on contraception and the cross of Church Teaching

There has been a lot of sex talk lately.

Unless you live under a rock, you've heard that there are some "issues" with the Catholic Church and the coverage of contraception indicated by the HHS mandate. Even though I try really, really hard to be quiet on these matters, I have shared a few links and made a few comments on Facebook. OK, more than a few.

I get fired up about things, and this is one of my favorites. It's a high peak on the range of Mountains I Will Die On, a remote and rocky region in which I so frequently find myself. I perch there, usually alone, cold, without a decent jacket or a St. Bernard to take care of me. It's a lonely place, and I'd roll right down if I could. But so often I get all St. Catherine of Siena-y, and shout that "My nature is fire!" and try to tell people, up to and including the Pope if necessary, that they are wrong.

When I was a young teenager, my father would say, "You'd argue with the Good Lord." My response: "Yes, but only if He was being unreasonable."

Anyway.

I don't want to write about contraception today. But I'm going to - this time not to preach at anyone, or to tell you I think it's bad. You already know what the Church says, and you know I believe the Church. OK. Today I want to say something long overdue.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry if my words have hurt you. I'm sorry if I have made you feel judged. I want so badly to be understood (being Right is a god to me) that I forget sometimes that real, sincere, hurting people read what I write sometimes. And that my words might do nothing but cause them pain.

Regarding contraception and Church teaching, I need to say this. It is a HARD teaching. I was pregnant eight times. I had one miscarriage and gave birth to seven children, including one who died as a baby. I loved and wanted each of my children. And every single time I found out I was pregnant, I felt completely and utterly frightened and freaked out.

I know what it is like to see a positive pregnancy test and think that my life is over. I know what it is like to cry tears of relief and guilt when a late period finally arrives. I know what is like to believe that there is absolutely no way that it is a good idea to have a baby right now.

I also know that NFP is annoying sometimes. It's not always rainbows and butterflies and "Wow, isn't this great for our marriage?". Did I mention it is a HARD TEACHING?

Some Catholic women have been writing lately about how joyful and wonderful the Church teachings are, and how they are a gift to embrace. In fact, I've been one of those women. But it would be a lie to say that I haven't struggled with this. And it would be wrong not to acknowledge that many, many women suffer because of it.

It would also be wrong to judge my Catholic sisters who do not embrace the teaching.

The statistics going around, stating that 98% of Catholic women have used some form of contraception, are being criticized for being inaccurate. I'm no statistician, and I don't know if they're right or not. But ya know what? My experience says the numbers are spot on. When I meet a Catholic woman of childbearing age who is not contracepting (and not related to me), I'm floored. We NFPers are definitely the exception.

And while I stand by the teaching and want others to do the same, I want to make it clear that I'm not judging the many women who aren't there yet. I'm not "there yet" on plenty of things. I just want to let them know that I know how very difficult this is. I have lived it. I'm still living it. It's hard.

But hey, there is hope.

There's Jesus. He's the only reason I even try to follow this teaching or any other. He is the only one who gives me the strength to try. I believe with all my heart that He loves me and wants the best for me. I really do in fact actually believe that the Catholic Church is a gift from Him, and that He wants me to be obedient. I trust Jesus, with my will, not my feelings. I give everything to him, including my fertility and my pride and my selfishness.

Today, I give him any spirit of judgment I have been harboring against other women. What we are called to live as wives and mothers can be a heavy cross.

Wherever we are on the journey, let's not add to one another's burdens. Let's pray for each other, and do our best.

week at a glance

"Seven Quick Takes" is a great way to get back into the swing of things with blogging. Here's my week at a glance, bloggy-style.

1. I got a compliment today, via email from my former boss. Now living and working in Italy, he took the time to send me a brief note complimenting the last issue of "my" magazine. It meant a good deal to me, mostly because he is a man with high standards who doesn't hand out compliments when they are not earned. It was also a good reminder that taking a few minutes to do something nice (an email, a sincere compliment) can make a big difference is someone's day.

2. I bought something for $7.99 that changed my life. It will save me time and money and make me look younger. I am VERY EXCITED about this. (Women of a certain age get excited about these kinds of things, trust me.)

3. My son John is 12 1/2 and in the seventh grade. He completed his science fair exhibit this week - completely without my assistance. This is a glorious, awe-inspiring, unprecedented event. He also told me last night that during the school day, right before lunch, he thought of me and really wanted to give me a hug. So he is the child of the day, my current favorite.


4. I have a new washing machine! Well, new to me. Last week my old one died a quick and painless death, and thanks to some networking, I was able to remove one in great condition from a friend's garage for a very good price. I also have a new to me coffee maker! Ask and you shall receive! Now, to replace Luke's glasses and find another car!

5. I started playing at Pinterest. Everyone is talking about it these days, and since I want to be popular, I figured I'd see what all the fuss is about. I started a board with some ideas for my son's August wedding. I'm not quite addicted - yet - but there is potential!


6. I have super cute grandchildren, and the littlest ones are now super-mobile! Jude is walking everywhere, and I swear, every time I see him he is better looking. Seriously! And Gigi is crawling. And totally rocking baby leggings.



7. It's my dad's 91st birthday. He is a WWII veteran, married to my mom for 51 years. He worked hard his whole life to provide for others. He is generous, creative, and an incurable flirt. I love him, a lot.

How was your week? Join the quick-take fun at Conversion Diary.

sh*t my mom says

If you are a mother, you will repeat yourself many, many times.

"Stop touching that, leave your brother alone, be quiet, stop it, no, no, no, eat your dinner, we HAVE a dishwasher, get ready for school, where are your shoes? why don't you hang up your coat? do you have any homework? leave your brother alone, I said no!"

Like all moms, I say the same things over and over again. I know that words don't mean nearly as much as action, and that whacking someone in the back of the head, or taking away video game privileges, is far more motivating than the sound of my voice. Still, I talk. I talk and I talk and I talk. I'm Charlie Brown's teacher, white noise, a butterfly batting its eyelashes in a thunderstorm. So why don't I just shut the heck up?

I'm a mother, remember? Watch your attitude and don't you dare tell me to be quiet.

My kids don't seem to listen to me, just like I didn't listen to my mom. I know that I didn't listen because even though I am now old and she is older, she still says the same things to me. Over and over.

In a flash of insight something occurred to me today. Maybe she, like me, says these things over and over because {{GASP}} I need to hear them.

My mother has said something like 5,343,890 important things to me in my life, and twice as many unimportant things. (Love you, Mom.)But two sayings come to mind that I seem to have heard more than the others.

One: "Live within your means."
Two: "Everything in moderation."

I can't decide which one I dislike more. Living within my means? That's preposterous. And not fun, not fun at all.

Everything in moderation? Just as bad. Even chocolate? And wine? They are much more fun in excess.

I am very bad at both of these.

I struggle with the constraints of my circumstances. I have never been good with budgeting, planning, or staying home from the mall when I have no cash.I am one of those people who glows with self-satisfaction when I get something on sale - see how much I "saved?" - even though I paid for it on a high interest credit card.

And moderation? Someone famous said that complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation, and dang, that is so true. Once I start, I just don't know when to stop.

Now I know why my mom has repeated these sayings so frequently. It all makes sense. She repeats them because I do not listen. She repeats them because I need to hear them. She repeats them because she loves me.

I believe God gives us the right mother. Babies don't really get mixed up in the nursery, no matter what we'd like to believe, or what our older brothers may have told us. These things that she says that really get under my skin? It's all about not wanting to hear the things that will force me to look in the mirror and see someone who needs to change.

Mothers are for loving. Good mothers love both soft and strong - they will even tell us what we don't want to hear.

As often as necessary.

Now, go brush your teeth, put away your shoes, eat your dinner and don't forget - we HAVE a dishwasher.

free expression

...there's no such thing.

Expression comes with a cost. If you join a protest, you might be attacked. If you put up a billboard, it might be vandalized. If you write about it on your blog, a coworker might mention it at lunch. And so it goes.

I know some people who don't seem to know how to express themselves. Either they do it inappropriately ("Hey, you've lost weight! You're not nearly as fat as you used to be!") or not at all. I actually prefer bad expression to none. I'll never understand those who don't write, sing, draw, dance, construct things out of popsicle sticks, swear, or complain. I mean, how can they live? Sometimes I'm afraid of sitting next to one of those non-expressers at church or at the doctor's office. What if she suddenly explodes? I mean actually explodes - flesh and bones and emotions splattering everywhere. Isn't it inevitable, if you keep it all in?

I'd been clamming up lately, keeping a lot in. Facebook is nice, and I share some there, but who can really expressed herself adequately in a status update? I need more.

I decided to stop stewing and start writing again after reading some of my favorite and least favorite blogs. The good ones remind me that I want to write ("Wow, she said that so well! I have something to add!") and the bad ones remind me that I should write ("Why are people reading this? Why am I reading this, instead of writing my own?") It occurred to me that there are blogs that actually mean something to me. I don't read many these days, but the ones that I do make a difference in my day. Even the ones that irk me (maybe especially those) give me things to think about. They irritate me, make me laugh, inform me, inspire me. I started to wonder if maybe my blog had meant something to someone. I wondered if it still could. So I came back.

But as I said, there's a cost, a personal cost. I just can't write impersonally. Here you will learn what I'm really thinking and feeling, and sometimes I'm thinking and feeling boring or irritating things. But those things are especially difficult to get out of the carpet. So I'll just write, instead of spontaneously combusting in my family room.

being broke

There is thick, dark brown goo leaking from the backside of my coffee maker.

The washing machine was worse off than we originally thought. The seal was rusted, and the the motherboard was shot. We put it on the curb. On the bright side, we didn't have to call for a special trash pick up; a Sandford and Son contingent swept the neighborhood yesterday afternoon, and my trash is now their treasure.

The blinds in my bedroom don't open; the bathroom drawer doesn't shut. The exhaust fan is exhausted. The kitchen cupboards are trashed. The fridge's ice machine works well most of the time, but when it doesn't, there is minor flooding. The futon frame is split. I can't imagine why, because boys weighing 100 pounds and more hardly ever jump on it. They do jump on Luke's bed, which is why that is broke, too.

Our printer does not print.

Luke's glasses are held together by electrical tape. You can hardly notice it, really.

The only thing that doesn't suck is my vacuum cleaner. Well, it sucks, but just barely. And makes a really scary noise.

The dryer made a scary noise for awhile, but I kept ignoring it and it finally stopped. I guess it realized that around here, whining gets you nowhere.

Everything is broke. We're broke.

However, there is a big difference between being broke and being poor. Broke people are experiencing a temporary state of inconvenience, which may last weeks or years or even decades. But they just know good things are around the corner. Even though they are without money, time, or reasonable house repair ability,they convince themselves that they will dig their way out.

The truly poor don't have the options that I have. They don't have the education or safe housing. They might lack the familial support and network of friends that I'm blessed with. They might deal with prejudice, abandonment or abuse. They might be homeless, jobless, disabled or ill in body or mind.

So I'm broke. But I'm not broken - at least not in anyway that God can't heal. He renews me and strengthens me, even when I am looking at yet another car repair or trashed appliance matched with an empty bank account.

Yesterday, my baby granddaughter spent the morning at my house. She napped like an angel in my room. I peeked in to check on her, and saw that she was awake. She wasn't crying. She was cooing to herself, lost in a frothy pink and purple afghan,her cheeks rosy. I lay next to her and looked into her round blue eyes. She smiled at me, and I stroked her face. She held my hand.

Later I stopped in to see my parents. My mom told me she liked her new doctor, and I almost cried because it made her so happy. I kissed my dad on the cheek before I left, and his skin felt fragile, like my granddaughter's but in a different way. He will be 91 this Friday.

This morning I went to Mass. I watched my young sons assist as servers; John too tall for his age, carrying one candle; Luke at his side, with his curly hair and broken glasses. After church we ate donuts in the school hallway - vanilla fluff donuts. They got powdered sugar all over their faces and coats. On the way home, John, who is too tall and almost 13, told me he loved me.

I'm not poor. I might be broke, but I'm rich. Richer than any woman has a right to be.

But I'm still hoping for a little break in all the broke-ness.

watching weight

So I am a Weight Watcher.

For the past 18 months, pretty much every Thursday afternoon I've parked my butt at an official Weight Watcher's meeting. I'm the one in the third row, middle seat. I still have about 10 pounds to lose to get to my "doctor certified goal," which is nine pounds greater than the one WW has set for me.

Whatever.

In WW-speak, I need to "get to goal" and become "lifetime." What this means is that a magic number appears on a scale and I can come to these meetings for free, and have that $48 a month to buy more wine or pay a bill or something.

It's all starting to seem odd.

The people are nice, but the only thing we all have in common is that we are not happy with ourselves the way we are. This makes for some tension sometimes.

Barb, our leader, is perky. She is close to sixty, but from row three she looks younger. She is very tan and has cute clothes. She is always happy. But then again, she is "at goal," and "lifetime." So of course she is happy.

No one else is happy, unless the magic scale said they were down .2 or more. Then the happiness is overwhelming.

There's one gal, let's call her Anita, because that is her name. She sits in row two and has lost over 100 pounds! Anita joined WW the same week I did. I have not lost 100 pounds, but then again I never needed to. Barb calls her by name and practically bursts with excitement when Anita has any sort of victory. Anita still has quite a bit of weight to lose, but she is a winner. I'm not, because I haven't lost 100 pounds. This is starting to not make sense.

Teresa (also her real name) sits in the front row, and she pays herself a dollar every time she drops a pound. (I'm using real names because if any of these gals have the misfortune of coming across this, they will recognize themselves right away anyway. Might as well be upfront and honest.)Teresa has lost about 60 bucks worth. She pretty much glows with self-assurance and good advice about weight loss. She should know; she's done this before. I happen to know that because she used to work with my husband. He told me that the first time she got skinny, her husband bought her a sports car. By the way, her husband is fat in a sort of Humpty Dumpty way, and he used to come to meetings, too, but for some reason he doesn't anymore. Maybe he's pissed that no one ever bought him a sports car. Anyway, I don't think she will be able to buy herself new wheels this time, if she's counting on the cash in the jar. And no one is buying me a sports car. So what will motivate ME, huh? What's keeping ME from looking like a character in a nursery rhyme?

Every day I count points and track food. Pretty much every evening I drink wine and eat things like croutons without counting them, and the scale pretty much stays the same. Has for about six or eight months now, but still I spend 36 minutes every week hearing how Anita is now able to walk for three miles at a time and Teresa has extra dried peanut butter to sell, because she just bought a case online and it is low points and delicious.

This is all starting to seem odd.

But I'm not quitting anytime soon, because "getting to goal" and "becoming lifetime" takes my mind off the real problems in my life. Watching my weight is way more fun than watching cars get repossessed or children make life-altering decisions or parents grow old. And besides, Teresa might order low carb tortillas next. And I really am wondering if she'll get a new car.

a story about important things, like Feelings

Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to write.

From the time she could pick up a pencil with her chubby little fingers, she wrote. She learned to read at an early age, and discovered that while stories were fun to read, it was even more fun to write them. So she wrote stories, about orphaned children and puppies and fairies, and she wrote other things, too. When she was in the second grade, she and her best friend wrote a play about Easter bunnies, and in the sixth grade, she wrote one in honor of her country's bicentennial. There were parts in the play for everyone in the class, and her teacher told her she was good at type-casting. She didn't know what that meant.

As she got older she wrote poems, mostly about clouds, and stars, and boys, and sex, but sometimes they were about important things, like Feelings. Sometimes they rhymed but mostly they didn't, because rhyming was lame and everybody knows that violets are purple, not blue.

She, of course, wrote in a journal, which was called a diary back then. But she stopped that when she was 20 and her mom read it and found out more than any mother needs to know. She never really got over that.

Well, that girl, she wrote and she wrote and she wrote some more. She liked to do it and convinced herself she was good at, even though she maybe wasn't that great. Or maybe she convinced that she liked it, because she really was good at it. Doesn't matter either way. What matters is that she wrote, and it felt good, and necessary, like breathing.

Then the girl grew up. She grew and she grew and she grew. She grew up so much that she had girls of her own, and boys too. Before she knew it she had grown so much that she was a grandma, with a full time job and no money to spend on fun things. She still wrote, but now she got paid to do it, which meant she had to write when other people told her to, about things they wanted her to write about. She was happy, mostly. At least she pretended to be. But she missed being that girl who wrote.

She never wrote stories, or plays, or poems. Once she wrote some haiku on Facebook, but that doesn't count. She never wrote about boys, even though she really wanted to, because she still didn't understand them. And saddest of all, she didn't write about important things, like Feelings.

She wrote so little of what was in her heart that she even stopped talking, too. It was as if her voice got small, smaller and smaller as she grew bigger and bigger. It was as if she had so much to say that she might burst, but she just couldn't speak.

She had lost her voice.

Sometimes, that girl cried a little bit, but only when no one could hear her. She didn't write about it and she didn't tell a soul, not even herself, because if she did she just might be tempted to write about it; to write about It. And she just couldn't so she kept it all hush hush.

And that's why you don't hear from her anymore; she stopped and because you can never go back, never go back to the Not Knowing, she may never have another word with you again.

But maybe someone, or something, will force a pencil into her chubby hands, and tell her it's OK to write about boys, and Feelings, and they'll promise not to laugh, and they won't read her diary when no one's looking. Then it might be safe again.

Then again, if it was safe it wouldn't matter, and she wouldn't be drawn to it like a moth to a white hot light.

So that girl thought about writing, and one day she wrote something, something silly and more than a little scary, because it was true.

And that girl, she may or may not live happily ever after.

The End.

If you think I'm a jerk...

If I didn't know me, I'd think I was a big jerk.

Well, yes, I am a big jerk, at least sometimes. I'm vain and selfish, and I tend to leave my shoes around the house for people to trip on. I like things done MY way (i.e. the right way) and I talk too much. Way too much. So in fact, I am a bit of a jerk.

Jerk is really not the word I want to use. I'm thinking more of a word typically used to describe a woman who is vain and selfish and likes to show off. And maybe I'm really one of those too.

I'm pondering this today because I'm going through pictures from my anniversary event on Saturday. I put some on Facebook, because that's what you do with pictures, and I love to share pictures. But I saw my smiling face, my pretty dress, my beautiful family, and I thought, what a b....., I mean "jerk."

I mean, really. I imagined someone who doesn't know me really well looking at these photos. I'd think, "Who does she think she is? She really needs to get over herself. How embarrassing, posing for photos like she's a young bride or something. She's almost 50 for God's sake. And all those kids and grandkids. Does she have to keep throwing it in our faces that she's got this perfect family? Man! How annoying!"

I suppose someone who doesn't know me well might think these very things, and I can't blame him or (more likely) her. (I know it's we girls who tend to judge one another harshly.) I know sometimes I've seen pictures of Facebook friends' homes or vacations and felt a twinge of jealousy. But honestly, I mostly feel happy for them. Really.

I LOVE photographs. I like photos of the sky, and puppies, and houses, and trees, but mostly I love pictures of people enjoying life. I could spend hours looking at photos of babies and weddings - even if I don't know the subjects. Good photography is one of my passions. And even poorly taken snapshots from cell phones can be wonderful - if they tell a story about someone's life. I love that.

Pictures of my family, and yes, well, myself are important to me, too. My closest friends know that one of my big sorrows is that I had very few wedding photos, and not a single full length one of myself. Those same friends also know that I did not have a "dream" wedding. It was a difficult time in my life, and I'm sure there are many who thought we wouldn't last 25 days, let alone 25 years. So this occasion was extremely meaningful to me, and photos are a big part of it.

The thing is, when I share the blessings of my life, I feel, well, like a jerk sometimes. I know that many of my friends are single, not by their own choice. My photos highlighting my 25th anniversary might bring them more than a bit of sorrow. I know my friends who long for a baby might find my large family to be a sad reminder of their suffering. My four grandbabies, who all live within minutes of me, remind the grandparents whose kids live across the country that they won't see their grandchildren until Christmas.

And that makes me feel like a jerk.

Sometimes I think about sharing more of the negatives of my life. Facebook is tricky. I usually aim for a balance: lots of positive encouragement, good news when I have it, a sharing of blessings, tempered with an occasional prayer request or acknowledgment that we're going through a tough time. I err on the side of the good because I really don't want to be that complainer whose every status features the word "annoyed."

But I'm thinking maybe I should share more "reality." Instead of pics of me in a pretty dress, I could show the mismatched outfits I wear around the house, or the many pairs of jeans I have that highlight my muffin top. While you look at those photos of Aaron and me lovingly staring into one another's eyes, I could tell you stories about some of the difficult spots in our marriage, and perhaps recommend one of the several marriage counselors we have met. While feeling a little jealous about the beautiful ring I'm wearing (thank you to my wonderful mother-in-law!) I can make you a cup of coffee so we can chat about the possible foreclosure of our house. We could take a drive to chat some more, but we'd have to pray for a cool day, because there is no air conditioning in my van. Maybe we should just hang out in my kitchen, since coffee is kind of expensive. I can make you a cup, but it might be hard to find a spoon, because my kitchen drawers have no fronts, and several of them have no backs, and the silverware tends to fall behind them. And when we're done we'll have to wash the dishes, because there's not a working dishwasher.

Now, wouldn't pictures of all that be refreshing? Oooh, we could even include shots of our current day trips - to the DHS, applying for food stamps! Or more couple pics, of Aaron and me arguing (more like crying) over bills, or bleary eyed from computer job searches! Yay!

I think I'll stick with the pretty ones, and take my chances. :)

Because I know that my friends and family understand. You know that I truly want to share my joy with those I love. We've shared so much sadness - the loss of our baby daughter, the challenges of Aaron's health, the job loss, the financial strain - that we want to share our happy moments as a way of saying, "God is so good to us. We know you are suffering sometimes, and so are we. But there is so much good in our lives. Let's celebrate."

I hope that comes across. And if you still think I'm a jerk, that's OK. Message me and I'll send you some pics of my kitchen, and you'll feel much better.

In the meantime, enjoy the above photo. A quick search of my computer did not reveal many unflattering shots (duh, I'm vain, remember? Those get deleted ASAP)but I did find this one with such a very "revealing" angle. And you thought that blonde was natural, right?

endless summer

It's summer in Michigan - a particularly scorching, dry summer. The lawns are crispy, yellow beds of straw. It's a good thing I didn't buy any annuals this year, because if I had, they would certainly be just leggy stems holding up tiny faded blossoms by now. Even so, I miss them. My budget didn't allow for them. I didn't even buy The Ferns, the ones that adorn the gazebo, the ones that I hang as soon as the last frost melts. They herald Summer, and I love summer. Even summers like this one, summers of simplicity and even want.

I was blessed to be able to vacation last week. We went to a resort in Virginia that we had no business visiting. As I told the saleslady giving us the timeshare pitch (hey, we got free breakfast and water park tickets!) we are so broke we can't even afford to pay attention. We only took the trip because we had paid for it almost two years ago (we "won" it in an auction for our parish.) We knew the incidentals of the trip were still more than we could justify, but we went. Aaron and I were weary; our boys needed us to be with them. So we spent a week in the mountains swimming, hiking, eating ice cream and having adventures. The highlights included episodes of me facing My Greatest Fear: heights. I navigated the zip line and conquered the chairlift with style. And sweaty palms. And more than a few tears. But I hope I taught my two youngest boys that we it's good to push the boundaries of what makes us comfortable. And I solidified that I am a super-cool mom.

Today is John's 12th birthday - the event that kicks off our family summer week of celebrations. John is such a wonderful boy. Really. Mothers say things like this about their kids all the time, but in this case it's true. He is gentle (most of the time) and quiet and polite. He says "I love you, Mom" about a dozen times a day. (And that's a lot, considering we only see each other for a few hours.) He is TALLER THAN I AM. Love that kid.

I have shared that John was our only "planned" child. That makes me smile when I think about it. Of course God plans all children, but John was the one I waited for and thought about before he began. Does that make sense? There are five years between him and his elder brother Joey. We missed him. When he arrived it was like a reunion.

We will spend the week celebrating John, then Rachel, my eldest who will be 25 on Friday. 25! Oh my goodness I must be old! Then we remember Celeste's birthday into heaven on the 23rd. It has been six years. It takes my breath away....

On the 25th my mom will be 83, and we will celebrate that was well. She is my hero lately more than ever. She cares for my 90 year old dad day in and day out. Mom is the ultimate example of patient love, of living out marriage vows. She inspires me.

And speaking of marriage vows, can it really be that it has been 25 years since we said ours? August will bring a celebration of that, too.

The summer is hot and dry and heavy with concerns sometimes. But it is full of refreshment; the blessings of family. John, and Rachel, and Celeste, and my mom, and Aaron, and all the others, my children, my sons-in-law, my precious grandbabies - they are my lemonade, my ice-cold watermelon, my luscious ferns, my ever-blooming hydrangeas...my endless Summer. Praise God.

blessed

As I hold my newborn granddaughter in my arms, marveling at her full head of almost-black hair, stroking her petal soft cheek, smelling her baby perfume, I'm transported back to the six times I experienced this joy myself, and the one time it was withheld from me.

My heart is full with memories. All at once I'm there; welcoming my firstborn, so like me I'm breathless. I am only 21, naive, inexperienced. I have never held a baby before. Will I break her? Will she break me?

Only sixteen months later I am in the same hospital, in the same room, in the same bed, gazing into the eyes of a chubby little girl who is gentle and observant from the very first. Now she is the Mother, and as I help her to walk to the bathroom, as she recovers from the birth of her second-born, I'm overcome with the surreal nature of it all. Could it be that she is now a parent, I the grandmother of this little one and three others? Wasn't I just moments ago wondering at the birth of my own daughters?

Then, I recall the four boys that followed. The long labor that brought me my firstborn son, who at 19 continues to tug at his Mama's heart. My next, my biggest baby, my boy who is so righteous and strong and pure; a champion. My fifth child, the only one we "tried" to conceive, who we teased because he was bald. He was like a little lamb, so sweet, so quiet. Now, at 11, he is as tall as I.

When the sixth one came, I prayed for a girl. I got another son; he teased us from the first moment, rolling and turning and playing hide and seek. When he is born I am in love, so thankful for another son, so enthralled with his black hair and rosy face and spunk. Now he reads stories to me and falls asleep singing. I am smitten still.

When I am 40, and I think my baby days are over, I am waiting for a little girl. I can't believe she is a girl! The blue baby days are gone; these are brilliant in pink. When she arrives, she is so tiny I can't believe she is mine. And she is not pink, as she should be. With this precious angel I am denied the blessing of holding her in my arms at birth. I am denied much with her, but I am given more than I could have imagined in my wildest dreams. She leaves me at such a young age to go home to heaven...but she is my baby forever, my purest, sweetest blossom that will never ever fade. I miss her, but then I look into the eyes of my newborn granddaughter....

My fourth grandchild. As the first three arrived - and one, only eight weeks ago! - I am each time so overcome with joy and gratitude that I can hardly stand. How can it be that I am so fortunate? How can it be that my family has been so blessed in the treasures worth more than mountains of gold?

So last night I held my newborn granddaughter. I looked out the window of the hospital room, and I saw the hospital next door when her aunt, my seventh baby, had lived her whole life. I imagined that I could look right into the room where she had lived and blessed us and then died. It was, in fact, possible.

I smiled. As I had arrived that evening, I was handed a parking pass marked "Children's Hospital." I remembered the hundreds of those I had collected during my daughter's life. I reached to turn off the radio before I parked; I stopped, stunned. I hadn't heard her song in at least a year. And there it was. Break Away. My baby Celeste's song was playing. She was watching over her niece, celebrating with us.

I held my newborn granddaughter in my arms.

Here name is Gianna. Gianna Celeste.

dreaming big

Yesterday I picked up an issue of Oprah's magazine "O" and read an article that got me thinking.(Oprah-haters, hang in there.This is a good one.)

The article was about "getting what you want out of life" or something like that. Come to think about it, aren't all the articles in this magazine about that? But anyway, this one focused on a technique that I find intriguing, and even helpful. It involves three steps.

One, think about what you want - that "Big Dream" you have convinced yourself that if realized, would make you FINALLY happy. Examples in the article included a woman who wanted to own her own business and another who longed for a baby.

I pondered my own life and realized I don't have a "Big Dream" like these. I have a wonderful family, and I like my job. I don't think climbing any particular mountain, or winning any award, or even writing a best-selling book would provide me with ultimate happiness. But that's not to say I don't dream of something. I forced myself to come up with a few things I dream of that I believe would really, really thrill me. And call me materialistic - most of what I came up doesn't deal with achievements I want to succeed at - they are things I want to be given!

The first big dream I've had since childhood, and I'm quite certain I "inherited" it from my mother. I want a house. Not just any house. Like the little girl in "Miracle on 34th Street", I want a particular kind of house. It's not so much large, as spacious and airy. It is new, clean, and organized. And most of all, it's beautiful. It has a modern, gorgeously appointed kitchen. It has durable, attractive furniture and stylish accessories. Its walls are painted all my favorite colors. The laundry room is big enough to turn around in, and it has a real floor. The carpet is unstained; the windows mildew-free. And best of all, it's mine, and I live in it with the people I love most.

The second dream is to travel - regularly - to exotic locations. On these trips I would be treated to wonderful meals in upscale restaurants. The beaches of my dreams are pristine and uncrowded, and there is always a cute cabana boy within earshot who can bring me a fresh towel or a drink with a little umbrella in it. The ocean is turquoise; I can see it clearly from my suite. My darling husband accompanies me, of course, and he enjoys every minute of making sure I'm having fun, and loves taking me out shopping for some new jewelry while we're there. The weather is warm, the breeze balmy; I am in paradise. Ahhhh.....

My third dream is the only one that involves any commitment or sacrifice on my part, although to me is seems just as impossible as the others.I dream of being thin and beautiful.I am thinner than I've been in over 30 years, and I look amazing.I can wear any type of clothes, and my closet is full of beautiful outfits. And I'm not just thin, I'm healthy and strong. And my joints don't ache!

OK, so there it is, in black and white. My impossible dreams. So now, onto the next step: I'm to put myself in the dream, and imagine it has come true. I am living my dream, touching it and feeling it. So, how do I feel? I'm told to come up with three adjectives to describe this.

In my dream home:
Successful, joyful, indulged

On vacation:
Successful, cherished, peaceful

Thin:
Successful,beautiful, accepted

(Yes, I've noticed there is a common theme.)

All three also make me feel something I'm having trouble putting my finger on. I think it's something like "appreciated." As if having these things would make me feel that God really loved me, that He would be allowing me to have something I want so much, because He loves me and wants to give me pretty things and happy experiences.

I never claimed I wasn't shallow.

Anyway. Step 3: I'm to look at my life, right now, and identify in which situations I already feel these feelings. When do I feel successful? Cherished? Peaceful? Beautiful? Accepted? I'm told to realize that of course I have many current experiences that provide these feelings, and to enjoy them, and live in the moment.

The bottom line is that we don't want things or even experiences. We want to feel something. Something our lives are probably already filled with.

It's an interesting experiment. I'm now left pondering the truth that I am indeed blessed with many people and circumstances in my life that make me feel all of these wonderful things and more.

But I still want to be thin and beautiful, living in a gorgeous house in between Caribbean vacations. Sigh.

What do you dream of? What feelings are YOU longing for?

I still believe

Some years ago, I watched a TV special starring Richard Thomas ("John-Boy" of the Waltons - remember?) In it he portrayed the father of little Virginia, the one who asked the famous question "Is there a Santa Claus?" (Interesting I should be thinking about it today, as a google search reveals the video was released on this day in 1991.)

Charles Bronson portrayed the newspaper editor struggling with issues of faith following the death of his wife. (Most likely a contrived element, but that's OK.) As a writer I've always enjoyed the story of Virginia. I imagine the day when little ones thought newspaper editors, rather than internet search engines, had the answers, and it makes me smile.

I smile also when thinking about Santa. We are a Santa-believing bunch, my family. Last night I sat with my youngest son while he penned a letter to the old gent. At first he hid it from me, then revealed it, which I thought spoke volumes about where he is on the "still believing in Santa" continuum. I fear this might be our last Christmas of full-out belief, and I'm savoring every moment.

Not that my children ever really stop believing. Really. Ask them.

Anyway, the list.

"Dear Santa, Here is my Christmas wish list," it began.

1. a DS
2. polar express movie and game
3. a reindeer and sleigh toy
4. a snowglobe
5. DVDs of all Toy Story Movies

It's an interesting list. First of all, he already owns the first two items, but he can't find them. That tells you something about the little urchin. The other thing about the list - it's very, I don't know, Christmasy. That I love.

If Luke were to write a letter to a modern-day newspaper editor, or do a google search, I hope his beliefs would not be dashed. Santa has something to give that cannot possibly be make-believe. I wrote about it here, in one of my favorite posts, two years ago, and I am still holding fast to my belief.

I hope you are, too. Believe in Santa. Believe in the goodness of others and of yourself. Believe that miraculous things can happen on Christmas Eve - and every day.

Yes, Virginia - Yes, Luke - there is a Santa Claus. Don't stop believing.