According to UNICEF: “The war in Ukraine is having a devastating impact on the country’s 7.5 million children. Humanitarian needs are multiplying by the hour as the fighting continues. Children continue to be killed, wounded and deeply traumatized by the violence all around them. Families are terrified, in shock, and desperate for safety.”
Please keep these families in your prayers all day.
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 22
What if you wake up and you never wrote your book, jumped off the high dive, answered the phone, said yes, said no, or waltzed? What if you never asked the hard questions or really said how you feel about that thing? What if you never realize we all walk around with back pain and regrets? What if you never took a chance?
In 1960 Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote,
“Do not be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is an experiment. The more experiments you make the better. What if they are a little coarse and you may get your coat soiled or torn? What if you do fail, and get fairly rolled in the dirt once or twice? Up again, you shall never be so afraid of a tumble.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson, ‘Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks’ p.255, 1960.
Every day these “What if” questions herd my mind into a corral like an overzealous border collie with a flock of sheep, then day flies by and I’ve botched it all again. Or have I? Maybe I did something right. As moms we have to forgive ourselves, trip, fall, grab onto something, stand up on our arthritic ankles and keep going one day at a time.
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 21
Mom preschool. Home. Puzzles. Play dough, Picnics. Reading time Go, Dog. Go! one more time...Pleeease... Naps. Exercise. Stepping on legos and stray cheerios that crumble into 300 pieces. Room mom. PTA. Plan, organize, meet moms. Any moms. Wait. Are they rowing the boat with you? Swap stories. Throw their stories at the wall and see if they stick. Four-year-old ballet classes. Tears. Why am I the only mom inside the studio wagging my legs in the butterfly motion next to pink clad toddler grads? She's nervous. No preschool. I crushed her social life and now dance career.
School years. Cafeteria years. Bus years…who will she sit with? Will she talk about recess? Whisper or yell? Thank the bus driver?
Middle School mystery. Wonder or fear? Orchestra or band? Tennis or swim? Or, Gasp. Nothing. Lunchtime friends?
Press on sweet girl, the bandaid pulls off quickly.
High school. AP classes. Not Econ. School bus for one more year. Summer jobs and save money. She’ll drive old, new, big, small…maybe not a van.
Hang up the tutu, grab the swim goggles. Compete. Compete. Compete.
College looms. What will sustain her? Friendships? Reading? Connections?
What will her version of life be on and offline? Will she recycle mean words, turn them inside out until they are kind and true? Will she sit in the quiet of the fuzzy boundary time in the early morning and listen to her breathing and her heartbeat?
During her late-night studying will she slip into a softer headspace and realize she’s writing her own story and she gets to choose her own ending?
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 20
Then one sunny day after picking him up from baseball practice, I looked into the rearview mirror and there it was…adolescence.
Oh, you’ll know it when you see it.
It looks a lot like the top of a teenager’s head. Yes, all I could see in that little rectangular reflection was a blue screen shining up at my son’s face and the curved top of a baseball cap.
Where was my little guy who would yell out the make and model of every car that passed and guessed how long it would take for every light to turn green? Why wasn’t he singing “Wheels on the bus” loudly or recounting his slick baseball moves play by play?
He was changing by the minute. One second we’re holding hands walking home from the bus stop recounting recess triumphs and the next he can’t wait to start weight lifting class and drive to high school with his brother and sister. Ugh.
Honestly, my son is a teenager who is quite independent. But he’s still just a kid. I mean, out of habit (and my keen sense of smell), I still have to remind him showering is not optional. And like a broken record, I futilely encourage flossing and turning clothes right side out. Luckily his love of play supersedes all. He still asks me to be his quarterback, play Yahtzee, and read together…I’ll hold onto those moments as long as possible.
Here’s a great blurb I found from The Center for Resilient Leadership. I love the way it describes adolescence:
Adolescence is a period of transformation, not unlike a chrysalis changing into a butterfly. If you have never seen this process, it can be painstakingly difficult to watch. The butterfly gradually breaks free of his cocoon, pulling and pushing, stretching and contracting for what seems like an eternity before he finally emerges. If a benevolent onlooker decides to help the process along, the butterfly will likely die, because it is only through the struggle of metamorphosis that he gains the strength to survive on his own.
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 19
I love connecting with people, young and old. Conversations spark memories, stories shared signal similarities among us, and spending time with others is just good karma.
Typically when I’m at a field, court, or pool waiting for a game to start or practice to finish, I follow my “workout while I wait” philosophy. I usually just go for a run. Yesterday, however, I arrived at my son’s baseball game about 45 minutes early, found a stadium seat in the sun, and settled in with a cup of coffee and my computer. I’ll write. I thought. That’s a workout for the mind, right?
I greeted a few parents who nestled themselves under blankets with snacks, phones, and their classic cast of characters surrounding them. Some had grandparents, siblings of players, or friends. I instinctively started a conversation in Spanish with a player’s grandmother who is originally from Texas. We exchanged our philosophies on life in Spanglish for a bit. The flow of our conversation was similar to the chats I have with my parents. Sing-songy with a lot of joking and English woven in, yet said with a slight Cheech and Chong accent so as to blend in with the Spanish. No explanations for colloquialisms, no apologies for not knowing a word in Spanish, just conversation.
She talked about leaving her hometown years ago, following her kids to Georgia so they could be together. Then back in 2010, their son got a job in San Antonio, so they assembled dozens of moving boxes and moved with them to help care for their grandson. Feeling like minimalists, they parsed down their belongings to whatever would fit in the rented moving truck.
Three months later they repacked the Uhaul and returned to Georgia because “Sometimes jobs don’t work out.” She paused, “But it was fun and we were together.”
Once the game started we all found our spots, phones ready to record at-bats and base running. I opened my computer once again, took in the setting, and began cobbling words together.
“Looks like you’re taking score today?” I heard from the gentleman sitting one seat away from me.
“Yes, sir” I replied knowing he was joking. “I’ll have all the answers if you need them.” I closed my computer again, a natural instinct when I’m around anyone who strikes up a conversation or is over 70. Something I wish all teenagers would do when speaking to adults. He went on to tell me how tired he and his wife were because they just walked up a long hill to a baseball field, only to realize they were in the wrong park. They sat, exhausted and thrilled to watch their grandson. “Which is yours?” he asked. “Shortstop”. “Ahhh, he’s a sly one! Quick hands, quick feet.” I sat up a little straighter, honored someone noticed our guy.
We went on for the next few hours chatting about how the wind was “whipping and storms were brewing”. He lumbered back from the snack bar balancing two hot dogs wrapped in foil and steaming white cartons filled with mini churros sprinkled with white powder sugar. I pictured him at the snack bar chatting up the teenagers saying something like “You kids sure are working hard! Do you make those hot dogs yourselves?”
He unloaded his dinner delivery and announced to his wife and anyone listening, “You can’t say I didn’t take you to dinner!” They shared their meal and insisted that I “help” them eat the churros. I had one, knowing it’s just plain rude to say no to something so greasy and delicious.
We continued our visit, scrolling through pictures of his grandchildren and listening to stories about volleyball games they attend and the cakes baked together in their kitchen.
The wind picked up and in his jokey grandfather tone he reached for his vest on the seat in front of him and said, “I should go ask my daughter if she can get me the sleeves for this jacket she bought me!” I laughed, channeling my father’s humor and joining in on the conversation…” Maybe she’s saving up for the rest!” we laughed.
The game ended and he pulled a well-folded paper towel to wipe his eyes out of the back pocket of his creased Levis. Again, I connected the sight to all the handkerchiefs I ironed when I was young. Small, white squares piled at the end of the ironing board ready for Dad.
1930 and 1940’s babies are so similar. They are conversationalists, conscientious, grateful, and simple. Honestly, I love sitting with grandparents at games, helping them locate the Ovaltine at the store, or complimenting them on their haircuts in the checkout line. It always brings me comfort to hope someone is kind to my parents or in-laws. Maybe a child smiled at them as they waited for an appointment or a teenager held the door for them at church or a neighbor stopped by for coffee and conversation. So I pay it forward and try to make meaningful connections with grandparents. After all, family is family – and my parents love hearing stories about the people I meet and the fact that we take the time to enjoy each other’s company.
On the way out, the grandmother from Texas and I caught back up to each other and her husband told me it was her birthday, so I sang “Las Mañanitas” to her and she sang along, blushing. She let out a deep sigh, “Ai, ai, ai, I haven’t sung that in years. Gracias. Muchas gracias.” It reminded me of when I’d sing it to my Godmother over the phone every year until she passed away.
Reach out to one another and make meaningful connections. Just listening is a true gift.
Now for a cup of Ovaltine. I’m such a senior citizen.
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 18
When we were mentally planning our move from DC, I pictured our moving truck loaded with exersaucers, onesies, and boxes of photos heading either north or west toward grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I saw all of us swapping stories around a big, full Norman Rockwellesque table for holidays, cousins living down the street on deck for fishing, playing ball, or exploring, and aunts and uncles ready to solve all the “trains traveling in opposite directions” word problems with our kids. Instead, after a 15-hour drive we pulled into a driveway even further from family, the 108-degree weather making me want to rewind the whole event.
We were going to be fine, I convinced myself. Because you go where the jobs are. We have three kids. It’s the right thing. It is. Immediately after we moved, my dearest of friends sent me a 1,000 thread-count periwinkle set of sheets and a handmade card that read “Bloom where you’re planted!” written in her jaunty script. But I currently hated where I was planted, (there was red clay everywhere and what the heck were fire ants?!?!) I wanted to go home and three of the four people I knew were being potty trained. I desperately wished she could drop by with a bottle of wine, her funny stories, and a hug.
As time went by, we adjusted, and each summer we’d pack up the crew and head to one of the grandparent’s homes. We’d alternate years, and try and make 2-3 weeks stretch like a long, lazy summer day. Waking up early for coffee and walks, telling stories, and playing games late into the night.
As our kids get older, the time they spend with family lessens each year…and in a blink, their adulthood begins to bloom. College, church, clubs, teams, work, and commitments seep into every moment. In a flash, they know how to work with people, look them in the eye, shake hands, and maybe even have a joke in their back pocket if needed. Their schooling, interaction with the real world, and appreciation for others have taught them to have bottomless faith in themselves.
Although Facetime is a gem, I still imagine what it would have been like if the kid’s grandparents could have seen this day-to-day, witnessed them in their element, watched them navigate friendships, given advice, and watched them bloom.
But it’s okay. Our visits to see our families are priceless. Our friends here become family as well and the kids have become fiercely independent.
Stay tuned for more on this topic…
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 17
The 1930’s began in depression, marring the soul and conscience of the nation. The timeline continues as the Boulder (Hoover) Dam was completed, horrific Dust Storms occurred, and Amelia Earhart flew solo across the Pacific. Finally, in the mid 30’s along with my parents, great sonneteer, Mary Oliver was born.
Mary Oliver is a ubiquitous poet known for her writings of the natural world. Her poetry speaks directly to the reader, using flora and fauna as her perpetual backdrop. Oliver’s words read like prayers, organically creating a community of believers in the joyful celebration of nature.
As we walk through our tattered world, each step feels steeper than the last. Therefore, I leave with you Mary Oliver’s poem, “Wild Geese”.
May it lift all of us from profound sadness and leave us floating “high in the clean blue air”.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
-Mary Oliver
March 17: The mother of Maj. Ivan Skrypnyk, who was killed during Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, mourns over his flag-draped coffin during a funeral ceremony in Lviv.
Yuriy Dyachyshyn/AFP via Getty Images
Count your blessings every day and pray for all those battling fear, sickness, loss, and war.
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 16
Last night we watched our son play with his high school Wind Symphony. The talent kids have these days is astounding. He sat smack in the center of the group holding his saxophone and playing effortlessly. He’s not one of those students who comes home and practices endlessly or rather, at all. But I’m sure the nearly two-hour class every day gives him time to run through Shuman’s poignant “When Jesus Wept” with his bandmates.
After they played last night, they moved to a band room where they were tasked with showing their sight-reading skills. The families watched as the wind symphony sat with new music and used their sight-reading skills to mentally prepare themselves to play.
The process of sight-reading intrigued me.
In music, sight-reading also called a prima vista (Italian meaning “at first sight”), is the practice of reading and performing a piece in a music notation that the performer has not seen or learned before.
I love the idea of mentally preparing for a task. Like warming up in the bullpen before pitching (I’m at a baseball game) or planning your dinners for the week. My husband constantly says, “preparation wins championships”.
If you ever have the opportunity to watch a sight-reading session, take it. According to the University of Connecticut’s Visions of Research in Music Education Journal, sight-reading is a critical skill for musicians, enhances every aspect of music-making, and creates the complete musician.
Here’s the process:
After six minutes, they played something that did not sound like a first try. If only we all stopped and did some mental sight-reading before we spoke or emailed or interacted…maybe kindness would prevail.
I love that my kids have been part of bands, orchestras, and teams. Being a small cog in a wheel that makes beautiful music, wins a game, or stumbles together and recovers is priceless.
Please pray for Ukraine.
When Jesus wept, the falling tear
in mercy flowed beyond all bound;
when Jesus mourned, a trembling fearseized all the guilty world around.
William Billings (1770)
40 Reflections: 40 days of raw recollections during the Lenten Season
No. 15
As a mom, some of my favorite moments are spent chatting with other parents. These long, relatable, hilarious, commiserating, conversations occur on sidelines, bleachers, parking lots, auditoriums, PTA meetings, churches, or anywhere our kids take us on their childhood journeys.
Tonight was no exception – here are snippets from my recent cache of conversations:
These chats with moms, dads, kids, grandparents, teachers, and coaches, remind me life can seem like a pretty deep pool sometimes, so the more we latch onto each other the more buoyant we become.
Just imagine if we all tried harder to seize the pockets of time from our busy days, and stopped to ask people how they are. It’s just nice to have a friend sit beside us on our roulette wheel of emotions reminding us we’re not alone.
Please pray for Ukraine and maybe say a Rosary this weekend.
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