40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 8

16E

I recently bought a plane ticket, and when choosing my seat I was reminded the aisle and window seats cost more. Coming from a long line of thriftiness, I chose the middle seat. No extra fee. 

I slipped into my spot on the Delta flight and began observing the characters of the day. The gentleman in the aisle seat next to me (16D) who had quick access to the lavatory was dressed in denim and had a novel stuffed in the seat pocket in front of him. If our intellectual abilities were judged by the girth of the books we read, this guy would be in the genius realm. Personally, I’m still working on finishing this month’s 1/8 inch thick Reader’s Digest.

To the right was my window neighbor (16F) who noticed my inability to juggle coffee, a bag of tortillas, and a backpack, and asked if I would like to use his tray table to place my coffee. Kindness in action. I thanked him. Turns out he is one of the marvels in the world that can fall asleep as soon as the plane engines roar. His head flopped down then shot up several times the way it does when we ask our bodies to sleep vertically. In a matter of minutes, he settled into a deep slumber.

Once we bounced through the mountains and up to cruising altitude, I began writing. I noticed the aisle guy had a nasty cut on his hand, so I rifled through my wallet for a Bandaid (dad said always carry one in your wallet) and offered it to him. He thanked me and as he peeled the plastic pieces off each side of the adhesive, he told me he works with stone which causes a lot of small lesions. I closed my computer and seized the opportunity to tap into his story.

En route from Santa Fe to Atlanta, New York, and finally Italy, he told me of his life as a sculptor. After high school, he spent time in Ohio, Berkely, then lived in Carrara, Italy where he learned to speak Italian.

He told me he carves mellifluous (smooth and soothing – I had to look it up) musical compositions into hard stone finding the balance and tensions of negative and positive space as he chisels away. He recently finished a piece that started out as 5,000 pounds of stone and after carving and creating ended in 1,500 pounds of beauty. It took him three months, 5-6 hours per day. He then chooses one of his galleries to place it in to sell and hopes someone who understands and appreciates his work will purchase it.

He has his art in studios from San Francisco to Aspen and quarries most of his stone in Italy. He then ships thousands of pounds of stone to his studio in Santa Fe and completes the work at his studio.

We talked about unnecessary stress when working as an artist and parent, current events in Ukraine, happy childhood moments with siblings, and difficult times we’d rather forget.

I told him about my kids and each of their talents. I mentioned my son with the 3-D mind as noted by an engineering professor. “You either have it or you don’t. Your son does.” I asked how he knew he wanted to sculpt. He said he was like my son. One day his dad pulled him aside when he was young and said, “you have a 3-D mind and you will not be happy if you don’t do something with your hands when you grow up. Don’t tell your mother I told you.”

It was a pleasure sitting with my new friend, hands covered in sculpting scars and the soft, gruff voice of a well-read artist. As we parted ways under the bright lights of gate B27 inside the terminal, I wished him a nice journey in Spanish and he responded with the same in Italian.

I teetered off toward baggage claim balancing a duffle bag, backpack, and the same bag of tortillas. I then heard my kind window neighbor (16F) ask if he could help me carry my things to baggage claim. I declined, thanking him again for his compassion, and headed straight to the restroom. I love the middle seat, I do, but it is way too far from the bathroom.

Why choose the middle seat? Save money, gain two new friends.

Please pray for Ukraine.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 7

Every day my parents wake up grateful to be here.

Dad finds the silver lining on even the hardest days. Failing eyesight brings sharper hearing. Using Siri to call friends without having to see the phone is a blessing. His mantra is “another good day”.

Mom is the realist. She says her daily prayers, finds joy in feeding and watching the cranes, and laughs at the woodpecker who “looks like he’s wearing striped pajamas”. Everyday she relishes the beauty in the open space around her. When pain is overwhelming and memory fails, she tells dad, “Si vamos a morir, vamos a morir.” (If we’re going to die, we are going to die.) Dad quickly retorts, “Wait a minute, I like it here!”

Over the last several years, my parents have experienced a lot of loss. Poker buddies, cousins, brothers, military friends, children of friends, doctors, and neighbors. They kneel at Rossary’s, pray at funerals, and dance at celebrations of life.

Today my father called his former business partner of 25 years whose prognosis is between one and three weeks to live. My mom usually predicts at least an hour-long conversation when my dad talks to Joe. But today’s chat was under five minutes.

There was no political banter or stock market mentions. In fact, after the conversation ended, dad slowly entered the living room and said Joe didn’t feel like talking. He abruptly said he had to go. My dad told him he was going to go eat a bowl of cereal. Joe paused and said, “Don’t eat Cheerios. If you’re going to eat cereal you’ve got to have oatmeal, something that will stick to you.” Then he said goodbye.

After dad told us this story and the clear fact that Joe still had his back even with oatmeal advice at 86, he wiped his eyes, picked up the binoculars, and peered out at the cranes. I saw him exhale as he watched their gentle landings and slow waltz across the field.

“Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one precious life?

Mary Oliver

Please pray for Ukraine.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 6

Growing up we spent a lot of time at St. Anne’s Church. Sunday mass, Saturday confessions, “whether we needed it or not”. Thursday Catechism Class with Sister Marcella who answered my 10-year-old burning question:

“Will we know each other in heaven?” FYI: she assured me we would.

Some Saturday mornings mom and I (or one of my three sisters) would head out to church and accompany mom up the long stairway to the choir loft. Mom would lay out her music, folding the top right corners of the pages and warm-up for whatever celebration was occurring. We were the designated page-turners. Standing to her right, we waited for her head to nod, our cue to turn the page. As she pumped the pedals and filled the cavernous church with “How Great Thou Art” or Captain and Tenille’s “The Wedding Song”, we would peer over the loft ledge and witness either the beginning of a loving partnership or the celebration of a life to be missed. On Sunday, we would climb the stairs once again for the 9:00 am mass.

All that being said, mom was basically in charge of the music at church. She knows the practice it takes and appreciates good musicians. So when one of my sisters texted the sister group chat saying,

“OPINION POLL: Mom covers her ears during music at mass. Today Father gave her earplugs, during mass! As a gift.”

My sister thought of it as a gift as much as coal is to a child on Christmas morning.

Clearly upset, she continued, “Yes, I’m texting during mass. So I have a problem.”

Our suggestions:
Roll your eyes
Tell him she’ll bring earmuffs next time
Let her cover
Don’t let her sit at the end of the pew to be less obvious

Finally, my oldest sister asked, “How did mom and dad take it?”
“Mom and dad both took it like he’s being funny, so they’re fine!
Me? I’m going to need to go to mass again!” 🙄

When I talked to mom later that day, she told me of her bright orange earplugs now stowed in her fanny pack for church. “The music is just so loud and they play the keys in between the actual notes that are supposed to be played. So now I’ll have to remember my mask, earplugs, and glasses for mass.”

Being with my parents I notice some moments are happy and calm like watching the hummingbirds on the suet or relaxing by the fire “talking about whoever isn’t there” as my dad says. Other days, every step hurts, memories fail, and they wonder why we live too far away. No matter the day, they’ve walked through the years, good and bad together, so if during Saturday mass mom wants to cover her ears or dance in the aisles at mass, so be it.

After all, you can’t ask Alexa to lower the volume or change the music at mass, although if mom could she’d probably request “How Great though Art” from the 80’s with her playing the piano.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 5

Every Monday during Lent I will honor the Mary’s in my life, and there are many. There’s just something about Mary that brings my life spiritual solace.

The Virgin Mary

In the Bible, the angel Gabriel guides Mary into motherhood like an air traffic controller…landing her the role of the Mother of Jesus. Then life got busy. There were feast days, appearances, suffering, and intercessions, you know, regular mom stuff.

At church on Sundays when our kids were young, we’d sit by the choir during mass. It was loud enough to drown out whining, the kids were fascinated with the instruments and if there was a breakdown it was easy to slip out the back door. During mass, I would glance at the opposite side of the church where families sat calmly with their children. What was it about that side?

Then one day we found ourselves amid the “right-side” pew dwellers. It was a busy mass and an insistent usher herded us over before I could church whisper, “We’ll stand, really.”

Then I saw Mary.

Standing there with her hand waving me in, like she was offering me a bottle of water and a comfy chair to rest my soul. So we sat next to Mary, amid the quiet group and stared back at the choir families. And when the matchbox cars started flying or everyone had to go to the bathroom, I’d glance up, and there she was, Mary…no longer in my blind spot, confirming all was well.

Today I listened and sang along to the song “Let it Be” while my mom and I made tortillas. The Beatles song was written by Paul McCartney in 1969. Paul sings about when he finds himself in times of trouble, “Mother Mary” comes to him. For years I thought he was referring to the Virgin Mary, but instead, he was singing of his mother, Mary who died when he was a young boy. McCartney has said he is grateful people find spirituality in his words, no matter which Mary they are thinking of while they sing along.

Thankfully, when I find myself in times of trouble, my mother and Mary are always there for me.

Please continue to pray for families in Ukraine.

“It doesn’t have to be blue iris, it can be weeds in a vacant lot. Just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate. This isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks. A silence in which another voice may speak.”

– Mary Oliver, Praying

This photo moved me to send this prayer for Ukraine today…

Photo: Children at the central train station in Kyiv, Ukraine, look out from an evacuation train to Lviv March 3, as they say goodbye to their father. (CNS photo/Gleb Garanich, Reuters)

Catholic Agency for International Development

Loving God,
We pray for the people of Ukraine,
for all those suffering or afraid,
that you will be close to them and protect them.

We pray for world leaders,
for compassion, strength and wisdom to guide their choices.

We pray for the world
that in this moment of crisis,
we may reach out in solidarity
to our brothers and sisters in need.

May we walk in your ways
so that peace and justice
become a reality for the people of Ukraine
and for all the world.

Amen.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 4

Ever since our kids were young, they’ve been on teams. Dance to baseball – soccer to swim and many in between. Our hope was always to give them the opportunity to learn discipline, cooperation, sportsmanship, how to lose graciously, and to always help teammates up when they fall, both physically and emotionally.

When my dad was a freshman in high school back in 1949, he and his buddy, Anthony signed up for the track team. Growing up working in the family grocery store daily, he asked his dad if it was okay if he stayed after school for practice. Always the businessman, grandpa said yes, as long as he was home at 3:00 pm to open the store. The first day of practice, dad and Anthony showed up to practice with the wrong type of socks so they headed to Montgomery Wards with no money to speak of and a plan for my dad to distract the salesman, while his friend tried to “acquire” socks for them. They were caught and then banned from Montgomery Wards. Later that day when dad didn’t show up at the store at 3:00, his athletic career ended before it had a chance to begin. No sports teams, but he always had friends over to the store to play cards while grandma fed everyone.

In 1952, my mom went to boarding school four hours away from her family due to discrimination toward Hispanics in her hometown. In order to pay her tuition, she worked at the school washing all of the bedding, cleaning, and playing the piano for school events. The nuns also had her play for the children’s mass every Sunday at the church about a mile away. She was 14. No sports teams, but a tribe of classmates that supported each other.

Somehow, without formal sports or teams, my parents learned about teamwork, and the joy of supporting those around them, especially each other. In the fall and winter, they shell pecans from their trees, split wood and stack it beautifully. In the spring and summer, they dry apples, plant tomatoes, and jalapeños, prune the peach and apricot trees and say a little prayer over the fig tree that it will “someday bear fruit.”

At 83 and 86, I imagine some days are tackled with love and intention and others are just too long. According to our Catholic faith, following our death comes a whole new life. A new beginning. A concept I tend to find alternately comforting and frightening. Just like the stillness of death and the quiet, it brings to the world.

The team and partnership they have formed over the last 62 years have every quality needed for success. Their will to sacrifice anything for each other, the little acts of service and love they show every day, and their ability to resolve conflicts, even if it just means forgiving and forgetting — as mom says, her memory is not like it used to be.

Today, dad has macular degeneration and the picture in this post shows mom reading the paper to dad. This is a team. This is a partnership. This is love.

Please pray for Ukraine

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 3

Last week, I called my dear friend and one of the best storytellers I know. She answered the phone forgoing mundane salutations and asked, “Do you know what love is?!” Scarcely pausing for an answer, she continued, “It is this tuna melt sandwich my husband just made me!” She went on to say she wasn’t sure if all the love came from gooey cheese involved or the simple fact that she didn’t have to make her own lunch. Either way, today’s love story for her is a delicious sandwich.

Recently, the New York Times purchased Wordle. If you have been living under a rock, Wordle is a word guessing game designed by Josh Wardle, a software engineer in Brooklyn. He developed this game for the sole purpose of letting his wordsmith partner know he loved her. Now thousands of people love Wordle.

I thought about the many times I arrived home and the laundry was washed, folded and put away, or the sink had been cleared of dishes and cleansed. This is love. How about the time the kids showed up with coffee for us and a note that said, “Happy first day of school” — definitely love.

Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, (love) is not pompous, it is not inflated…

1 Corinthians 13

Or when our dog greets us at the door with a hug welcoming us home…love again.

Show your love today, especially if it’s a cheezy, scrumptious tuna melt you make for someone.

So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

Please pray for Ukrain

What is love to you? Leave a message in the comments!

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 2

“Might I,” quavered Mary, “might I have a bit of earth?” “Earth!” he repeated. “What do you mean?” “To plant seeds in — to make things grow — to see them come alive.” — Frances H. Burnett, The Secret Garden

Every morning, without fail, two kindergarten girls run into my classroom to give me a hug and say good morning. Feeling like a rock star, I thought, maybe—just maybe I’m one of the cool teachers whose students visit before they go to class.

Then one morning I happened to walk into school right behind my two faithful visitors. As they buzzed down the hallway, backpacks dangling from their arms, I realized I was watching two early birds actually get the worm – the worm being morning company.

First, they stopped in the very hip art teacher’s room to pick up coloring sheets, giggling all the way. They then took a left and peeked in to say hello to the four pre-k teachers, a counselor, and the math specialist. I scooted by them, flicked on my classroom light, and plopped into my desk chair. As I clicked open the lid to my travel cup to take my first sip of coffee, in bound Jane and Kate. I’m telling you, if I had not just seen the milk run they had just endured, I would have thought with all the love they had to share with me that I was their first visitor of the day. Spreading joy and bearing gifts (coloring pages from their first stop).

I thought about this all day. More so, I was thankful for it all day. Every morning I get to watch two 5-year-olds sprinkle happiness to so many.

I pictured a dandelion puff being blown around the school carrying little bits of sunshine to everyone around.

But instead, the spores of the flower were these two sweet girls.

As Jane and Kate left my room, they handed me the coloring page they acquired from their first stop and said, “This is for you. Color it beautiful”. “I most certainly will, thank you.”

We can all use this gentle shove toward the more cheerful side of things. So take time to find joy, give joy, and spread joy.

Please pray for Ukraine.

40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season

No. 1

“I know that a life is much richer with a spiritual part to it. And I also think nothing is more interesting. So I cling to it.”

― Mary Oliver

Five years ago on Ash Wednesday, I dug through my inner toolbox searching for shiny hammers, grippy-handled screwdrivers, and a fully charged drill to help reinforce the scaffolding of my spirituality. Turns out all I needed was a laptop and vulnerability.

So I began writing. For forty days. Sharing stories about the day-to-day minutia I cherish. The small moments where friendships, surrender, grace, and laughter keep me from falling flat. Quick conversations confirm I am not the only mom who feels more stressed about scholarships, applications, and pre-calculus tests than my kids, nor am I the only mom who loathes tik tok, yet find the videos my kids share to be thoroughly entertaining.

Five years later, I am recharging my laptop, and soul thinking of the great poet Mary Oliver who said,

“When you write a poem, you write it for anybody and everybody. And you have to be ready to do that out of your single self. It’s a giving.”

My hope is you gleam a little something positive from my corner of the world this Lenten season.

Meditation: Please pray for the Ukrain