Leaving God at the Altar

My youngest, Miss Sicky Sickerson 

It's Lent.  This week, my TLM parish was/is holding a 3-day mission, given by a visiting priest, Fr. Joseph Tuscan, OFM.  My husband and I had plans to go, especially yesterday, Tuesday, for my birthday.  We both have missed the first two days and tonight, the final night, will be no different.

Our household is currently battling the stomach bug.  It's been hanging out since Friday, passing through a few of us at a time.  The littler ones are continuing to exhibit some symptoms, though the majority of their suffering seems to have passed.  The hubs and I are feeling mostly better, with still-queasy stomachs and slight weakness from not eating.  

In any case, my dear friend posted on Facebook a couple notes she took from one of the talks from the mission, and I was so blessed to be able to receive the message through her, but also felt frustrated and disappointed that I could not be there in person for the entire experience:  Confession, Mass, then the talks given by Fr. Tuscan.  I had been looking forward to it, and am still feeling the sting of not being able to go because of the sickness in my household.  I feel cheated out of this extra time with the Lord, a special Lenten gift so generously offered by our priests.  

It's always so difficult to really take advantage of all that Lent has to offer in the ever-growing desire to empty out oneself and draw closer to the Lord. Lent is traditionally the liturgical season to put specific focus on this, although it's a crucial practice in your every-day, but especially within a large, busy family, sometimes Lent sneaks up on you. And sometimes your best-laid plans to really make Lent meaningful and fruitful in your spiritual journey actually end up by the wayside, or, in our current case, down the drain. This can happen for so many reasons, including laziness, or a lack of self-discipline and/or diligence.  It's one thing to be in control of it, and to then be disappointed in yourself for not following through, but it's a whole other issue to have those plans be destroyed by something you can't control, like sickness running through your household.

It's frustrating, to say the least.  But it's also humbling.

I recently came across this really insightful quote from St. Francis of Rome, and then came across it again just this morning, and since then it has been a source of great comfort (and humility) to assuage the despair in missing out on the mission, as well as a few other practices within our home we had incorporated for Lent but have been too sick to execute these past few days.  Read: 

"A married woman must often leave God at the altar to find Him in her household care."

This speaks volumes to me as I navigate the remnants of the virus and its aftermath, as well as the disappointment of missing out on my * planned * means of Lenten devotions.  This week of Lent, God has called me away from the altar, away from the "easy" means to love, worship, and draw closer to Him.  He has called me not to a beautiful church with its peace and quiet, not to an organized retreat with Mass and words of wisdom from a beloved priest, not to a respite with my husband from the nitty-gritty of daily life with many children, but to ground zero of a horrible sickness in all of its gory detail, to sleepless nights, to a clingy, fussy baby who wants to constantly nurse.  He has called me to find Him amidst the chaos of a household in distress.  

In this Lenten season, we are called to choose special devotions, sacrifices and offerings in order to empty ourselves out so to be filled with the Holy Spirit, to unite ourselves to Christ on His cross, His passion and death, to truly realize our humble humanity, as well as the magnanimity of Christ's love: His life offered up for us.  Having a particular suffering chosen for us doesn't negate the other, but it can, in its own right, provide a means of grace, as well as a kind of devotion and love to offer up to our King.  I may not have chosen this particular mode of suffering and sacrifice, but I can choose how to utilize it: as either a humble offering, uniting myself to His passion, or as a source of complaint and despair.  

I choose the former.







PS.  A few quick notes, practical and spiritual 😇  : 

Practical: In my desperate search for how to best attack the Noro virus (the most common culprit for the stomach bug), I found that you MUST get a cleaner that specifically says that it will kill Noro. It would be good to maybe keep this stuff on hand from Nov-April when this type of virus is in its prime.  Lesson learned for me.  Fortunately, we've NEVER in our 15 years of parenthood had to deal with this relentless illness, at least not to the extreme we have been, but there's always a first time for everything, right? Incidentally, I am normally a pretty crunchy/naturally-minded person for our household but I felt like this called for the big guns. 

We bought several things: 

(NOTE: these are NOT affiliate links and I didn't necessarily order these products all from Amazon) 

*Purell Multi-Surface
*Lysol Max cover; hubs chose garden after the rain scent which is not too offensive
*Clorox Healthcare w/Hydrogen Peroxide, cleaner and also wipes  
*Germstar Noro hand sanitizer 

I read that you can also use hydrogen peroxide 3% on its own.  To appease my psychological despair over all.the.germs, these killer cleaners seemed like a better suit for us.


Spiritual: (And shameless plug).  Inspired by the notes from Tuesday's talk which my friend had posted, coupled with our sickness experience, I wrote a blog post on The Final Battle blog.  If you need some inspiration about forgiveness in your marriage, I hope you will find it here.

Uncharted Territory

I've crossed into uncharted territory.  Never in my vocation of motherhood have I ever been here.  It's strange, new, exciting.  And...sort of terrifying.  I'm almost unsure what to do with myself.

Where am I?

I've found myself in the part of this longest labor of motherhood where I am not nursing.  I am not pregnant.  I do not have a newborn.

For a little over twelve years, those three things have been my life.  But now... Now my baby is almost two.  In the blink of an eye, her cooing and grunting have turned into actual words, her wriggling has turned into running, and her small hand lets go of mine a lot more than it used to.

And my arms are empty more often than they have ever been.

It's strange here in this place.  And I'm quite unsure how I feel.

There have been moments over the last twelve years when I've longed to have my body back to myself. To sleep more than a few broken hours during the night.  When I've felt so completely "touched out" and run down that 'heaven' to me was five minutes completely alone hidden in my closet eating a donut that I didn't have to share, while simultaneously resting my eyes.  But never in those moments did I actually understand or even dream of the reality of this one.

How long will I tarry here in this place?  Will there ever be another baby for me?  Or..is this just the beginning of a new stage in my life?

If you don't know this by now, my husband and I are open to life.  While the last year has seen me in some devastating places emotionally and physically which led us to opt to abstain at times, it was not a permanent decision and was always governed by open communication and prayer. There very well could be another baby.  But there hasn't been so far, and this is where I am right now, floating on these unfamiliar waves, wondering if they're taking me back to the shoreline that I've been so used to, or further out into unknown depths.

My sister just had a baby a few days ago.  I got to see him when he was twelve hours old. I held him and focused on his sweet face serene in slumber.  He was swaddled up in his little cocoon, abiding there in his perfection, completely unaware of me. I never saw his eyes flutter, much less open. In the last year or so, holding other people's newborns has not lent that well-known "twinge" of longing I usually feel when my own babies have gotten just a little too big.  I have not felt that I necessarily wanted another baby, but was content to love on someone else's and hand them right back.  To be honest, at that moment, I still did not feel that twinge.  Don't get me wrong, I was instantly in love with this little boy, his smallness, his soft skin, the sweet smell of new baby, and the promises he embodied for my sister and her family.  Holding him gave me such joy.  But this joy was only partially mine, and most of it I had to give back.  So I laid it down along with him, in the little bassinet in the hospital room. And then I left.

I went home to my own brood, to my sweet little two year old who came running to me, screaming "Mommmmm" and covering me with kisses as I walked in the door.  I kissed her soft hair, smoothing a wispy curl between my fingers, and drank in her scent as deeply as I could.  This is my life now, and every moment will continue to change, moving me along gently- and sometimes not so gently- into the next.  Whether it carries me back out to deep waters where I will be holding and nursing another sweet new babe of my own, or keeps me along the shoreline, resting content holding someone else's, it matters not.  Right now, my journey looks quite different than it has these last twelve years, but I trust in its purpose, and in mine.

Trust

A thousand times I've felt the weight of my laboring through this season of my life, felt its jagged edges scrape against me, the burden of carrying six souls through this world, hoping that they make it relatively unscathed. Hoping that they are not marred too much by its ugliness, and in particular, not by the failings of their haggard, desperate mother.

A thousand miles I've tread the path in stark silence, memories aching to be expelled, worries drowning out my inability to just do the next thing. Just staring into blank space.  With joyful feet around me, kid-noise echoing, and I, too unwell to even crack a smile through my pain.

I wrote once that I used to think God made a huge mistake in giving mothers just two arms to care for their babies.  I wrote this at a time in my life where that weight and the shifting grief within me over a life I had to let go of, was heavy on my mind.  When the few children I had then already felt like too much for me, and I wasn't sure if I was capable of living the life I was called to. 

Motherhood.

Of course I could live it.  Of course.  But could I live it well?

I look behind me and see the tiny toes in the sand which follow their mother's path out to sea, to the raging waters of this life where the world is vast and often dark, the depth of knowledge and understanding and love not quite known..  Those little toes stepping lightly into the weathered boat made in the crooks of arms encircling, trusting and seeking and ready.  And I, unable to shove off, to let go.  To take their small hands in mine and set sail.

I cry out:

What if I lose sight of the beacon?  What if even in the calm, angry gray clouds threaten on the horizon, and I become lost? What happens to these babies of mine?

The Lord's answer:
 

Ah! But I do not make mistakes, and it only takes two arms to clasp your hands in prayer.  Stop wringing them in worry, stop faltering upon the shoreline and focusing on the horizon, imagining things that have not yet even come.  My lighthouse looms, always in the peripheral, the light of My Love a clear direction even against the raging waters.  The silence is for rest, rejuvenation. It is not for staring into the darkness, seeking out the jagged edges felt sweeping past raw feet in the surf.  Never mind those.  Never mind the hastiness and urgency welling up inside. Let go and realize that the I, the One who made those babies and called them out to sea, also made you, their mama, strong enough to bring them safely back to Me.

A Mother's Love

Dear Mama,

The other day when I visited you, I climbed into the recliner, smooshing myself in next to you, and laid my head against your chest. Instantly transported back to my childhood, I sighed deeply as the familiar comfort of your scent washed over me.  I listened to your breathing, to your heartbeat and there was something so tangible about the love emanating from your body as you let me squeeze your sides like I used to, and you rested your cheek on the crown of my head.

I listened to your voice as you talked to my sister, reverberating through your body, into my ear, like music.  You were all around me then, just like when I was small.  As you patted my back, I remembered the rhythm from another time, perhaps the long hours you carried me as a baby, walking the hall in the wee hours of the morning, shoosh-shooshing me back to sleep.  I felt that if I could just stay there, all would be right with the world.

Mama, I almost cried then, as I realized how much I miss you.  How much I wish that I could climb not just into the chair beside you, but into your lap, into your arms as often as I wanted, as much as I needed. I realized how old I am and how, at 33 years old, I don't think I've ever felt more helpless than I do right now, and yet I know that you can't walk the halls cradling me, comforting me in the same way you used to do.  I realized, as I looked up into your face, my eyes tracing familiar lines as you talked, that you have grown older and yet you are still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. 

I cradle my babies now, my own number six almost always in my arms, and I wonder if they'll still want to sit with me when they're grown, and if it will comfort them the way it does now as babes, the way it did me just the other day as I folded myself into your embrace and listened to your heartbeat and voice.  I hope that if they do, I can comfort them at a rough time in their own life, the way you did me the other day, when you let me climb into the recliner next to you and fill my empty places with the rhythm of your love.

The Treasure of Nurslings

It's these moments that paralyze me.  But not in a bad way.  I want to stay in this moment forever.  Not move.  Not even dare breathe.  Drink it all in.

I'm nursing my baby and I want to freeze time.

She is my number six and she just turned a year old.  I can't decide how I feel about it.  Do I need to feel anything at all?

Her big brown eyes keep closing, opening.  Closing once more.  She grabs gently with her tiny fingers against my skin.  The other kids want my attention, I can tell, even if they aren't daring to open my bedroom door again.  But I'm hiding out in this room, the hum of the AC in the window, the entire measure of the moment with a single thought: Stay right here.

I tried earlier to get her to sleep.  Noise in the house and a barrage of constant interruptions kept her from making that last slip into peaceful slumber.  She had been on the cusp but wouldn't unlatch or she'd fitfully wake and reach out for me with her pursed lips and desperate cry. It continued on and on like this and there was no getting past it. I had no choice at one point but to let her stay up, let her play, hope she got tired again soon.

After lunch, she had had it.  She was in my arms and nursing in the living room. I moved back to the bedroom once more to see if she'd finally let sleep steal her away.  As I listened to her breathing change, her small chest rising and falling ever more slowly, I realized that yes, this would be that moment.  I stroked her forehead and watched her face change.

In this season of life, I don't think there is anything sweeter than the slow fluttering of the eyes of a nursling as she tries to steal one last look at her mama, the soft cooing and that sweet gentle smile as she drifts off to sleep at my breast.

And I can't help but wonder if she will be my last.  Will she be the last baby I nurse to sleep?  Will these be my last moments with her in this part of our relationship?  How soon will it change?  This one feels different somehow, our moments together more weighty; the urgency to slow down and treasure them, fierce.  It wasn't quite the same with my other babies.  With them, there was more of an urgency to break away, to be impatient. To get the job done, tuck them in, roll away and dash.  Much to do, other kids to take care of.

She has changed me.  Time has changed me.

As I review the last year, gone far more lickety-split than the first years of my other babes, I am convicted.  I'm convicted to slow down. To focus. To watch. To treasure.  This season of my life is fleeting.  Fast.  Some day too soon, she will have nurslings of her own.  And I will have but memories, dusty in my mind.

Motherhood Is The Longest Labor

They who I labor for

The Lord has blessed me with babies.  Lots and lots of babies.  He’s also given me a somewhat-introspective personality, and the desire to convey my thoughts to others, in order so that they may grow in understanding of themselves and of the Lord’s will for their own lives. (Specifically as it pertains to motherhood, but other aspects of life as well.)  I love to not just sympathize with others, but empathize.  To commiserate.  To encourage.  I want to cry with people as well as laugh.  Sit and ponder, as well as dance and sing. I want to go deep, and then deeper still on the important things in life.  The truth is we all have our little nuances.  We all have our distractions.  We all have the things that seem so big and so blaring in our minds every single day.  Facebook. Television.  Music.  Our jobs.  Shopping.  Food.

But those things, while aspects of our life here on earth, do not indicate to ourselves or to anyone, or most importantly to God, that we are really living.  And that’s what this is about.  I want to really live.  I want to live and I want to be a light.  Especially to other mothers, other parents.  I want to let my light shine.  Not because I think I’m so important or special; but because I’m not.  I’m just like you. I’m just like every other mama on this earth, going through the parenting tunnel, trying to do my best.  Sometimes I have good things to say. Other times, I’m just a shout in the void.  

But here I am anyway, trying.

The inspiration for this blog came from a piece I’m working on.  I say piece but I’m hoping it’s a manuscript.  I’m hoping that in the midst of homeschooling, chaos, coffee and laundry, I can etch out the parts of motherhood that really mean something important enough to share.  But not just share- make a difference.  I spent the last ten years of my life being told that I can’t make a difference.  That my attempt to share my little light with people was my trying to be controlling, or my trying to change people.  That what I had to say didn’t matter.  I spent this time with negative people who were always downing me, my words, my desire to help or console or encourage, and I started to believe them. I started to believe all of it- I have nothing new to share, nothing important to say.  I can’t save anyone.  

The truth is I don’t want to save anyone.  That’s not my job.  My job is to be a light. To serve.  It’s such a simple concept, one we were taught even as wee ones in Vacation Bible School.  We sang it loud with the song, “This Little Light of Mine.”  While making sheep-shaped soaps to go with our wooden shepherds and elbow-macaroni Crosses, we were taught to be servants.  We were taught to have compassion.  To love.  To bring others to Christ.

Motherhood has given me that platform, to rise up with my light and draw others into the light of Christ in our vocation.  

Motherhood is in fact the longest labor of our lives, and we need to encourage each other through it.