A long goodbye, a fond farewell

I had to go to the Chandler Downtown Library to settle a debt my children and I had accrued over several months, perhaps years.

While paying the fines I told the gentleman behind the information counter how I had routinely brought my four kids there since my teenagers were little tykes - for story time and to stock up on books and movies every summer. His sympathetic smile and kind words indicated his understanding of my gratitude for that institution's role in my family's well-being for so many years.

"I'm old-fashioned," I declared. "I still prefer books and newspapers to all this computer stuff." I indicated all the technology usurping more and more floor space.

I was not to visit that library again. We were moving far from the realm of that colossal building with its broad windows letting in a refined degree of intense desert light; tree-lined courtyard with avenues created by concrete benches where you could sit a spell and peruse newly acquired tales; and friendly saguaros and lantanas edging the sidewalk.

Thus began my goodbye tour.

To mail a last package from my Arizona address I went to the downtown post office next, a place from which I had shipped all my Christmas packages, being at once cheap and traditional. To the gentleman there behind the counter, I exclaimed, "I still believe in the US postal office!"

"Well, that's one person!" he joked.

Au revoir to a perfectly plain and comfortable United States Postal Service building where I saw great diversity in my fellow citizens.

On Pentecost I helped out with our parish celebration, and fellow parishioners and volunteers continually came up to our family, wishing us well, expressing surprise that we were moving and that they would miss our presence. Some got emotional and so did I. It was a difficult parting; we had raised our family in the faith at Holy Spirit Parish, where three of our four were baptized, for 15 years. People had often come up to us after mass to assert just how much our kids had grown from the babes in arms who joined God's family years before.

Later that day my Moms' Group, begun with strangers who fast became dear friends, had a party. My artistic friend Holly,with whom I visited the UK in April 2015, generously hosted. Driving to her beautiful  home, I was feeling sad and wistful, most afraid of this good-bye. For within this group were the ladies who helped me raise my children during easy and trying times, who helped me fix myself when I was feeling lost, overwhelmed, uninspired, inept, besieged, or just plain tired and old. And their children have been for some time friends so invaluable to my own kids that they are family, cousins or siblings of the honorary kind, the bond growing stronger each year as they've passed through the stages of development from toddler to teenager - even as families became busier and some moved far away; moms went back to work; and those remaining stopped seeing each other as often for birthdays and holidays.

But we managed our farewell during this final gathering, said "until we meet again", and I cried only when the moms presented me with gifts I did not expect: a beautiful memory book of our families' time together, charming dangling earrings just my style, and a necklace meant to symbolize the unbroken chain of friendship.

There were more final face to face conversations with friends, one final park play date for my kids with friends who helped them get through their first and final year at a new school. At a bowling party I broke down as I looked into the face of a very dear comrade in the trenches of motherhood and then quickly and tightly embraced her. At a simple yet truly satisfying gathering of relatively new family friends at their home abutting coyote inhabited desert, I broke down for quite different reasons and found comfort in the husband's and wife's extraordinary empathy, reluctant to have to remove myself from such easy reach of it in the very near future. And I had to witness the last meeting of my son and his best friend from the Moms" Group (they've known each other since they were potty training), for I was the bad guy come to pick Berto up.

On the morning we left our little home in Arizona, I was at first more stoic than I had anticipated, perhaps too weary from cleaning and sorting and looking for little forgotten things and too many goodbyes, poignant or perfunctory, to cry that much. But then I choked up while walking a last short time in that little empty house that had sheltered all of our children during their babyhood. I went then to say goodbye to my Eucalyptus trees, two giants in the front, westward-facing yard that had sheltered us as best they could from the staggering Phoenix heat and who had provided me with the exotic green wreaths tinged with a hint of purple with which I adorned my door each autumn and winter. And I broke down as I hugged them (yes, hugged them). I prayed that whoever came after us would appreciate those lovely monoliths and never, ever think of cutting them down merely because they shed too much bark in a monsoon storm.

Nothing dries tears like adventure, however. I closed my car door with a damp face but by the time I opened it again at a gas station in Flagstaff, I was feeling the exhilaration of being on the road, driving the highway myself, and heading to a new home for my family.

Arizona holds many friends and memories and a permanent place in my mind and heart, but New Mexico is just next door and, after all, it too is an enchanting part of the great American Southwest.

Moon River, dream maker

Sometimes I'm thoroughly entertained by the subject matter of my dreams, their landscape or the amazing detail and vivid color conjured up while I sleep. There are rare times when I truly appreciate how cohesive is the story told by my unconscious mind. I'm impressed!

I fall into dreaming very quickly, even when I nap. I remember quite a few of them when I awake in the morning. If he's very lucky, my husband will escape a retelling.

This morning I couldn't resist.

Last night I found myself in the large room of a university or public building erected in dreamland. The rich blue of its walls was such that I remember thinking I would love to see it in my dining room. On those deeply hued walls were sophisticated paintings in ornate frames. I had just been listening to a lecture on art or historical artifacts (a little vague, I know, but isn't the memory of all lectures so?) given by a lean older gentleman in dress shirt, tie and slacks. Getting up from a long, heavy table lined with wooden chairs, a group of us approached the doors to leave. It was then that I heard the music for "Moon River" playing over the speaker system. As I often do with beloved tunes, I began to boldly sing the lyrics aloud to match the melody.

It wasn't but a line or two before I heard a man's voice harmonizing with my own, and I turned and saw the gentleman lecturer behind his desk at the end of the room, singing and staring back at me behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He came around his desk and held out his arms in such a way, one extended high with flat palm and one making a lower curve, that I understood an invitation to dance with him. In a serendipitous move worthy of the silver screen, we met in the middle of the room and sang our duet as we danced to the haunting music. Smiling, he guided me around the large space.

Abruptly, as we glided about, his teeth began to fall out, and he quickly pushed them back in. At first I was startled, but I decided I didn't mind the awkwardness, not really; he was such a smooth dancer and so debonair, even gray-haired and careful in his movements as he was.

*************

I think my mind was making a connection of a strange sort in that charming little dream.

A couple of days ago, on Veteran's Day, I read a story of mine to my kids, one based on something that happened to my family at Christmas decades ago. It's a work my dad has encouraged me to look at again for years, but I've long been afraid to reexamine it, convinced it needed to be thoroughly retold, become more sophisticated than the simple tale it was.

The manuscript I read with my kids was one of my earliest ones, written before my marriage more than fifteen years ago. It was missing 50 pages, including the conclusion, but it surprised me. I had been a more capable writer than I remembered. I joked with my kids that I was a better writer then than I am now! How does that happen?

What gratified me the most, however, was how raptly my children, two of them already gifted writers, listened to this little book I began writing at 17 years old. My eldest son hushed his little brother repeatedly so that he could hear and give feedback periodically, and my older daughter went and retrieved a favorite pillow to hug as she snuggled with me and the tale progressed.

I had to contend with a few tears - my own. Reading details based on the struggles my family experienced during our lives in Tennessee overwhelmed me, more so because I had not really thought about those hardships in years and the great love and faith that carried us through them.

*********************

What was the connection to my little dream? Who was the old gentleman with whom I danced?

He represents my story, the one my husband read before we were even engaged, the ending of which he loved and perhaps made him more willing to fall for me.

It has come around to waltz with me after these many years, pulling me into the romance of following a dream whose strength and charm I had forgotten. It's got some loose teeth, yes, but I believe once more that wherever this story is going, I'm going its way.

It's where my heart has always has been.

Entertainers

COVENT GARDEN STREET MUSICIAN

Is it too late to become a street performer at 36 years of age?

I have a soft spot for every human being I meet plucking an instrument, singing, dancing, or doing all three on some street corner or in some public square. In short, I have a soft spot for anyone trying to make a living - a supplemental one - in an impractical, creative way.

Many years ago when leaving my senior prom, there was a gentleman playing the violin outside the party venue in downtown Boise. My date was a talented guitarist. Though I viewed him as a friend, there was something romantic in the fact that he paused and dropped cash into a fellow artist's case.

When my family strolled the fashionable section of Honolulu a few summers ago, there were many street performers, painted to look like and standing as still as silver statues with whom you could pose (not forgetting to tip, of course). We have pictures of our children on the busy streets of Hawaii's capital, standing by a shiny, smiling stranger.

Some of my favorite memories of meeting street performers happened during my trip to England in April 2015. There was a casually but well-dressed man in his fifties with close-cropped hair playing one of my favorite songs, "Mr. Bojangles", in Convent Garden. That was the day my friend Holly and I chose to souvenir shop for family and ate Coronation Chicken at a little cafe nearby called Charles Dickens Coffee House. Though this middle-aged entertainer had an ordinary appearance, he played and sang extraordinarily well, and I was surprised more people weren't gathered around to listen. Holly loaned me money to contribute because I was fresh out of change. (Change meaning good money - for quite some time we didn't realize some of the coins were actually worth one to two pounds; we just threw them around like they were humble pennies!)

Later, when we went to beautiful Bath, we heard "The Music of the Night" from The Phantom of the Opera soaring as we entered the courtyard of Bath Abbey. A young man was playing the arresting melody on his violin beneath a bright blue sky elegantly adorned in small, wispy clouds, creating a haunting contrast. I regretted that I had no easy cash to show my appreciation, but I would not importune my friend again.

MAGNIFICENT BATH ABBEY

Even my dusty corner of the world is adorned with street performers. I have a friend at church who sings in the company of her faithful dog around sports and entertainment arenas. She confided in me that an old friend of hers thinks she really shouldn't be singing for cash. People either like or hate my voice, she said, but she still performs in front of strangers.

And every so often I see a young black man sitting on the sidewalk outside my local grocery store, a violin case open by his feet, the violin cradled beneath his chin. He seems wholly engaged in illuminating a melody with his bow, indifferent to passersby. I've only ever had cash on me once, retrieved from my car, but I am always pleased to see this talented young man, privileged to hear his gift, and I would contribute to his dream every time if I had the wherewithal.

Lately, I have thought very illogically to myself, Why, I can sing okay...play the guitar a little....maybe I could take flamenco dancing lessons!

Wouldn't it be lovely to make your dough doing something so perfectly free-spirited and defiant?

But whether I ever joined this strange band of lively, brave people or no, I am so glad they have their open yet intimate stages all over the world.

Anniversary

My husband and I just celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary. We spent the evening at home over a simple meal of cheese, meat, fruit and crackers and an inexpensive bottle of champagne. We had cheesecake for dessert and watched the 1961 film The Hustler starring Paul Newman and Jackie Gleason on Netflix.

I was glad to be at home, but it wasn't what I thought I had wanted.

After arranging for a babysitter, I spent the days leading up to our anniversary trying to find the perfect date at the perfect location. It wasn't enough to go out for a nice dinner; what on earth would we talk about that we didn't already discuss at home? Seeing a movie was so ordinary. No, this was our 15th, and I wanted  an exciting celebration. I wanted to dance the night away. Unfortunately, the usual place wasn't open on Thursdays.

I tried to find another, even better location: a place not entirely patronized by single twenty-somethings or by pretentious party-goers who cared only about fashion and status; a venue not too dark, claustrophobic, or bizarre in its design; a DJ who would play music we might actually care to dance to. 

My husband, meanwhile, was researching other options in case dancing didn't work out. He and I got into little arguments as we searched for our celebratory place, growing more frustrated the harder we looked. It seemed neither of us really cared too much for the other's suggestions.

Slowly, as irritation mounted, I began to realize my priorities were all in the wrong place. Because it was our 15th, I didn't believe we could just dress up and have a few drinks and a steak dinner. It wasn't enough to simply be in each other's company. I wanted excitement, motion, electricity, a unique night to remember.

What snapped me out of it? The fact that my youngest daughter passed her stomach bug on to her little brother. As the day drew closer, it began to look less and less likely that the date night would happen.

Instead of feeling disappointed, I was relieved. My expectations had gotten out of hand. I was glad to be free of them, brought back to earth by children clutching their bellies and complaining of cramps. 

Ah, this is what it is all about, I thought. It wasn't about what dress I would wear with what heels, or which venue would cater to our kind of crowd, or whether or not we would eat a fancy dinner and pick up a bottle of Dom Perignon. It was about the family we had made together, and the fact that comforting our sick kiddos was more important than any night out - even on our 15th. 

I thought about my own parents and how outrageous my expectations had become in light of many of their anniversaries.

How many times as a child did I see my parents walk wearily in the front door on the summer evening of their anniversary, hot and tired from a long day working in the humid Tennessee woods! They sat in their old chairs in the living room eating a very ordinary meal, holding hands. Many years, we kids performed a sort of play or sang cute songs while wearing costumes for their amusement beneath a homemade sign that cried, "Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad!"

They never complained about the meal or the entertainment all those simple years.

15 is just a number, I realized; a nice rounder one, sure - but just another step on the journey of love. Thankfully, love's journey doesn't require glitz and glamour and expensive treats. The journey is not about increasing expectations year by year. It's about recognizing and appreciating simple pleasures and blessings in your life, holding your children close while they cry or laugh, learning to place the good of those you love above your own good, and about gratitude for the years you've spent together building a family and being in community.

Just being together, it turns out, is more than enough. 

Nerdy girl and her man

Love stories for a leap day

It was leap day, and I thought I didn't care. I was going to let it pass like any other, but for the first time in a week, I got onto social media that morning and was reminded that the day comes only every four years. It's an extra day, a sort of gift.

So my first thought was about my husband. We should have made plans to spend special time together, at least more time than we usually do on a Monday full of work, soccer practices and religious education. I called my man, but he had no extra time because of meetings. It was a day like any other.

What else was an intelligent, feeling woman to do?

I considered shopping but the idea was insipid. There was only one thing to do. If I couldn't have my man, I must have my writing, another love.

On Leap Day I wanted to finally begin addressing a topic here about which I am very passionate: love stories - the great love stories, classic tales of pure passion.

If you are thinking of any book with the word "Fifty" in its title, I must disabuse you of the notion. I wrote "love", "great" and "classic". That book is disqualified.

[I haven't read it, so undoubtedly some will think I'm being unfair, but that book angers me. It angers me that any woman would confess to a man that she has read it in a world where terrible violence against women is so common and under-addressed. I would rather no man ever thought that we secretly longed to be stalked, disrespected, used, abused and bought.

Apparently, it has also spawned a genre called Babes and Billionaires. Bah!

My 13-year-old son said that there were girls in his class who said they couldn't wait for the "Grey" movie to come out. God help us! It's like a cancer destined to rot people's minds and intentions and purer desires for real love and respect. I acknowledge I haven't read it, but I have read reviews of some of the salacious, disturbing details contained in its pages, and I can only hope that no woman would EVER let her children know she has read it, thereby leading them to believe that she condones its content or that it represents a great tale of love for her.

For my part as a romantically-inclined woman, give me North and South with its insightful social commentary instead! Or Pride and Prejudice in which Darcy and Elizabeth make each other better people, learning humility, forgiveness, charity and selflessness on their journey to love!

There, we're done with that. If I am being unfair, you may tell me so.]

The great tales of love that I esteem are all classics. Their characters have stood the test of time and their actions represent such profound and now too often neglected ideas of honor, loyalty, compassion, sacrifice, and selfless, transforming love. Like any truly great piece of literature, they enrich our experience and our worldview; make us reflect, believe and examine ourselves; deftly reveal the grittier parts of our nature and our proclivities without glorifying them; and remind us that we should always try to be better people for those we love and for the betterment of society in general.

They are, to name a few

Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion by Jane Austen

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell

Far from the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy.

Middlemarch by George Eliot

These are the stories I do or will recommend to my children and friends. These stories I delight in watching with my husband when they are translated into film.

I thought I would share some excerpts of the grand ideas that used to inhabit our romantic tales before we turned scoundrels into heroes, before the selfish, shallow and manipulative Wickhams and Sergeant Troys of literature somehow became our Mr. Darcys and Gabriel Oaks. We all know that literature would be flat without such rotten characters as Wickham in Austen's Pride and Prejudice, but at least there was a time in our storytelling when they were revealed to be villains and their actions to be false and self-gratifying. The women who were deceived by them and their cajolery were afterwards better equipped to acknowledge a good and steady man.

The humble, hardworking and loyal Gabriel Oak in Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is, for instance, just such a humble, strong and loyal hero. He has the courage and the integrity to say to impulsive, well-off Bathsheba, the woman he loves but who does not love him:

"My opinion is (since you ask it) that you are greatly to blame for playing pranks upon a man like Mr. Boldwood, merely as a pastime. Leading on a man you don't care for is not a praiseworthy action."

Bravo, Gabriel!

Our romantic heroines were also made of sterner stuff, could not be won with mere money, had greater understanding and a greater capacity for self-examination once upon a time. For what are the thoughts of Margaret Hale of North and South when she finds that the man she rejected - Mr. Thornton, the manufacturer whom she yet respects - has found her out in a lie and has nevertheless acted to protect her from the consequences of her choice despite her recent refusal of him?

If she had but dared to bravely tell the truth as regarded herself, defying them to find out what she had refused to tell concerning another, how light of heart she would have now felt! Not humbled before God, as having failed in trust towards him; not degraded and abased in Mr. Thornton's sight.

Where are such sentiments in contemporary literature? I hope such ideals are present in which even simple, brave honesty is something to which people still aspire.

And what does the great and incomparable Darcy say to Elizabeth when he finally wins her after initial alienation because of his pride?

"I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper...

What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

Lastly, I wanted to quote from Jane Eyre. I have heard that Gothic romance compared to a soap opera, and I understand why to some degree, but I argue here for the characters and their moral battles. Rochester deceived Jane in his quest for peace and happiness, and he is ruled by his moods and passions, a volatile man with whom I can personally relate. But he also tries to rescue his crazy wife from death by a fire she started and rears a child who is not his own. Before Jane leaves him, because she will not be with a man who has a wife (preferring to lose her livelihood and risk her life to keep her integrity), Rochester grabs her in frustration. It is then he acknowledges that the woman he really loves is not a mere physical frame but is - more vitally - a beautiful mind, heart and soul.

"Whatever I do with its cage, I cannot get at it - the savage, beautiful creature! If I tear, if I rend the slight prison, my outrage will only let the captive loose. Conqueror I might be of the house; but the inmate would escape to heaven before I could call myself possessor of its dwelling-place. And it is you, spirit - with will and energy, and virtue and purity - that I want: not alone your brittle frame."

Jane is the more admirable person in that relationship, but Rochester is at last transformed by his love for her, humbled, and renewed.

Great love stories are not simply about sexual desire. In the best tales the lovers improve each other in myriad ways on the fascinating way to deep love and respect, and love has room to grow even on a very circuitous journey. Sexual satisfaction is not held up as the begin all, end all, be all. Spiritual growth and moral strength are the measuring sticks of relationships.

Those are my thoughts, at least, and these are the stories I don't blush to recommend to others. What great romantic tales have I overlooked or undervalued that you would proudly share with your friends and children?

The Wise Men Found Him in a Manger; But He May be Found Anywhere - by Daniel Hylton

Over the centuries, there have been many discussions, questions, and even arguments about the Three Wise Men who attended the birth of Christ, such as; did they actually attend His birth, or did they arrive as many as two years after that event, when He was a child?  Who were they?  Whence did they come?  How did they know about the advent of Christ?  Were they Persian, Babylonian, or Zoroastrian astronomers, perhaps?  And if Zoroastrian - did Zoroaster himself learn of the prophecy of the coming of Christ from the Hebrew prophet Daniel, as some believe?  Or were the Three Wise Men Chinese, as the Chinese - and many others - claim?

And, in modern times, the arguments continue - did the Three Wise Men even exist, or is the whole tale just a Christian fable?

Well, I frankly don't care.  In fact, for the purpose of this post, I will not address any of the traditions, questions, or doubts that attend the tale of the Three Wise Men. For; I know in my heart that they lived and that they saw the Christ Child.  And that is what matters to me.

They came from somewhere to the east, in that vast landscape of Asia that stretches from the Middle East to the Pacific Ocean.  It had been understood by most of the eastern cultures for several, perhaps many, centuries that the King of the Universe would someday come down and be born upon earth, as a man, specifically, as a Jew.  They knew that a special never-before-seen star was to herald his birth. The Three, like generations of wise men before them, diligently watched the sky for the sign of the advent of the King, hoping against hope that they, in their generation, would be the ones fortunate enough to witness the marvelous event.

And one day - or night - there it was.

Unique, bright, like nothing else in the heavens, it hung low in the western sky.

They had no doubt of its significance.

Their hearts bursting, their minds alive with anticipation, the Three loaded up their camels, gathered their servants, accumulated supplies for a long journey, and set out toward the west, following the Star, seeking a King.  And, at the end of two years, they found Him.  Astounded and awed by their immense good fortune, they presented their gifts, worshiped Him, and then, being warned by an angel of God of Herod's deadly animus toward the new-born King, they avoided the Israelite usurper and "went home by another way."

But they took with them an amazing gift; they had seen the King of Kings, born upon earth as a man.

Now, Jesus Christ is variously described as the Son of God, the Son of Humanity, a prophet, a kind and gentle Teacher, a Healer, the Savior.  And He is, of course, all of those things and more.

But I see Him, first and foremost, as the Wise Men saw Him - the King of all.

I was raised by Godly parents, good Christian people who taught me to live by His teachings.  I read the Bible completely through as a young man, many parts of it I read more than once and studied much of it diligently.  I even memorized at one time or another several passages of scripture.  Even so, I never had that deeper experience to which so many spiritual folk bear witness.

For me, for much of my life, belief was based not so much upon spiritual experience as it was upon intellectual reasoning.  It was faith founded upon the pragmatic underpinnings of knowledge and of all that I had learned about the various belief systems of humanity.

In the year 1986 I found myself living in an extremely rural part of Tennessee with a wife and four young children, and I experienced a startling, and rather abrupt comprehension that being a parent was not just about providing food, shelter, and clothing.  I needed to understand the meaning of human existence if I was to impart anything meaningful to my three daughters and my son.

So I set to work, educating myself on the subject of the Great Question; Why Are We Here? Learning what I could of every theory about the existence of life on earth - and I mean every theory - I eventually dismissed all of them except the Bible.  But all my dismissals, at the time, were based solely on rational thought, and upon those things which I had discovered of each theory or religion, not on any particular spiritual experience.

Understand: I am not touting myself as an authority on anything, especially religion.  I do not care what anyone else chooses to believe, and I long ago passed the point where any human can claim influence with me as it concerns the most basic questions of existence.

By late summer of 1987, I had decided in a rather cold intellectual sense that Jesus Christ was the answer, and that His teachings were the way to understanding.  So, I read the New Testament once again, this time as if I was reading it for the first time, without any preconceived notion of what any of it meant.  And I found that it satisfied, in a purely logical sense, all my questions.

But I wanted more.  I wanted empirical evidence of my Maker.

Then I happened upon a very old book called Deeper Experiences of Famous Christians.  Admittedly I was skeptical of many of the things expounded inside that book; nonetheless, after reading it, I craved an experience of my own - a personal meeting with God.

To that end, I made my way one day out across the field behind the house, down through the hollow and into the forest beyond.  Searching through the woods, I found a small clearing with a large rock jutting from the ground near its center like an altar.  I knelt and prayed.  After praying for some time, it occurred to me that, rather than yammering in God's ear; it would benefit me more to listen.

So, I listened.  And I heard - nothing.

After that day, and for every single day thereafter, in all kinds of weather, every evening after work, I went faithfully into the woods to that little clearing, knelt down, and told God simply; I am here.

Nothing.  Ever.  Nothing.  I never heard His voice.  There was never any kind of sign.

Through all those days, while awaiting a sign from the heavens, I read the New Testament again.  And yet again.  I spent an hour every day alone in the forest, listening.  Days turned into weeks, weeks became months.  After eight months of this, summer had cooled into autumn, autumn became winter, winter turned into yet another spring.  And I had had no experience.

I grew discouraged.  Discouragement eventually devolved into a sort of rebellious anger.  But, in fact, something had happened to me over this time period which had nothing to do with my earlier studies.  Nor was it related to any experience.  It was, in a very real way, miraculous.  The words of Jesus had passed through my eyes, worked their way through my brain, and had settled in my heart.

I knew now, without any doubt, that I was a created being.  I knew that God created me.  And I knew that Jesus Christ was His Son.  I knew now the reason I - or any of us - exist.

So, then - I wondered rather petulantly - why didn't He speak to me?

One fine spring evening in 1988, I had finished my supper and was about to make my way, once again, into the woods behind the house.  But as I went out the front door and onto the porch, the rebellious anger erupted.  

I am done with this, I thought.  It is pointless.  He will never speak to me.

Turning the other way, I abandoned any thought of going to my "altar" and I tromped down the lane toward the bridge over the creek.  As I walked on, and on, through the dappled sunlight that cast long shadows across the lane, my dark mood gradually lifted and after a while I began to quietly laugh at myself.  Who did I think I was, anyway?  In the great scheme of things, I would barely qualify as a worm; likely something even less.  Why then would The Almighty feel compelled to speak to me?  He would not, of course.  For in a vast universe of humble servants, I suddenly realized, I was among the humblest; perhaps the humblest of all.

I stopped on the bridge, gazed down into the sparkling stream, and smiled to myself.  The dark mood, its attendant anger, and the weight of needing to hear the Voice of God were gone.  As was the need for an experience.

I was abruptly and rather acutely aware of the warm spring evening and all the life it contained within it, all of it a testimony to the Creator of life.  Birds chirped in the thickets, wildflowers burst through the ground along the creek, the heady scent of honeysuckle filled the air.  The earth itself was bearing witness to its Maker.

Never again would I need to go into the forest, find an altar, seek a sign.  Every day of being alive was in and of itself an experience, a sign.  Nothing else was - or would ever be - necessary.  At last content, I turned toward the house.

And then, right then; when I expected - and needed - it least, He was there.

Right there.

With me, on the bridge.

Did I see Him?  No.  Did I hear an audible Voice?  No.

Yet He was there.  And He was there for me.

I have never related the details of that moment to anyone; nor will I ever do so.  It is meaningful only to me, is highly personal, and it can have no bearing whatsoever on anyone else in their striving after God.

Over the years, I have referred to it privately as my Three Wise Men Moment.  For in that moment, upon that bridge, I, far less wise than they, far less clever, far less deserving, was given a great gift that has sustained me throughout my life.

I often find myself distracted by the cares of this life: the need to make money, the frustration with the contemporary state of politics, the anger over man's inhumanity to his fellow man that is daily seen, the worry over this or that or some other thing. And I more often than not forget that which matters most - that which, in fact, alone truly matters; living a life that pleases the King.

I lose my way.

So then, every so often, I must push the world aside and go back in time to that moment on the bridge, to touch that moment, to remember it and its meaning.  To remember what really matters.

Then, my priorities properly restored, my mind and my heart lifted, my feet back upon the right path, then, and only then, can I get on with my life "by another way."

Merry Christmas.



Daniel Hylton is the author of the Kelven's Riddle fantasy series.

Help me prepare, Lord

And Mary said:
"My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my savior.
For he has looked upon his handmaid's lowliness;
behold, from now on will all ages call me blessed.
The Mighty One has done great things for me,
and holy is his name." Luke 1:46-49 (NAB)

We sang this Scripture passage in church this morning, and I wept. Even as my youngest children squirmed and fussed beside me, I was caught up in this hymn after Communion. I heard a fellow parishioner near me singing the words with humble sincerity. It didn't matter whether he was or was not on pitch, because simplicity and honesty were there - a more perfect harmony.

If I could spend Advent in church, I would be far better off, I think. My emotions would not be vacillating so much between the merry yule-tide activities and the many stressful obligations performed with a silent, Bah! Humbug!

I want to look forward to Christmas, but I am too busy telling myself to just get through this and then that.

That's no way to live.

And it is not the way to spend Advent, I know: just waiting for Christmas only so it can be done with and over. All obligations performed. All things crossed off lists. All gifts bought and given. 

What about that first gift? Advent is a time of preparation for Him, Lord of lords. It is a time of expectation, of hope. It is supposed to be a time when we prepare to celebrate the Christmas season more joyfully, when we prepare our hearts and souls to proclaim the greatness of the Lord with humble sincerity. It's also the time when we look forward to Christ's second coming and our need to be always ready for him, our King of kings.

I know this about Advent, and I acknowledge that this season of preparation has changed Christmas for me, has penetrated the mystery and helped me to celebrate more joyfully, more fully, and has made me contemplate deep spiritual things in a time dominated by commercialism.

And yet here am I, grumpy and disillusioned already, beating myself up for not meeting my own gift-buying or making expectations, comparing my traditions and even my tree-decorating skills to those of others' on Facebook, tempted by inertia beneath the weight of fresh obligations and age-old chores.

Even the spiritual opportunities God has given me this Advent season, I have not appreciated as I should have, wanting to get through them, taking them off a growing list in my head. It is only through prayer and thus by His grace, guidance and inspiration that they turned out well for the children and adults with whom I worked, whom I tried to serve as best I could, because they belong to Jesus.

That's just it, though. That's the message I must embrace right now. Everything I do this Advent season, I must unite to Jesus. What a difference it might make if I read Scripture every morning and prayed longer before entering the holiday fray! I hate shopping sometimes - yes - but what if I shopped for others in a spirit of selflessness and sacrifice? What if I actually looked for opportunities to volunteer and in ways and places I never have before? What if I tried to make everything a prayer amid the hustle and bustle, smiling at grumpy fellow shoppers and frazzled cashiers all the way and being peaceful (no matter what) where peace is sorely needed?

What if every word and action was a proclamation of faith, because of the joy with which I spoke and acted this Advent?

"His mercy is from age to age
to those who fear him.
He has shown might with his arm,
dispersed the arrogant of mind and heart.
He has thrown down the rulers from their thrones
but lifted up the lowly.
The hungry he has filled with good things;
the rich he has sent away empty.
He has helped Israel his servant,
remembering his mercy,
according to his promise to our fathers,
to Abraham and to his descendants forever." Luke 1:50-55 (NAB)

Praying

I used to hear about people who spent their whole lives in one small community, on one tiny parcel of the earth, working and praying, praying, their days away in mostly silence.

And I thought, What good is that?

How on earth can you help this world if you are cloistered with like-minded people? How is that working for the common good to hide yourself and your talents away?

I'm a little wiser now, and though I do not at all believe this is the only way to serve the way of truth, hope, love and life, I now believe it is one excellent way.

I don't think for one moment that I am the only one who has underestimated the power of prayer. Of silence. Of contemplation. But because I am naturally a restless person who detests sitting for too long, perhaps I have been more prone to underestimate it. My prayer reminds me of my son Berto"s gesture when the priest asks us to lift up our hearts, and we pronounce at Mass, "We lift them up to the Lord," and we all raise our hands palm up. For a while it was like Berto was tossing God a football with how quickly he threw up his hands and then dropped them: "Here! Catch my heart, God!" It made me smile. So, too, my prayer. I toss God footballs several times a day, prayers for that homeless man or my sick relative or of my desperate need for some spiritual buttresses to be erected posthaste. And I believe with all my heart that God catches those erratic balls, because my words are fervent. Well, most of the time.

I cannot imagine, however, really getting down deep with God in prayer. For an hour or more, for hours each day in and out of Mass. And, yet, I think how marvelous would be the results of such efforts, because prayer is, as my parish priest said recently, our act of being in the presence of God. Even if we nod off while doing it, it is our endeavor to walk and sit in his presence, to hold his hand, and to accept some real nourishment. What might we learn about ourselves if we made that decision more often, if we were very still and knew that he was God?

So I no longer think shallowly about contemplative lives. If I am honest with you, I think a community of nuns or monks praying for this world is doing a great deal more for us than all the words of politicians could ever do. I even think now - and this is shocking to me - that a community in God's presence by the exertion of their own free will on a routine basis, asking for his grace and love and guidance to be poured out upon us, can move more mountains than many actions.

But then we see the connectivity, don't we? For some of us life in a small community praying is our service to mankind, and for some of us the work in this fractured world to be God's physical instruments of peace is ours. The two ignite each other in faith, and God weaves us together, helping us bear good fruit.

photo by Daniel Hylton

Today I said a rosary for France. It is a very Catholic thing to do, I know, but something I rarely do. I only meditate in this way when I am rocked by some great tragedy and realize that I need to really pray deeply, to do something more than usual to let my Heavenly Father know that I care and want to help and that we all need a heaping helping of faith, hope and love from His table.

I say rosaries when I am aching for others.

So I am praying. I know many of you are praying. And we know prayer is more than general good vibes. Prayer is standing in the presence of our loving Father with all our might.


"I want to be only a poor friar who prays...Pray, hope and don't worry. Worry is useless. God is merciful and will hear your prayer...Prayer is the best weapon we have; it is the key to God's heart. You must speak to Jesus not only with your lips, but with your heart. In fact on certain occasions you should only speak to Him with your heart." - Padre Pio

"Everyone of us needs half an hour of prayer each day, except when we are busy - then we need an hour." - St. Frances de Sales

"For me, prayer is an aspiration of the heart, it is a simple glance directed to heaven, it is a cry of gratitude and love in the midst of trial as well as joy..." - St. Therese of Lisieux


Then he told them a parable about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary. He said, There was a judge in a certain town who neither feared God nor respected any human being. And a widow in that town used to come to him and say, 'Render a just decision for me against my adversary.' For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought, 'While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being, because this widow keeps bothering me I shall deliver a just decision for her lest she finally come and strike me.' " The Lord said, "Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says. Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night? Will he be slow to answer them? I tell you, he will see that justice is done speedily. But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" Luke 18:1-8

Charlie Chaplin, Meet the Love of My Life

This is the story of when Matthew and I first met in person. I dug it out from the archives to share with you in honor of our wedding anniversary this week.

Yesterday, I was watching my husband's face as he listened to our good friend. She was telling us lively tales about couples she knew, and his smile in response was broad. Of course, a true smile, as opposed to just a contrivance of the features, ignites the eyes, has magic. My husband's smile is a million watts; it could illuminate the city of Phoenix in a blackout. It could exert a superhuman power to influence people if he unleashed it fully. I am mesmerized by his handsome face when he smiles, and I wonder sometimes if he can see my blatant admiration and therefore wonders why I don't act upon it more often.

Seeing his smile yesterday made me desirous to share a story of the September evening we met in person eleven years ago. I brought Charlie Chaplin along for the occasion, and Matthew smiled.

Maybe it was because we had only spoken on the phone for a few short months with a few thousand miles between us. Or maybe it was because he had implied during one of those friendly conversations that he was unimpressed with the picture I had sent to him, my very own Mr. Darcy (she's tolerable, I suppose...but not handsome enough to tempt me), but I sure as heck wasn't going to show up to our first face-to-face meeting alone.

My sister Annie had orchestrated our meeting by asking Matthew within moments of seeing him for the first time, "Do you like brunettes?", meaning me. Having introduced us via old-fashioned telephone network, she was coming along to officially introduce in person, of course. In fact, a legion of curious friends, family, and people I did not know were coming on my blind date - a chance to go out for Mexican food in a Tex-Mex town, enjoy margaritas and watch the spectacle of two young people getting to know each other at no risk to themselves.

I needed additional support, though. Dumb support. I needed Charlie Chaplin, that talented, lighthearted fellow. So I took him with me. I didn't ask; I just cut him out of a magazine, dressed as that lovable tramp, folded him up and carried him out to my sister's car where he lay on my lap during the drive downtown to San Antonio's River Walk. When we exited the vehicle, my sister cast me an incredulous look.

"Don't bring that," she said and pointed in disapproval.

I hesitated, but nope. Though 20, I would be a child. I needed my talisman. So we walked into the restaurant, Mi Tierra across from Merchant Square, with Chaplin all wrinkled and sweaty in my hands.

Through the double doors, and there he was by the bakery cases. Matthew who I knew by voice and by a dark picture of him in ball cap, standing by a grill with a barbecue utensil, smiling. Matthew, the Catholic to my Protestant, the Hispanic to my whatever-the-heck-I-am, the young professional to my bum writer.

He had on the worst long black shorts. He was very casual actually. Chaplin was more dressed up than he. I, on the other hand, had something to prove after the picture I'd sent of myself - hair mussed, holding my pet rabbit, and my cousin behind me with red glaring eyes and a wicked smile. My folks jumped to the conclusion that I had sent that ugly picture of myself to sabotage all hope of a relationship with a normal guy. Honestly, I don't know if I did or not. I had certainly said as many stupid things as possible to sabotage it. But whether I had subconsciously done myself in or not, I had my pride, and I was not going to be found lacking in the flesh. That night I was going for the make-him-weep-and-apologize-for-implying-you're-ratty look. With my short printed summer dress, dewy face and basket-weave heeled sandals, I hoped I had succeeded. If Matthew's million-watt smile was the indication, I had - though I could discern no signs of remorse for earlier implications. We stepped toward each other.

I don't remember what was said in those first moments. At least not until I shifted Chaplin from one hand to the other in order to shake his hand.

"What's this?' said Matthew.

I regretted my company then, but I held it out and said nervously but with chin pointed, "A talisman."

It was my misfortune that on the other side of Chaplin was an advertisement for southern whiskey. Jack Daniels to be precise. It was this that Matthew saw first, and he and his friend Nathan began to tease me.

"So you bring a picture of whiskey to our first date? I guess you like your alcohol."

I flipped it over.

"No, Chaplin. I love Charlie Chaplin."

"Oh, sure," he said with that smile. I was too flummoxed to appreciate it.

We soon made it into the bar to wait for our table. I lost track of Chaplin after that. I don't know where he went or what he did. Maybe I shoved him into the depths of my purse with just the Jack Daniels for consolation, but I no longer worried about him. Nor did I need him except perhaps to distract one of my sister's coworkers who turned to me and said genially, "If things don't work out with this, maybe you could meet my son. You two would hit it off."

Matthew was right there across from me. I glanced at him and back at her and mumbled a polite response.

When we finally sat down to dinner, I made sure, very gracefully of course, that Matthew settled on my left, my best side. It would have been very unfortunate if he'd taken a seat on my right; you can see how crooked my nose and mouth are on that side, and I try to surprise people with my flaws little by little, so there's a better chance of acceptance. I remember worrying about my profile, and also worrying about whether I was pronouncing the entrees right from the menu of "authentic" Mexican food. I didn't know then that, although his pronunciation was good, Matthew didn't actually speak Spanish at all. Ah, well. I got splashed with the light of his bright smile every time I got nervous over my words, so all in all, my embarrassment was worth it.

When the evening wound down, and we strolled slowly out of the restaurant, our tongues momentarily tied, Matthew guided me over to sit on a bench beneath the gloam of a tree. Shielded from the flourescent glare of the street lights, he asked me out on a date for that Thursday night, just the two of us. I didn't say no. Perhaps I had a premonition that all was going "to work out with this".

It was less than a year later that I met him before the altar and was greeted by that smile I love so well, at its most brilliant. The photographer caught the moment and gave me my favorite wedding photo. In that picture and in moments shared between us, Matthew's smile is destined to make me feel like a day-dreamy schoolgirl for years to come. Nothing's better than that.

Not even Charlie Chaplin.

A Little Touch of God

Many people have talked about the sunsets here in Phoenix. My general practitioner, who has lived in or traveled to many different places, told me once that she has never seen any to rival them, not even in Hawaii. I was surprised, but later I read an article in the local newspaper that validated that statement as it attempted to explain the regular, beautiful phenomenon. Is it the mountains? The particulates in the atmosphere? The kinds of clouds we have here? The smog? I admit that many a time I have driven west in the evening and have myself wondered at the sunset, admired the dynamic strands of color spreading out from the orb resting on the shoulder of South Mountain.

One evening this past week I had the opportunity to witness a 10-year sunset. I was watching my kids play with neighbors in the front yard, but my restless eye was also wandering to a hummingbird nest in the lower branches of our giant eucalyptus tree. Though I am madly in love with that hummingbird mama, watching her through binoculars several times a day and worrying when she's away, I was soon distracted from her astonishingly still form by the western sky.

I got up and kept saying to the kids as I walked around and stared, "Look at that beautiful sunset! Can you believe that sunset? It's amazing."

But apparently they could believe it, for they paid it little mind, glancing up for only a second when I spoke. I didn't understand their nonchalance. The sun had erupted brilliantly and its flames magnified each moment. The colors didn't appear to diminish as night approached. It lingered for ten years as I watched in awe, suspended in time.

And something my parish priest said about sacraments came back to me as I felt the unusually cool wind of May on my skin and faced a majestic sky. As an example about the difference between big "S" sacraments and sacraments with a little "s", he said he might go fishing early in the morning with a friend on a lake, and as the sun rose over the lake, he could be so affected by the beauty of it that it would be for him a profound moment with God, a sacrament with a little "s". For his buddy, however, it could be just another sunrise on just another morning as he waited impatiently for a bite on his line.

That ten-year sunset was for me a sacrament. It pulled me into its mystery on an unimpressive, dusty neighborhood street amid the noise of children at play. I thanked God for the chance to experience it, just as I had thanked God for a cool, breezy May in Phoenix, and just as I had thanked him profusely several times for the hummingbird nest in our tree.

Phoenix is rich in spectacular sunsets, just as our lives are rich in little sacraments, if we are present enough to be aware of and grateful for them.

Sunlight on the Forest Floor: LIttle Acts of Love

Not long ago while walking out of the grocery store, my unused coupons - that I had left loose on top of the cart - flew off in the stiff breeze all over the street. I didn't think I could recover all those clippings; cars would be coming through. Just as that thought escaped me another woman left her cart full of food and began to quickly collect my coupons with me. I had seen her in the store, analyzing prices just as I do. She had an intricate tattoo on her chest, like a necklace, that was hard to miss.

"Oh, thank you so much," I said.

"I get it," she said. "I have five kids, and it's such a pain to clip coupons, but then I just saved over $40 in there."

"I have four kids," I told her.

As she and a man, perhaps her husband, helped me gather my little slips of glossy paper and then gave them to me kindly, I admired her. Not for her colorful tattoo. Not even for the fact that she was a fellow mother who was frugally raising five kids. I admired her heart, and I felt the love of God.

Well, that's just silly, some might say. It was such a little thing, no great deed. But I assert that God is in every act of love and kindness and respect and sacrifice that human beings show and do for each other, whether they acknowledge his goodness behind it all or not.

A few years ago when my family had our car accident, I felt God's love coming from the man who simply asked if I was okay as he called 9-1-1. I felt God's love when the firemen spoke to my children in miraculously comforting tones. His love was there in the consistent kindness of the doctors and nurses. His love was streaming down my husband's face when I awoke from surgery. God's love was showered on my children, my husband and me in abundance by the generous and loving presence and actions of our friends and my mother-in-law as they supported us through it all.

Even when I suffered with emotional and mental turmoil afterwards, I felt God's love, as in the many phone conversations with my parents. I felt its healing, sustaining and teaching power through all stages of the trauma. I recognized God's love during a meal prayer when I asked him to please help me be kind to my husband, something I was not doing well at all amid all my medicated angst, and instantaneously God responded with an image of my husband's face on the day of the accident as he stood beside my gurney.

My confirmation saint, St. Therese ofn Lisieux, professed her way of following Jesus, calling it the Little Way. It was rooted in trust in God's merciful love and in showing love of God and others in her everyday actions, no matter how menial or small. It was not about great deeds but about great love, and that is something I can get on board with, because I too feel like a spiritual child, not destined to perform great deeds for the kingdom of God as others are (though he may surprise me) but to do all that I can with abundant love for others each day, even if it is in a passing compliment, a small sacrifice, a little smile, a cheerful greeting or in listening intently when I wish to speak my own opinions. Mother Teresa said it so well: "Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love."

And we can never underestimate love. In all its manifestations, great or small, it's the stuff of God. By showing love, respect and compassion for our fellow human beings, we demonstrate our love for God, drawing others closer to him.



Beloved, let us love one another, because love is of God; everyone who loves is begotten by God and knows God. Whoever is without love does not know God, for God is love. In this way the love of God was revealed to us; God sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through him. In this is love: not that we have loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as expiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we also must love one another. 1 John 4:7-11 (NAB)

When the Pharisees heard that he had silenced the Sadducees, they gathered together, and one of them (a scholar of the law) tested him by asking, "Teacher, which commandment in the law is the greatest?" He said to him, "You shall love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind. This is the greatest and the first commandment. The second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments." Matthew 22:34-40 (NAB)

Figs and Dates

I feel like a little child writing this, and that's probably a good thing.

I discovered something this past Christmas; specifically I found it on Epiphany, aka Three Kings' Day. Actually, my husband found it for me. I wanted to spread my table with good and exotic breads and fruits to represent the region the Wise Men likely came from, so I asked my husband to please go to the store and find for me some apricots, dates and figs.

He brought them home, dried fruit, and teased me about how expensive they were - particularly the small bags of organic, unsweetened dates and figs. I was delighted as I placed them in little bowls before the wooden carving of the Wise Men on my dining room table, three little bowls for each of the Three Kings. Of course, I had to try the dates and figs first myself. The dates were good, delicately flavored, but the figs! Shesh, that was quite a strong flavor and texture, very chewy and very spicy. A little bite went a long way, I promise you.

When our dear friends left after the party, I had almost two full bags of dates and figs left, and my husband admonished, "You better eat them or take the unopened bags back to the store!"

"I will; I will."

The dates were not a problem, but the figs...I wasn't so sure I could grow accustomed to them. Yet, I didn't want to return them. I was sure they were good for me, so I began cutting those dried bell-shaped fruits into manageable pieces, twisting off the hard nub at the top, and then eating them slowly, relishing the natural spicy kick in the little seeds.

A strange thing happened. The more I ate the more I began to think about Jesus. Each time I bit into a fig, I felt connected to him (like all those times I tell my youngest children to eat their fish, because it's good for their brains, and Jesus ate tons of it while hanging out with his fishermen disciples). Did he like figs particularly? I don't know, but when he came to a fig tree one day, very hungry, and found leaves but no fruit, he cursed it. When his disciples discovered that it had actually withered to its roots the following day, they were astonished, and Jesus told them, "Have faith in God." (Mark 11:12-14, 20-23)

He also used figs to help illustrate a point about people professing themselves to be what they are not: "By their fruits you will know them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? Just so, every good tree bears good fruit, and a rotten tree bears bad fruit." (Matthew 7:15-20)

There is also the parable about the need for repentance and the great gift of a second, third, fourth chance, the gift of mercy and intercession, in his story of the fruitless fig tree. (Luke 13:6-9)

So, you see, I began to have this warm glow every time I ate this strange, dried, chewy fruit, and I felt a little childish but happy when I confessed to my husband, "Every time I have a fig, I feel connected to Jesus. I know that's funny."

But my husband must have understood what I meant, because when my sweet daughter Ana and I had eaten our very last fig, he came home from the store one day with another bag as if to say, Hey, whatever works, works.

Whatever reminds you of the love of Christ is a good thing.


This was first published on my faith blog, Seeking the Prince of Peace, in February 2014. I am presently working on two new, very different posts and hope to present them to you, my readers, soon. Happy 2015 to each and every one of you!

Sunlight On the Forest Floor: Hope

No one doubts that an ordinary man can get on with this world; but we demand not strength enough to get on with it, but strength enough to get it on. Can he hate it enough to change it, and yet love it enough to think it worth changing? Can he look up at its colossal good without once feeling acquiescence? Can he look up at it colossal evil without once feeling despair? Can he, in short, be at once not only a pessimist and an optimist, but a fanatical pessimist and a fanatical optimist? Is he enough of a pagan to die for the world, and enough of a Christian to die to it?

_From Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton

A modern-day parable:

The Devil takes a man on a tour of hell and proudly shows off all his storehouses brimming with sin. There is lust and jealousy, anger and envy, and so on - a large storehouse for each big sin. But the man points out another storehouse larger by far than all the rest. "What do you keep in there?" he asks. "Oh, that," responds the Devil, "that holds the smallest but most effective seed of all. That is overflowing with discouragement."

_ From the Second Edition of the Catholic Faith Handbook for Youth

In the world you will have trouble, but take courage, I have conquered the world.

_Jesus Christ


I am one of those people who consistently struggles against dicouragement in looking up at the colossal evil in this world. It's difficult to retain hope in the face of a daily onslaught of news stories about the rampant injustice and malice. For this reason I long ago gave up watching nightly news, but I can't quite convince myself that avoiding the news section of the newspaper is a good idea -  despite the fact that every time I read about something happening here, in India, the Middle East, Africa, Central America or Ukraine, I court the idea that evil is winning.

And that is a crying sin.

If I ever truly accepted that notion, I would be guilty of despair. So my work is to hope and pray. And then I must ask myself the really hard and telling question: What can I do? Obviously, I must love my human family enough to think the world worth changing, and how? By showing great love and making the personal sacrifices of a fellow sinner.

Yesterday I read two amazing stories of people who hoped while standing face to face with evil. One was Immaculee Ilibagiza, a survivor of the Rwandan genocide who hid with a group of women in a tiny bathroom for three months. Another was the tale of a priest, a missionary to the Native American population in Canada, who told the good news to and then baptized an Iroquois that was being slowly tortured to death by the Huron tribe. This French missionary, Brebeuf, was later tortured to death along with a fellow priest by the Iroquois that attacked the Huron village in which they were staying. Brebeuf preached to his torturers until they gagged him. His story and countless more from human history - yes, even ancient times - prove that the problem of evil has always been.

And yet people like Immaculee spread hope, love, and forgiveness after the most desperate and seemingly hopeless situations. She wrote that the Devil many times told her to give up, to call out so her persecutors could find her and kill her like hundreds of thousands of others, but she clung to the rosary her father had passed on to her shortly before he was murdered and kept praying and clinging to hope.

It's important for sheltered me not to isolate myself in blissful ignorance, true, but it's important for me to also regularly expose myself to healthy doses of courage, great love and every day human kindness testimonies, too. Hope is there. It's there in the groups of young men patrolling the streets of Cairo to keep other men from harassing or assaulting women. It's there at Dartmouth College where a professor is fighting to change the rape culture that exists on that campus. It's there in Christian-sponsored preschools in Central America where there are high gates with razor-wire to keep out the drug gangs and loving teachers within to keep up the hope and laughter.

It's there in the simplest things: in the smile you give to a grumpy neighbor, when you stop to ask a person involved in an accident if they're okay, in the compliment you pay to a friend on a rough day. The love of God is in all these things.

And, yes, it's even there in that funny (but clean!) story you read on the Internet today.

That was not much of a segue, I know, but I also came across this yesterday: Cheer Up or Dry Up: Proverbs 17: 22. from the humor writer at Whoa! Susannah. I think the project is an excellent idea; we all need to lift our spirits on a regular basis, and, I confess, it is also affirming for a sometimes-humor writer like me. Maybe I'll lighten things up here tomorrow.

I also really loved this post on The Optimism of Jesus by a A Lady In France. It moved me, because I do believe he is the ultimate optimist, our Redeemer, and I need to take more than a few lessons from him.

All You Need is Love....and each other

I'm a very imperfect person. I suppose I first truly realized this when I became a parent. It's like that line in the Billy Joel song, She's Always A Woman:

She'll bring out the best and the worst you can be

 

Ladidah, ladidah. Forget about that pretty lady who'll cut you and laugh while you're bleeding. It's the kids who can really do a number on you. Though The Beatles were right, all you need is love -  especially in this great adventure of raising the next generation - you'll also need more patience and fortitude than is humanly possible to raise a child, and then exponentially more if you have more little rascals. Parenting is not for sissies. And just in case I haven't quoted enough famous people, I'm going to drag Solomon in here and his very sage advice to Train up a child in the way that he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it. Solomon's words are a big comfort to parents who have told their children to put things back in their proper place at least one trillion times. Though we know they will never willingly do so in our homes, we are fairly confident that when they are elderly, their houses will be well-organized and immaculate - before the grandkids come and wreck it.

 

Ah, don't get me wrong now. Children are a blessing, and I feel sorry for those who do not view them as such, but more importantly, I feel sorry for their children. And Love, love, love is all you really need to make a beginning of this most important job. But then you must try - and I stress try daily, hourly - to kill your selfishness, your self-centeredness, your laziness, and your constant craving for peace, sleep and a nice house.

 

You must also do your darndest to pour solid values, robust good sense, and a concern for others into their little beings. (I am no expert, but I suspect all this good stuff springs from God, and if he is no part of the equation, the job will be very difficult indeed.) And if regularly reading parenting books and articles helps, then do it for heaven's sake! Mine your friends and elders for nuggets of wisdom. Don't be ashamed. I thought parenting was instinctual until I became one. Then I searched out all the sound advice that I could to help me when I was at my rope's end.

 

There are a few things I have learned along the way to raising four citizens of this world, and I will share some of my paltry knowledge with any fellow parents, as others have shared their wisdom with me. But I have a long way to go, you know. Sadly, I find I am still a very selfish, self-centered being who loves peace and quiet.

 

Put things back where they belong

No, I do not mean just in our homes. I mean in the world at large. Every time we go to the grocery store, our children should see us place our cart in the cart return. When we take them to the children's store and they want to try on all the miniature sunglasses, they need to understand that what they get down, they must place back. We should remind them repeatedly to put their trash in the proper receptacles.

 

Why? It's not enough to tell our kids not to litter. They must grasp that littering disrespects other people; other people look at our mess, and they have to clean up after us. Our kids should not walk through life expecting waitresses and store clerks and strangers at large to pick up after them. Not unless we want them to be total brats.

 

Talk - now!

Yes, before it's too late. If you want your kids to know why you believe certain things, if you want them to have your values instead of scrounging around for what their friends or the media has to offer, you must talk to them on a regular basis. This is one of the greatest things my own dad did for his kids. The day is full of teaching moments, after all - not moments to instill hate or bigotry, but moments to guide your children in building a solid foundation for themselves in a shape-shifting society. Do not leave them to mercy of others.

 

Forget me; think us

Yes, "me time" is important, or you will surely blow a gasket. But "us time" is vital. There are many, many times as a parent when you must forget yourself to play that game of football in the back yard when it's so dang hot; to snuggle up to an anxious little one in the dark and ask her about her day; to read, play or dance when there are piles of dishes and loads of laundry you'd like to get out of your hair (boy, I struggle with this one!); to put down that book and really listen to your child (boy, do I really struggle with this one!); and to talk to a preteen about issues at school or with you. The whole world is dependent on "Us". We must invest precious time in each other to build a better society, especially in the hearts of our kids.

 

Dinner, everybody!

Family dinner time is priceless. I have heard a bazillion knock-knock jokes from my kids at the dining room table, sung several silly songs with them. My kids have asked about my childhood, and I've told them a bit of family history. Discussions about God, drugs, life choices, and college have happened at our old table with its finish ruined by hot plates, cold glasses, and fresh pizza boxes. I have even learned about my son's crush there. Trust me, turn off that stupid TV or smartphone and really invest in the not-so-silent but oh-so-golden family dinner hour. Don't be a media drone, unaware of where your family is headed.

 

A structured life

No one thrives in chaos, children least of all. I am a firm believer in bedtime routines, for instance. The television must be off; the lights are lowered; teeth are brushed; and books are read. Family routines inspire kids to organize their lives and create healthy habits around the necessities of living well - disciplines they'll need in the craziness of life.

 

Here are links to some great articles that explain why routine is so important to kids:

 

Structure: Why Kids Need Routines

 

The Importance of Family Routines

 

 

 

Love, love, love your kids, and love your spouse most of all, and may God bless us all with the grace to admit our mistakes and the courage to keep striving. The world depends on our efforts.

 

 

 

Love means having to say you're sorry...alot

The other day Matthew approached me and said casually, "A couple of moms came up to me tonight and thanked me for coaching the soccer team."

Eyes narrowing over a sink of dirty dishes, I looked up and demanded, "What're you telling me that for?"

I really have to get a handle on this jealousy thing. It's been raging for a robust 12 years. Just the slightest hint of another woman can send my radar bleep-bleeping all over the bleeping place!

My husband and I have gotten in many freeze-outs over my overactive imagination. You know, where you freeze each other out by communicating only on a live-or-die basis, looking at each other only if you can look cock-eyed with triple-pronged daggers, and rubbing nothing but jabby elbows and feet that could use some serious lotion in bed. The only time we ever get in a freeze-out is when I breathe fire first. It portends an apology; I'm going to have to say I’m sorry for something silly - again - and it wounds my pride. I’m always the one who apologizes, and it’s so very predictable and tedious and conflict-resolving….

For instance, there was that time, quite early on, when I found out through pictures - hard evidence, my friends! - that my husband took me on a honeymoon hike to the same exact spot he had enjoyed with an old girlfriend. I stewed and fumed for a good two weeks over that one.

Or the time when I started the mother of all marital brawls outside the Alamo on a ghost tour, because I demanded to know if his gold cross necklace, a baptismal gift from before we met that I had stolen for my own adornment, came from another woman. And just why had she given it to him in the first place? Did they like each other? He deserted me outside the old fort. I tried to spy the 666 they claim is seared on the wall. Maybe I couldn't see it because the green-eyed monster was blocking my view.

Then the time I got mad at him for watching a show about the tango while I was gone on a Mom's night out, and the film was partly filmed in Brazil - Brazil! And don't we all know the out-of-control, mind-blowing and dangerous sexiness that goes on in Brazil every day?!?

And there was that ugly misunderstanding about the cleaning lady. I like to blame that on hormones but this jealousy thing really isn't based on science...

I always have to apologize, because I’m always the one who starts it – all of it, any of it and for any reason. I have a serious defect called Need to Talk about Every Little Thing That Gets Her Goat, Even Outlandish, Hugely Improbable Wild Imaginings. Love means never having to say you’re sorry – unless you’re the feisty, jealous one in the relationship.

Not so long ago we fought about a commercial with young, skinny women in bikinis rubbing their svelte bums as they dash from a car.

"What the heck is this?" I demanded.

My husband unmuted it and turned it up because he thought my question was one of curiosity. What I really meant was If you don't change this right now I'll know that you're secretly cavorting with supermodels - blondes no less! - at business luncheons.

I need to go to jealousy management. But, stink, that would probably mean I'd have to go through some nine-step program which would include learning to really apologize for all these petty arguments I start....even the ones I haven't apologized for yet. Or learning tiresome techniques to prevent them in the first place.

I'd have to practice my soulful eyes and trembling mouth and clasped hands and sincerely articulated, “I’m sorry,” instead of sticking out my tongue, adding a garbled, “Fine! Sorry then!”, or pulling picked-over skeletons of old disputes out in a nice power-point presentation to shore up my defense.

I wish it were give and take. I wish he would throw me a bone every now and then. I can’t remember – honest to goodness cannot recall – the last time he said sorry...but, then, I can't think of a time when he started a fight about the mailman coming around too often or our priest making small talk with me. A good friend suggested I train our Yorkie to say "Rar-ree" for him.

But love, I suppose, means never having to say you’re sorry to a hot-tempered, jealous woman who doesn’t know how to hold her tongue. And ain’t he the lucky one?

But maybe someday, spontaneously, he’ll look back at me with gut-wrenching sincerity and pronounce softly, “I’m sorry, too, sweetheart…” and then with slight perturbation, add, ”…for something...sometime....uh, I suppose.”

And with a self-satisfied smirk, I’ll gently reply, “Baby, love means never having to say you’re sorry….”

Unless you’re me.

Be Love - guest post by Laney Smith

This is quite beautiful, and a wonderful post with which to begin November, that month of Thanksgiving.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce Laney.


I remember Papa telling stories about the "forgotten ones" overseas. Children with cleft pallets, mental handicaps and deformities dropped at the orphanage door step or left in trash bins. It was as if someone had told the parents that they should be disgusted and ashamed at the sight of such a child. Papa had come the winter prior, traveling all over Kyrgyzstan to sing and play his guitar. He would tell me stories of his fingers nearly freezing off and how funny it was when someone would ask for his autograph. But what he mentioned most were stories of the children that he had to leave behind in the places that they didn't deserve to be.

Growing up in church I got used to hearing missionaries speak of poverty, starvation, and the "less fortunate". I saw commercials begging for donations contributing to the child with the swollen stomach and flies on his face. The phrase "there are starving children in Africa," was common among the parents attempting to creativly get their stubborn kid to eat his green beans. In my mind this was a problem that I couldn't fix in a sad movie that I could turn off and forget about. Their reality and mine had never touched.

I've always had an unquenchable thirst to keep moving. It seems like Papa and I share this desire to see everything there is to see; to understand how others live. When I was younger, friends of ours decided to move overseas as missionaries. Somehow, I came to the conclusion that traveling halfway across the world was the next logical step in my life. Even though I was just 14 at the time, It really didn't take that long for my parents to agree because they saw my passion and understood.

The unsightly two story building should have been condemned with its rooms smelling of urine and roaches scattering up the rotting walls. The blank response of the children upon my arrival seemed to say they didn't understand my look of shock at the sight of them playing on the dirt floor. Were all orphanages like this? Two or three hand me raggedy toys for each room, overcrowded and undermanaged. It was hard to find anyone that looked after the children, because there weren't many.

The moment I stepped through the door, I had touched my new reality. It was almost as if all the commercials and stories I had heard in the past hit me at once, and the sorrow I felt was more than I ever had. After that day I couldn't stop coming back. I began to visit the orphanage often, and dread the day I would have to leave. I played with the most wonderful children I think I will ever meet; showing love and affection they rarely received, singing songs in a language I didn't understand.

Early on at the orphanage, I met a six-year-old girl named Vica, who became my best friend. She gave me the name "Solnyshka" because she said "I make the room sunny". Almost every morning for four months she would go with me to pick flowers by the road while we learned a little of each other's languages. Even with the language barrier, we connected in a way that seemed as though we filled a void in each other's lives - her desire to be cared about, my desire to care for someone.

In the summer the family and others I stayed with coached baseball for the kids at the orphanage and the villages surrounding. Vica was too young to play baseball, but as I would coach with much animation, I would often look over at the sidelines to see her with a smile on her face, mimicking all the movements I made.

I will never forget the day before I left when I took Vica out for a walk. As I tried to explain my departure in broken Russian, she only understood that I was abandoning her and that she would probably never see me again. A friend of mine stepped in to let her know that I cared about her and loved her very much. He told her that I wasn't allowed to stay any longer, but I wanted to. Having all that said, the goodbye was just as hard, but she understood and gave me the last hug while thanking me for being her new big sister.

When I left she told me to write, so I did, but she never responded. I pray that she was adopted, because it scares me to think of anything else for her, the six-year-old girl who taught me so much about myself and my life. She showed me that it didn't matter that I was young, inexperienced, and that I had a serious language barrier. I could show love, and be love to someone who so desperately needed it. To me that is the most beautiful thing, to be love in someone's reality.