It's a short story by Tennessee Williams, and I don't know if it's considered a classic or not. All I know is that once I fell headlong into Williams' net, I was a goner.

The story is set on a college campus. Its heroine, the angsty Myra, pens my favorite phrase in the back of a notebook, and then goes on to have a fling with a strange, moody boy who writes poetry (instead of her usual beau, the boy she is supposed to love.) This new boy's name is Homer, and the gal he normally hangs out with is named Hertha, for heaven's sake. How he and Myra wind up together is gloriously simple and complicated and unexplained; how like real life! I loved reading it when I was 19, and I love it now. I admit I don't quite know why. But I do know for certain that this story touched me in a unique, profound way.

The pivotal scene in the story occurs in my favorite place in the whole world. Homer takes Myra there on a moonlit night, and her breath catches as she looks out at the most wonderful sight. Before them is a meadow filled with delicate blue flowers, their fragrance filling the air, their petals lifted by the wind. They are at the field; the field of blue children.

We all know what happens at the field. Myra puts it behind her, and goes on the marry the boy who is right for her. But one day she returns to the field, just for a day, just because she must.

Friends have asked where I got the name for this blog, and there it is. I believe each of us has a "field of blue children", a place we return to when we need to experience life. My field is the place where I am safe. The place where I can be with my words, experiencing the comfort they provide for me. It is my creative corner of the world, the place where I am free to create and dream, to make mistakes, try things on. It is my place to be young again.

So the blue children are not blue babies (although I had one of those dear ones to love.) They are not the four sons I am rearing, and they are not sad, even though my life is overwhelmed with all things manly and plenty of sorrow! My blue children are my words, my wonderful, amazing, life-giving bouquet of blossoms, linked together, stem to stem, a net to hold me fast and safe.

You may read my favorite short story, "The Field of Blue Children,"
here.

have mercy on us, and on the whole world

i
Justice or mercy?
Forgiveness or retribution?

My young adult children and I have been discussing these issues the past few days. The circumstances of our lives have brought us once again to that place where these questions are no longer theoretical.

You don't need to know the details to know that you, too, have been there. If we are forgiven, does that mean there are no consequences for us to bear? If we show mercy to someone, does it mean that he has not hurt us? Are there times when we must use our authority to bring justice to a situation? If we do this, does it mean we are not accepting the attempts of a repentant heart?

I don't know. The older I get, it seems, the duller I get. Life was easy when answers were black and white. Now that I can see clearly the vast grey universe, I know that sometimes it is difficult to choose "the right thing to do."

Today is Divine Mercy Sunday, of course, a good time to ponder these things. I know I should err on the side of mercy, right? I should make exceptions for others, ignore their faults, and mercifully forgive their transgressions. But what if their sins are hurting me? What if they're hurting themselves? If I show mercy to them, am I not holding them sufficiently accountable? And if I am strict in my observance of rules, am I nothing but a Pharisee?

No clear answers here, just the earnest longings of a mother who loves her children. I hope they will forgive me as I mess up in their parenting, as that's a given. In balancing mercy and justice, I'll try to measure with the same scale that I hope will be used on my judgment day. One heavily weighted with mercy, with just the right amount of justice, meted out with purest love.

In Your Shadow

Easter morning, 2008

I had walked within your shadow
On the road in Galilee
I watched in awe your hands work miracles
Lame men walk now; blind men see.

I felt your shadow fall upon me
When the widow touched the hem
Of your cloak as you passed by her
With your crowd of holy men.

I was jealous of her boldness
As she put out an eager hand
Afraid to walk too near you
I just followed in the sand.

I was in the crowd that greeted you
As you entered like a King
Your shadow cast a regal sphere
As our bold hosannas rang.

You walked that path again so soon
Your blood fell upon the stone
I hid in a darkened doorway.
I let you walk alone.

Was there a shadow cast on Calvary?
Or was the darkness vast and deep?
I do not know.
I did not go.
Alone, I cried myself to sleep.

Yesterday there was no shadow
No place left for me to hide
No one there to heal this cripple
Maimed by selfishness and pride.

This morning Mary ran to greet me
Though I can scarcely take it in
She says the tomb is empty
She says you live again.

Is it true? Am I still dreaming?
Have I been given one more chance?
Might I be able to follow you again?
In your shadow, now to dance?

Mary smiles and says, "Just trust Him.
'Do not be afraid,' He said."
I go with her to see the shadow
Of the stone that guards no dead.

You are alive and I am weeping
Standing in a bold new place
Soon I'll glory in the shadow
Of your brilliant, Holy Face.

I used to fear the darkness
Like a child in bed at night
But I no longer fear the shadow
For in it I am close to Light.

another runaway?

Would I walk away?

Would I be able to bear the sight of someone, anyone, being crucified? Would I stand by, knowing that I was putting my life in danger by the very act? And further, would I continue to witness this horrible torture being inflicted on The One I believed had come to save me? The One I loved?

Am I like Mary Magdalene? Or am I Judas?

I pondered these thoughts and more last night as I walked through an exhibit on the Shroud of Turin hosted by a local church. I had seen the display years ago, but it continued to inspire and fascinate me. And provoke me.

The first time I saw the display it included a graphic figure of the Crucified Christ as He was likely to have appeared: covered with horrific wounds, dripping with blood. I quickly looked away.

I continue to look away. I cannot bear the cross. I can't bear Jesus', and I can't bear my own, even (maybe especially) the tiny ones. I used to entertain a fantasy in which I was like Veronica, offering Jesus compassion. I was like The Magdalene, steadfast at her Lord's feet. I was akin to His Blessed Mother, washing his wounds with my tears.

I know myself better today. I'm much more like Joseph of Arimathea, who showed up at the last minute in secret. I'm like the Centurion, only converted after seeing Jesus suffer patiently for hours. I'm like Thomas, who was hiding somewhere and insisted on proof even when the Risen Jesus was standing right in front of him. I'm Peter, who betrayed his best friend repeatedly and then ran off crying.

I know in my heart I've got lots in common with Judas. Lots.

Seeing that exhibit again last night brought me to Calvary in the smallest way. Daily life is really more effective for that, isn't it? Just praying I won't run away. Just praying...

from darkness to light

I thought I'd be spending the day writing. Instead, I've been distracted, annoyed and anxious. The house is empty, and I should be working away. But things don't always go as we plan, do they?

One thing after another needed my attention. I thought I'd be alone all day, but I forgot I had to pick up Lolo at the airport. The Big Man came home from school and had some homework to finish before he headed off to be with my brother and the urchins. He was home just long enough for us to engage in some lively "conversation" that included me repeatedly blowing my nose and saying I would never, ever again dare to ask for a weekend off.

We managed to patch things up and he headed off. I swear it was only 15 minutes later when he called me to announce that he was ready to kill the urchins, and that he had to stop by the house to pick up gloves for them. (The ones I sent were deemed absolutely unappropriate...what was I thinking?)

'Round about this time, Lolo asked me to go to confession with her. What kind of mother says no when her 20-year-old daughter asks her to go to confession with her? This kind. I was feeling so unprepared, so dark, so not ready for confession.

I agreed to go to Mass, however, even though I knew The Big Man would be there, urchins in tow, and they would all need me desperately.
Miraculously, it wasn't too bad. Throughout Mass I kept picturing a candle, a beautiful peaceful image of light and warmth. I started to feel some peace.

Lukie asked me to go out to dinner with them, and I really wanted to go. But Lolo and I had decided to go out together instead. That fell through too, but that's ok. I came home and ate some freezer burned chicken and played around on the computer, not accomplishing much of anything.

Now here I am, trying to decide if this weekend has been a bust. I've been so troubled these past few weeks, trying to figure out just what I should be doing around here. I thought a few days (heck, a few minutes) alone would put some light on the situation.

I want to capture the light and warmth of that candle I imagined at Mass. I need to feel the healing power of Christ's burning Love, be illuminated by the flame of His Sacred Heart. If I look elsewhere, I know I'll be in the dark for good. So in the tradition of good Catholics everywhere, I'm lighting a candle.

Christ, be my light.

why are we here?

Oh dear, more existential pondering?

I'm just wondering why we (bloggers, not just ordinary people) are here.

Since I started blogging at the beginning of February, I've learned there's a whole world to discover. I've visited countless blogs ranging from the sincere to the silly. I've added to my vocabulary words that I didn't even know existed a month ago. Widgets and chicklets and memes, oh my!

At first I thought it was all about the writing, then I found out how cool it is to add fun things and choose a layout. (I'm on my second version so far, but don't be surprised if it changes again.) I visited the blogs of other Catholic writers, at first to flatter them with my imitation, then to discover the wisdom they had to offer. I found I was soon drawn in, eager to read what my new best friends had to say. Before I knew it I was neglecting the housework, burning chicken, telling children to go find someone else to wipe their bottoms. I had a blogging jones, and there was no denying it.

Thank God for God, and thank God He gave me a nudge this week. Hello...what are you doing, girl? What's this blogging business all about? As you joined St. Blog's Parish and submitted your blog to the Catholic Mothers Online, did you even think of Me?

I don't know what I was thinking. I was just dying to write.

When I was four, I taught myself to read. When I was six, I started writing. At seven, I produced my first play, and at eight a short story developed. (I still remember it: Mickey and Ghost, the story of a little orphan girl and her dog.)

As soon as I put pencil to paper, I knew who I was: a writer.

I used to say self-important things like this: "When a writer stops writing, she stops living." So have I been dead for the last thirty-odd years?

Of course not. I've met and married a wonderful man. I've given life to seven children. I've schooled them at home for over 15 years. But have I written? A bit, but not nearly enough.

Writing my book and having it published was a dream come true, and seeing it come to fruition opened a door in my heart that refuses to be shut. Sometimes it seems the obligations of my life are pushing hard on that door, daring me to wedge my foot between wood and jamb. So here I stand, steadfast, foolish and indignant, bold and sassy, weeping between words. Why are we here? Because we have to be.

If the first rule of good writing is write what you know, the second is write for your audience. So, since I've decided to weather the storm and write, who indeed is my audience? A woman I know, experienced in writing both online and off, agreed when I lamented that if no one reads it, my blog does not exist. It's starting to blow my mind. Maybe I'm not even here right now...

But supposing somewhere an audience awaits. Who am I writing for? Myself? My Lord? My mom?

Even with my limited experience, I know enough about blogging to say YES, I'm writing for all of those listed and more. Like all who feel compelled to write, I believe I have something to say, and I earnestly hope someone will listen.

So when God nudged me this week, I did some audience analysis, some honest evaluation. I am indeed writing for me, my Lord, and even my mom. And I'm writing for you, whoever you are.

But mostly I'm writing because I can, because it's what I do. God gives each of us tools, and if we leave them in a rusty toolbox we're simply lazy and irresponsible. For many years I asked, "Why did God give me talents if He didn't want me to use them?" Of course He wants me to use them, but as we all know God is the ultimate O.T.T. Master. (He has His own timetable, so don't get impatient.)

He knows what He's doing, and He's plenty patient with us while we figure out our end of the deal.

So why are we here? I can only speak for myself. I'm here to write, to share, to teach, to proclaim. I'm here to glorify my Savior, to rejoice in His Goodness, to pick up my hammer and nails and create something awesome. I'm here to write.

I'm dying

It's true.

I'm dying.

I'd like to say that I'll spare you the gory details, but that'd be a lie. There are lots of gory details. I want to say that it all began in December, when I had that surgery. OK, so it was only foot surgery and I'm fine now, but boy, was that rough. Six weeks on crutches! Then there was that nasty bout with the flu. Influenza! That's right, the real deal, the stuff that killed all those folks back in WWI.

Really. I'm dying.

I've still got a lingering cough, and my toe hurts. It pains me to reveal this, but I can't even wear normal shoes. No high heels, and not even my favorite clogs. It's misery, pure misery.

Yes, I'd like to say it started back in December, my demise that is , but the truth is it started long before that. About 43 years before that. Because, of course, like everybody else, I've been dying since day one.

We love to complain when we're sick, injured, or even just bored, don't we? We want everyone to share our sufferings. We're dying. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I uttered that actual phrase numerous times in the past couple of months. To my children, leave Mommy alone. I'm dying. To my husband, first thing in the morning, I'm dying. To my best friend, can you come over? I'm dying.
Of course it's all true. I really am dying. Wow.

We Catholics call them the Last Things: death, judgment, resurrection. Important concepts to be sure. Ones we'll all face someday. And since I really am dying, maybe I should give them a thought now and then.

I love to complain about the consequences of my fallen state (that nasty cough and painful toe, for instance) but I don't like to think about the real consequence that we'll all face one day. I will be dying one day, really and truly, and I must consider if the way I'm living reflects that reality.

It's Lent, a good time for this dying stuff. Instead of just dying with my annoying irritations, I should be "dying to self." Making some sacrifices. Doing good for others. Shutting up when I want to talk, stuff like that.

Next time I want to announce my mortality to the world, I hope I'll stop for a second to think what I'm really saying. I'm dying. So I better be serious about living. Damn serious.

Who am I?

Yeah, who am I?

I wish I could say I was asking this in some sort of profound metaphysical way, but the truth is I'm having a hard time deciding who I am. As in what my name is. Is it Cathy or Catherine? For those of you with simple names that do not lend themselves to nicknames, pardon this foray into nonsense. For the rest of us, those of us who could be called Cat or Cath or even Kate, or Cath or Cathi or Cathie, who the heck are we?

My parents gave me my name, of course, and astonishingly no one shortened Catherine Louise to Cathy Lou until I shared my middle name with a new friend a few years ago. (Thanks, Kath....yes, I call her Kath. She goes by Katherine and even Q, but that's another story.) My parents also gave me my first nicknames, Dolly and Cherby. Neither of those took (thank God) but Cathy, the classic shortened version that I shared with three kindergarten classmates in 1971, stuck. So like it or not, I was stuck, too.

Stuck, that is, between Cathy and Catherine. I never thought much about it when I was younger. Cathy seemed just fine. I grew up in the 70's and 80's, not an era in which young girls reinvented themselves by devising creative new names. (At least not in my neighborhood.) I was used to being called Cathy, and even when I ventured off to college (ok, drove across town to an urban commuter campus) it didn't seem necessary to adopt a more mature label. But now, I'm a forty-something mom with six children. I'm launching a writing career a (my first book was published in September) and I'm trying to establish myself as an inspirational speaker. Who does those kinds of things? Is Cathy capable? Or is it time to call on Catherine?

Truth be told, I like my name (both variations. ) I don't go by Cathy because Catherine isn't appealing. I answer to it because my ears have grown accustomed, and I don't want to suddenly appear lofty to everyone who's gotten to know Cathy and liked her just fine, thank you. So what now?

I suppose I should've made the leap to Catherine when my book went to print. It would've been a great time to do it, as I was meeting new people and effectively starting anew as a writer. Catherine actually appears on the cover. But throughtout the story, which is an account of my youngest daughter's brief life, Cathy takes over. And the back cover is filled with praise for good ole Cathy, once again.

You'd think the subject matter of the book would be enough to help me reach the maturity of Catherine. It is a coming of age story in that my daughter's life and death chastened, humbled and transformed me. But when I type my name, I type Cathy. When I reach out my hand, I introduce Cathy. When I talk to myself, I say that old familiar name.

So today I set up this blog, and several blank white spots cried out for my identity. First I typed Catherine in every spot, but it didn't look right. So for now I'm Cathy. But you'll notice the nod to Catherine in my signature, sitting there all formal and proper waiting for me to grow up. I know she'll be there when I'm ready.