a light awaiting me

I walked down the hallway toward AP English class. One more hour to go before lunch, then Spanish and track practice and the academic day would be done. This hinge point to my schedule was somewhat hard to bear. I had already thought too hard through three classes after getting up too early and having way too little nourishment for breakfast. Now I got to look forward to pondering Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness while ignoring the many similarities it bore to my own disillusionment with the world and "the horror, the horror" of becoming a jaded young adult.

Before I entered into the discussion of the darkness however, I noticed a light awaiting me. His name was Ken Taketani. We met through a friend of a friend and honestly I can't say I ever really knew him. We had no class together. We didn't sit share the same lunch table. I doubt he ever asked me anything beyond, "How are you today?" But he was what I looked forward to each day before noon. The way his face would light up in the hallway when he'd see me, as he was exiting class and I was entering. He was everything I needed in that moment.

Ken would wrap his arms around me and hold me there in the hallway, as if we weren’t surrounded by students shuffling off to class. I'd giggle at his thrilled response to my presence, then I'd press his thin fit adolescent body against mine. I felt so special and content in that moment. It didn't matter all the things I didn't know about him or all the things he didn’t ask about me. He liked art and he played water polo and he delighted in me. I was pretty, I accepted what he gave me, and I delighted in him. Everything else was trivial.

That was the satisfaction of my 16 year old self. To be the person that lit up someone's face, to be held for a brief and meaningful moment, to be treated as the most significant person in the crowded high school hallway...those were the things that spun my world around back then. Sometimes I still long for that thrill of emotion. Marriage is secure and comfortable and dependable for the most part. Still, every now and then, I'd like to relive the spark of that moment. As void of commitment as the relationship between me and Ken was, it was incredibly meaningful at the time.

Look at me.

“Come on, you can do it. Look at me.” Bill Ott sat next to me, looking into my eyes, watching me flitter my glance all around the room and catch his gaze, just to bounce off it again. It was a simple youth camp exercise: just look your partner in the eye without saying anything. But I couldn’t do it. At age 13 I was completely incapable of holding a person’s gaze.
What was wrong with me? Why was I so incapable of allowing someone to look at me? I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to curl up inside myself and peer out from a safe place. Security was everything to me. It seemed my whole childhood was about sinking into my jacket, pulling the hood over my head, wishing I could cram into small spaces and exist unnoticed. But then it often felt I was on the outside looking in.
Other people seemed to be enjoying life while I was a mere spectator. How could those people be so carefree? Didn’t they consider what other people thought of them? Didn’t they obsess over how they were being perceived by society? By their family? By their friends? By the eyes that seemed to be watching even when they were completely alone?
“Look at me,” Bill whispered with a smile. I wasn’t afraid of him. He was a tall odd 19 year old in a black leather bomber jacket and lace up boots, but I knew he didn’t judge me. He was cool, but not intimidating. His face was welcoming, even in the shadows. But…I was completely incapable. I had trained myself not to be seen, despite longing to be noticed. I had occupied myself with studying the people all around me, but lost all ability to willingly be seen by another soul.

October

My dearest October
I’m finally sober
I’ve put away my lover, and how are you?

This time a year ago
I burned all my Polos
Saw Staind and Creed without you.

I’ve heard those songs
Far too long
Nearly a thousand days since April 02.

Two years gone by
Fearing goodbye
Wondering why nothing seems true.

Dead leaves fall
The holidays call
You seem to be donning a different hue.

The waning of summer
Ends my dreamy slumber
I’m awake and ready for something new

Like at homecoming dances
I took my chances
There was some exploring I had to do.

So you’re turning a fresh chapter
And this one comes after…
What was the last one that’s now through?

Silversun Pickups
I woke up and made up
A new plan for living that swiftly grew.

But the forums are dull
I’ve posted my all
Booze or Ben & Gerry’s? to SSPU

It all started with what’s-his-name.
What? Don’t play this game.
I needed his nudging to get me through.

So what will the next be?
I want you happy.
I don’t know yet, but I want that too.

Station VI: Veronica Lily

The Stations of the Cross have always fascinated me. They are disturbing and yet comforting somehow. The Son of God, in human flesh like ours, enduring severe physical pain willingly, knowingly, for the sake of our souls. But more than that, taking on the emotional burden of the sins of the world. It is astounding to consider.
Over the past two years, I have particularly pondered Station VI: Veronica Wipes the Face of Jesus. I prefer to imagine that this woman was so moved with compassion for Our Lord that she ran to Him regardless of the guards and chastisers surrounding Him. I see her rushing to the fallen Jesus and pressing the cloth to His face. Perhaps she did not actually touch Him. Perhaps she did not hear His divine voice. Maybe she merely caught a glimpse of His penetrating yet sympathetic eyes just before he was prodded onward toward the remainder of His Mount Calvary trek.
Veronica was left with an imprint of the face of Christ. It was not painstakingly created as would have been a painting. Nor did it claim the clarity of a digital photo capturing an instant. But it was enough to proclaim a miracle. It was enough to be honored as one of several moments depicted for meditation regarding the Lord’s sacrifice for Man.
Did Jesus’ suffering include foregoing a single loving touch throughout His final agony leading to crucifixion? We have become a world of many words and little meaning. We communicate through blogs and forums, emails and texts. Can we see Christ in each other when we cannot see each other at all? It is a challenge, to say the least.
I experienced a flash of life within me. A miracle that lasted but a moment. A being I would never hold, a part of me who would remain undefined, and unknown. Ambiguous, vague. Yet understood somehow in that I know myself and I know she was a part of me. I chose the name Veronica because she has reminded me to be moved by my passion, to intercede despite the chastisers, to emulate the True Image of Christ. My husband chose the name Lily for purity.
Veronica Lily, intercede for us.

September

Bright shoes, clean laces
for three mile races
Thursday afternoon on the home course
when tummy flutters force
me to bolt sooner than I planned.

Sharp pencils, crisp books
Interesting looks
from the boy in the next row.
Will he ever know
more than just my face in the classroom?

Summer stories, hallway chatter
What’s the matter?
Didn’t you enjoy the school break?
No, I couldn’t shake
the lonesomeness of home after morning practice.

Blazing heat, Happy Birthday!
Wish there were a better way
to say I’m grateful you’re here,
if only for a year
or two during my life’s journey.

Conceived and Lost

I never knew you were a part of me until you were slipping away,
Drip by drip, day after day.
I knew something was wrong because nothing seemed right.
Silent, transient you,
Leaving before you could ever be
Known, named, desired.

No symptoms hinted at your presence except for a strange hot essence,
Inside, outside, through and through.
There was more of me when there was you.
Everlasting, invisible you,
Residing within, tucked inside
Womb, heart, dreams, mind.

I was unprepared to question my plans until you halted the temporal sands
Subtly – instantly – letting me dwell on possibility.
You weren’t wrong, you weren’t right for me.
Mysterious, untouchable you.
You entered my life and left me
Startled, delighted, confused, aching, wondering…
How it all happened, what it was even about.
You were inexplicable, a miracle, a what if, a hypothetical.
You were what would never be, yet what would always be a part of me.

April

April granted me my First Communion.
And a broken heart from my highschool boyfriend.
It required my efforts for the one mile relay.
And nine celebrations of my young cousin’s birthday.
It demanded a finished senior thesis:
“On Victor Frankle and Hope in Crisis.”
April presented to us Divine Mercy Sunday
And the joyful news of a January baby.
It tolled church bells for the pope from Poland,
The saintly Father of a generation broken.
April marked a rediscovery of me
With confused intense creativity.
The winter’s final doom.
The flower’s budding bloom.
Summer’s freedom soon.
April.

It Won't Happen Again

You said that I needed to be strong. I said I’d try. “No, I don’t want to hear about how hard you tried,” you replied. “You will be strong. Do it for me.”
“Okay,” I conceded. “I will be strong.”
These past two years have been all about me, growing in strength. This morning I took the coward’s way, acting out in frustration, throwing one of my hissy fits again because I felt helpless. Too many demands from others. Too many distractions. Unable to move forward at all. And I snapped. I flipped, as you’d say.
I hadn’t done that in quite awhile. It didn’t feel good. It brought only shame and more frustration. But this time it brought hurt too. Not to me, but to my daughter. At seven years old, she still thinks I’m great. The tears in her eyes spoke her disappointment in seeing me mad at her baby brother. I couldn’t look her in the eye, so I sent her to her room.
I collected myself and picked up the baby and apologized, nursing him, soothing him to sleep. I had put him in the crib because I didn’t know what else to do. He kept fussing while I tried to teach. His preschool sister was no help at all and I just felt incapable of handling the tasks at hand. I hate feeling that way.
My daughter came down when she realized I was calm again. I asked her to pray for me, though I’m not sure if a parent is right to ask that of a child. I apologized to her for acting out in anger. And for just a moment, I thought of trying to explain it all, the frustration of parenting and how it’s hard but I try. Then I thought of your words when I said, “I do the best I can.” You asked, “How would you feel if your father said that?”
So I skipped the explanation and the attempt to have her see me as a woman who often feels as if she’s falling to pieces. “It won’t happen again,” I said. “I promise.”

Birth

I’m proud of the births I’ve had. I don’t know why others want to take that joy away from me.
Me, my husband, my children. That’s all it’s ever been about. The other world is shut out. My best decision for me. You don’t have to agree. But can’t you allow me my choice? My joy? My experience?

These are the happiest moments of my life. And yet I’m on the defense so often. So often, I just shut up. I hide it. I keep quiet. I won’t share with you because you’ll feel bad somehow. Bad because I’m happy? Bad because I’m brave? Bad because I’m empowered in a way that you never knew was possible. In a way you never were interested in.

You chose big white shiny building with sparkling floors and sterile needles. That’s fine. It’s fine for you. It’s fine for so many. But it’s not fine for me.

It’s not about bedside manner. It’s not about getting back to nature. It’s about my husband at my side, reaching down, being the first hand to touch the fruit of the gift he gave me. It’s about welcoming home my precious babe. No bright lights. No room transfers. No release forms.

Just mom and dad, brothers, sisters, and love.

Cherubic cheeks

Her cherubic cheeks were smeared with chocolate. I huffed at the sight of her, wondering if there was ever a moment when that girl’s face was not a mess. But then I recalled how she got that way – by delighting in the chocolate chocolate-chip muffins I’d baked this morning. The ones I had made to make up for being a grumpy mommy the past few days.
I sprinkled water on a washcloth from the kitchen faucet and wrung it out. Kneeling down, I began to wipe her face. Stray strands of hair covered over her sparkling blue eyes, gazing patiently at me. In those eyes, I remembered the baby I rejoiced over, the toddler I delighted in, the preschooler who this very morning had asked when I would make her favorite muffins again.
She smiled at me sweetly as my fingers pressed the cloth across her cheeks and I knew that this was how I wanted to remember my daughter. Not because her cheeks were spotless and rosy. But because her eyes gazed upon me lovingly while enduring my swabs.
So often lately, she had been one more person who needed to be clothed, and reminded that shoes need to go on the fireplace, and told to buckle up as soon as you sit in your car seat so we can go. Go, go, always going. Always distracted even when I’m home. The days go by and this girl’s hair needs brushing every hour, her shoes are never together in a pair, she talks too much, she sings too loud, she does everything but keep quiet and stay out of the way.
I love her. I forget sometimes to take a moment from scrubbing the dishes just to study her face, absorb the admiration she has for me. It’s a struggle to forget my own embarrassment over how poorly I’ve behaved. I want to hide my face, but instead I catch my breath and turn toward my daughter, humbled by the lovely violets she picked for me.

Feast of the Immaculate Conception

I'm up incredibly early today, inspired -- yes, finally inspired once again! -- to center my life on the Lord, to focus, to live for Him at least for today. For today is all I can manage to wrap my mind around. I can focus on eternity this minute, this hour, this day. I can't worry about tomorrow. That might burden me too much. Too overwhelming. Too much to do. Too much work and sacrifice which requires more energy than I have at this moment. But today -- I can handle that.
Lord give me the graces to do what I need to do right now. Oh most Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us who have recourse to thee.

Andrew Paul -- redemption

Andrew is the name of a coward I knew in 8th grade. Typical of most cowards, he was also a brooding bully – one that tormented me daily throughout that last junior high year. Even when my insightful 14-year-old self confronted him about how he picked on me merely as a way of making himself look good in front of his friends, he scoffed, deflecting the remark with, “Oh, and you know everything. Ha.”
I pitied the boy because not only was he never honest with me, but he also was never honest with himself.
Andrew is also the name of a brave young man I knew in college. Like many brave souls, he was jovial, with a hearty laugh which resounded through the hallways. I last spoke to him when visiting campus after I’d graduated. He gave me a huge smile, said it was great to see me, and congratulated me on my recent engagement to his dorm buddy. I last saw him less than a year later at my fiancé’s graduation. Andy arrived for the ceremony, bald, swollen, assisted by a walker, dying from a brain tumor. He was greeting and congratulating his graduating class, a class he was simply witnessing, due to his illness.
Later that same year, I was married, pregnant, and kneeling beside Andy’s body in a casket, asking for his prayers that I might be a good mother.
Even though his life was cut short at age 22, his was the most beautiful funeral I’d ever attended, mostly because he had led a beautiful life.
I believe a name can be redeemed. What once was a sound of scorn in my ears became a lift of delight. We all have our weaknesses, our faults, our dark hidden corners of the soul. Some of us flagrantly display inadequacies; some of us painstakingly mask them. But we all have them. Every one of us is in some way wanting strength, healing, light.
For a select few, the answer greets them with a knock to the ground, a blinding flash, and a reprimanding voice from heaven. So it was for Paul, “Persecutor of Christians” turned “Pillar of Faith.” Yet for most of us, direction, wisdom, and redemption are found through a long winding road. And as long as we continue on the journey, we maintain hope.

Love is messy.

Love is not a crisp linen sheet to be folded into neat creases and stored on a shelf, awaiting a special occasion to be laid out and displayed. No. Love is messy. Meant for daily use. Acquiring stains and wrinkles, fraying edges. Regular shaking out, washing and pressing required.

how much I've fallen short

All day yesterday I didn’t feel pregnant. I wasn’t waddling or aching or sighing from exhaustion. I was simply me again. And I felt good for a while. But I felt guilt too.

A friend of mine has a two year old daughter, comatose in the hospital. The family found her a few days ago at the bottom of their pool and she hasn’t woken since.

I prayed for the family during my morning walk, before school lessons, at lunch time, while grocery shopping, and all through the hour it took me to prepare a meal for them. I was happy to offer up all that I could. Yet my frustration with myself crept up all around me, reminding me of how much I’ve fallen short of my own ideal of motherhood. I wanted to do better and yet I was still not ready to completely let go of myself – to surrender — once again.

wisdom

"I suddenly saw...that you could want something your whole life but realize in the moment of achieving your desire that it couldn't save you the way you always thought it could, that it could in fact change you irrevocably into someone you didn't know and would not want to be."
-- John Tilden speaking in "Shame" by Greg Garrett

Billy Rimmer asked me out once. Well, he suggested “we give it a try sometime.” This is a boy I’d had a crush on for the past five years since 5th grade. He was a blond haired blue eyed boy, outgoing, athletic. I had known every girl he’d ever dated and I knew too that I wasn’t like any of them. They were much more cute, athletic, and well, just plain popular. Yet here he was on the phone with me – it was probably me that called him – suggesting that “who knows, it might work out." I chuckled, hesitated, then declined, saying, “If I went out with you now, it would only be because I’ve always wanted to, not because I really care about you. I’d be doing it only because it’s something I’ve always wanted to do, not really because I think there would be any chance of it working between us.” I’m not sure he understood my reasoning. I’m not even sure I knew how it was that I was able to pass up such an opportunity at age 15. But I did. I was wise back then, very wise.

park day

I went to the park yesterday. I go once a month, and for those few hours, I get to escape all the petty annoyances of my life and just immerse myself in nature. I get to be surrounded by children’s laughter and women asking me, “How are you doing?” rather than, “How do you do it?” They don’t view me as extraordinary or unusual because they have a daily routine just as challenging as my own.

We know each other well, we know each other’s kids, we’ve held each other’s babies. It’s a nice group of moms. Whenever I consider giving up on my “profession” I continue because of them. There were about fifteen families at the park yesterday. I conversed with various clusters of individuals. The topics centered around quality healthcare which takes a minimalist approach on medications and vaccinations, proper ways to receive the sacraments, the difficulties encountered when ensuring the moral upbringing of our children, ways to be charitable toward neighbors while still warding off their negative influences on our families.

This unique group of mine, so conservative and quaint, concerns themselves with topic most people never consider. Yet I admire them because these women are thoughtful, passionate, and authentic. I’ve never received a scoff or stare or snide remark from any one of them. They are all friendly, even if I don’t quite know some of them well enough to call them friends.

There were at least fifty kids on the playground yesterday. Not a single skirmish occurred. It rarely does. Sometimes sand gets thrown on a little tot’s head. But there’s hardly ever pushing or shoving, name calling or teasing. I can expect my kids to enjoy themselves while we’re there.
And I can expect to enjoy myself too.

Woman and Man

A woman and a man are in a bedroom together.

The woman drapes herself over some pillows on the bed. Her eyes are half closed, looking toward the man. Her head is tilted back, her lips parted. Her arm lies across the pillows, reaching out toward the man. Her other arm lies on her chest, her fingers brushing over her breast. Her back is slightly arched and her legs separated as the foot of one leg rests against the knee of the other.

The man stands at the window. His eyes are wide open, side glancing out toward the street. His head is lowered, his lips pressed together. His arm bars the window while the other hangs by his side. His back is straight and his footing sure.

What does this image display? Why are the man and the woman both appealing in their own ways?

The woman relies on the man’s protection. She waits for him to come to her. She knows he will come when he perceives that she is safe. She leaves herself vulnerable on the bed, her neck and torso exposed. Her fingers direct him to the part of her that nurtures. Her open legs beckon the seed-bearer into her garden. She is in a welcoming position of surrender and she is completely alluring.

The man exhibits self control. He knows the woman is completely available to him at this moment, but he first patrols the area, making sure no danger lurks around. He faces the woman, but keeps an eye on the world. He is alert and prepared to battle whoever poses as a threat to the woman whom he holds as his greatest treasure. He will ease his mind and fully enter into her embrace only when he is certain that all is secure. He displays confidence and patience and he is utterly appealing.

As twisted as our gender-confused world is at times, I find it fascinating that we can still find so many signs of what women and men innately find attractive. All you have to do to test this out is imagine the man stretched out on the bed and the woman standing guard at the window. Ridiculous!

Women are called to surrender and nurture. We think of these as weak, martyrish qualities. But in truth, it takes a strong woman to give herself completely, with total trust, time and again. A woman who remains protective of herself inadvertently belittles the man, which leads him to either abandon or dominate her.

Men are called to protect and maintain self control. We think of these as brutish, stoic qualities. Yet it takes a determined man to patiently await the proper time for taking what is offered to him. A man who remains ruled by his passions instills fear in the woman, which causes her to close herself off to him.

Our culture continues to define and redefine what it means to be a woman and a man. I believe though that we will never completely turn from those qualities to which we are innately called.

Crossing the roads of life.

A friend of mine recently told me that his biggest problem is his lack of faith. Lack of faith. I find this is a problem with a lot of people I’ve met lately. And I notice too that the people who have the biggest problem with faith are the people who have the biggest problem with trusting other people. They don’t want to get close to anybody because they are skeptical of other people’s motives. They stay away from words like “love” and “forever.” They don’t really believe that such concepts exist.

These people seem to only want to trust themselves. But too often I find that these are the same people who seem to be royally screwing up their own lives. They push away anyone who tries to care about them and they turn to substances to fill the ever-present void in their hearts. Essentially, they become addicts, enslaved to their own less-than-fulfilling passions. And then they have to ask the Dr. Phil question: How’s that workin’ for ya? Guess what, people – it’s not!
Sometimes I tell people the stories of my life – my choices regarding residential moves and growing my family and they tell me I have extraordinary faith. I am flattered by the compliment, but faith comes easily when you trust that another person truly does have your best interest in mind. If I picture myself as a child taking hold of my father’s hand as we cross the busy street, faith is not something to struggle with. It’s simply a matter of trust. I trust my father to lead me across that intersection and see that I safely reach the other side. It’s as simple as that.

Too often, we expect ourselves to reach the magical age when we will have all the answers in life. For me, it was twenty-three. I thought, “Surely, when I reach twenty-three, I will know everything there is to know about life.” Well guess what? When I reached twenty-three, I was a newlywed expecting my first child, terrified that I didn’t know any of the answers for all my all-important questions. Then I thought, “Maybe when I’m twenty-seven, I’ll know everything there is to know.” When I reached age twenty-seven, I was the mother of three children, trying to follow my passion of writing, not really knowing where I was going and having only a slightly better clue as to how to handle it all.

Over the years, I became friends with many other moms, women of all different ages, and I discovered something quite amazing: nobody has all the answers. There is no magical age of omniscience. We all are continuously bumbling through life, doing the best we can with what we have inherited, what we have experienced, and what we have studied. Many times, we just have to trust. We have to trust that all will work out for the best. We have to trust in other people. We have to have faith. We cannot make it alone.

Too much love? Never.

Someone asked me yesterday, "Is there such a thing as too much love?" No. Never. Love is as infinite as the universe. We have to know what love really is though. Loving a person is wanting what is truly best for him as well as what is best for myself. It does not mean allowing myself to be used or mistreated. It is not in a person's best interest to be allowed to act selfishly.

Think of it in a parental manner. Parents lovingly deny a child many things which they know are not good for the child. They do this in an effort to teach self discipline and discernment. Also, when a child misbehaves, a parent lovingly chastises the child in an effort to prevent the child from larger troubles later on in life. Love is justice as well as mercy.

Sometimes we give and give and receive nothing in return. It is in those times that we are tempted toward bitterness and selfishness. We think, "What good is love anyway?" But if we continue on in love, it is then that we experience passion. It is then that we suffer with love. When we suffer with love, we want to pour out our lives for the sake of our loved one. We ache with longing that that person might be fulfilled.

That person is then seen not as someone for our own purposes, but as a wonderfully made creation. He is a son, a brother, a father, a comrade. She is a daughter, a sister, a mother, a companion. Love sees through pure eyes and expects nothing but hopes for everything in return.

forgiveness and strength

So being the highly ritualized Catholic that I am, I often awake at 3am, end up saying a few decades of the Divine Mercy Chaplet for whomever and somewhere in the process, fall back to sleep. This has gone on for years and it happened again last night. I believe I was in the third decade, meditating on the crown of thorns, when I started to get really annoyed, frustrated, and angry. I was of course half awake, so it was all sort of dreamlike. I heard myself raging in my head, "I'm sick of caring about people who don't even give a shit about themselves. I'm tired of praying for people who don't even pray. I don't want to feel for a person who worships the sedation brought on by the bottle. Love hurts. I can't take it. It's easier not to bother."

These thoughts were new to me. It felt like the voice in my head was not my own, and being half asleep, I couldn't muster much energy to fight it. There was some sense that I really shouldn't be feeling that way, that I should pray all the more for those who don't know how to pray. But I was in a daze and couldn't help feeling like the people who want to kill themselves slowly with their favorite companion, alcohol, should just be left to die.

May the Lord forgive me for my selfishness. May he strengthen me to love tirelessly as he did.