I'm Still Not Cleaning Up the Kitchen

I woke up this morning to the same old thing--a house that looks like four teenagers live in it.  I brought the laundry down, let the dogs out, lit the candle, and stared at the kitchen strewn with used glasses, utensils, empty cans.  I wandered into the den where I saw the usual--blankets left on the floor, throw pillows all over the place, more empty glasses and cans.  I headed to the basement to start the laundry and again saw the typical morning after debris--dirty clothes, empty slurpee cups (that I specifically had reminded them to throw away) and bits of trash and used paper.  Surprisingly I wasn't angry--just fed up and tired.  "Why," I wondered, "am I the one that always does it?"  (I ignored the fact that it might be because I am always the first up--I rather enjoyed wallowing for a moment.) I started the first of what will be 3 or 4 loads of laundry and headed back upstairs to the kitchen.  I began to collect empty cans to take out to recycle and I suddenly stopped.  I wasn't going to do it today.  I wasn't going to be angry about it, but I wasn't going to do it either.  Every morning I go downstairs and clean up the aftermath of the night before; I unload the dishwasher and reload it with all the dirty dishes I find everywhere--if they would just put them in the sink!  Now to be fair, the dishwasher didn't need to be unloaded because I hadn't cooked dinner last night (keep in mind I lose mother of the year very early on the 1st of January every single year, so by November 29th not making dinner isn't going to ruin anything)--it was a get what you want when you want kind of night--but couldn't they have put the dishes from their get what you want when you want forages through the refrigerator into the dirty dishwasher?   Apparently not.  I promised myself not to be angry and instead went into the living room to write letters and to begin my sermon.

As I sat down at my grandmother's desk, I thought about Gangan and the life she lived.  I thought about how much I loved and missed her and I wondered about the many days she sat at this very same desk.  Did she sit here and write when she was happy, sad, tired, fed up?  I began writing letters that I have put off for far too long--a note to my cousin Hank who just lost his father and very late birthday cards to my Kanto niece and nephew.  As I wrote these notes and checks to put into the cards I wondered if Gangan had sat at this very same desk writing her cards and checks to me?  I wondered if she had written condolence letters at this same desk thinking about and desperately wanting to take away the pain and grief just as I did? I imagine she did; Gangan out lived most of her friends.  Friendships and family were very important to her--she had life long friends with whom she stayed in touch all the days of their lives, life long friends that she desperately and completely loved.  It's not easy to do and sometimes I imagine that she felt frustrated that she didn't get the same response from people, and yet she kept on because relationships, connections were important.   As I sat writing at her desk I gave thanks that she passed this trait onto me.  I gave thanks that despite the times she felt tired and fed up she continued to stay connected and to reach out to others and I said a silent prayer that I would be able to as well.

This morning Gangan's desk reminded me of the importance of staying connected even when it's easier not to, even when life is so busy and everyone would understand why you can't.  Gangan's desk reminded me that I am part of a history, that I am connected to a past and that I am a connection to the future.  As I thought about Gangan and how she lived her life I was reminded that how I live my life matters not only today but tomorrow and for future generations--we are all connected. Most importantly I realized that it has to start today--how I treat and connect with people today connects me to how others may treat and connect with people in the future.  And I was reminded that being tired and fed up isn't an excuse...

Thank you Gangan for continuing to teach me the importance of relationship and connection.  I'm still not cleaning up the kitchen...

God is Present in the Third String

Late Thursday evening I arrived with my daughter and another youth at Trinity Camp and Conference Center on the coast of North Carolina for the Province IV Youth Planning Conference.  It had been a very long trip--12 hour drive.  As we checked in, I looked for our name tags fully expecting there to not be one for me.  I wasn't "supposed" to be there but rather was a last minute fill in from our Diocese.  Our youth coordinator was on maternity leave and the person who was slated to come  at the last minute could not.  There actually was one for me.I found mine and said in a surprised tone, "I didn't know there would be one for me.  I'm the third string from our Diocese."  Cookie, the Coordinator of Province IV Youth, looked at me, smiled and said, "I firmly believe that God makes certain the people who are supposed to be here are the people who are here.  You will learn something, hear something, or add something this weekend that will prove that."  As I looked down at the schedule for the weekend, I thought to myself, "I hope it comes in flashing lights with loud sirens and that it is something that will change the world because I have personally just entered the perfect storm."  The winds were picking up (starting with my mother), and I was in the eye of the storm.

Back when the second string was still in the game, I was going to drive down with her as the second adult; I was going to drop them and head to my mother's house two hours away.  When I was called off the bench and moved into the game, my mother did not take it well--to be fair she took it better than I thought she would, but she was incredibly disappointed.  Because I was third string, I assumed I wouldn't be needed much during the weekend except to sleep there so to diffuse the emotional trauma, I suggested to Mama that she come over and we could see each other there. That was the plan until I looked at the schedule and heard the conversations in the Point of Arrival where I quickly deduced that was not going to be the case and I was going to have to call Mama and tell her I would have very little free time.  Yep, the perfect storm was coming together from all directions--I was going to have an extremely disappointed  mother; at home I had left a jet lagged tightly scheduled husband, my second son William  home sick, eldest son Christopher  on an overnight field trip with a tight turn around to a lacrosse tournament, youngest child Caroline (well she is her own perfect storm), and a missing dog, and I was feeling guilty, helpless and out of control.  The storm was coming and I couldn't even have an emotional temper tantrum in the privacy of my own room because I had a room mate!  As we left the Point of Arrival with me grumbling under my breath that I was too old to have a room mate I didn't know, I thought I left Cookie's comment behind; oh how wrong I was.

As I began getting settled into my room, the door opened and in walked "the room mate."  We introduced ourselves and she said she was going to change.  I noticed she had on a collar and told I her I too was a priest.  "Actually," Kellie said, "I'm a transitional deacon."  Immediately we began sharing our stories and it was eerie how similar they were.  "Maybe this is the reason I'm here," I thought (clearly I hadn't let Cookie's comment go)..

Throughout the next few days I participated, listened, shared, and listened some more.  By mid morning Friday, it was obvious to me that I was on high alert waiting for THE REASON.  I kept waiting for there to be something that was extremely personal, that was meant for just me something to prove Cookie's comment right--that God wanted me there and that God was present with me there. As time went on it became more and more important to me to find it and the sense of urgency was mounting with each passing hour.  Saturday afternoon as the adults sat in our session sharing camp themes--literally just throwing them out there, Emily said, "We did Daniel and the Lions Den." and then she went on to explain how they asked people to name their lions.  THUNDER AND LIGHTNING--THIS WAS IT!!!  Instantaneously I knew this was THE moment--this was why I was here.  My mind began racing with all the ways I could use this theme not only with the youth but in a new group I was forming, Parents in Conversation.  A group that has been weighing heavily on my mind.  I wanted to jump up, run across the room, grab Emily's hands and do the happy dance singing,"Cookie was right, I found it; I found it; I was supposed to be here Yeah God!" I manged to contain myself--which I'm sure greatly relieves Emily.  What I did do, however, was exhale.  I had found it and now I could just enjoy the rest of the weekend--

Yesterday morning I woke early to get a final run on the beach.  As I was running, as I often do, I talked to God.  "Thank you," I said, "for helping me recognize the reason I was here--yeah lions."  I have to admit I was so proud of myself a) for recognizing the "it" and b) for remembering to thank God.  The problem is whenever I put a and b together I don't get c--and it dawned on me--really slapped me like a red headed step child--that while the lions may have been the big IT, there were so many other 'its' throughout the weekend.  And so I rewound and thought and continued to think all the way home about how God was present with me and why I was 'supposed' to be there.

Every night at 11:00 pm, Kellie, the dreaded room mate, and I returned to our room and talked about the day--for the first 15 minutes.  After that we talked about our vocations, our callings, our questions, our families, our jobs--well into the night.  Lights out was supposed to be at 11:30, and while I am a type A rule follower,  I believe God was in our rule breaking.  I know I needed to hear Kellie and because of those hours I have found someone who has become a partner in ministry, a confidante,and a friend.  I needed that, and God knew it.

Friday afternoon Cookie led a prayer where she asked us to give thanks for something.  As we went around the circle I knew what I had to say, "Thank you that I have this opportunity to share a ministry weekend with my daughter and to see her leadership."  In my heart I added, "And thank you God that she has such a strong faith and this community of faith."  Part of my anxiety about being called in from the third string position was that I didn't want to crowd Sarah Katherine.  This was her third year, and I felt like this was HER thing.  She seemed to be respected and loved and I wanted her to have that without my overbearing personality pushing her aside.  So I worked very hard to stay in the background--Province IV people are probably breathing a sigh of relief and thinking,"If that was the background, thank goodness SK was here!"

Friday evening I saw that University of Georgia admissions had been posted, so during a break SK and I sat on my bed (breaking yet another rule--only people who live in that living space are to be in that living space--breaking rules can be a little freeing and definitely exhilarating) and she looked it up.  Sure enough, the first college acceptance was there.  Now we could both exhale--I no longer have to listen to her say,"I'm never going to get in college." and she now knows she has at least one place--a place we all love.  At the same time as my heart swelled with pride, I felt like I'd been sucker punched in the gut.  It was real; she was leaving next year--  She called her daddy, tweeted her acceptance and ran off to be with her friends.  Looking back what amazes me is that she didn't run off shouting to everyone she'd been accepted to college but rather to rejoin the group going on now--to be in the moment with the people there.  This weekend was about these people and the ministry they had to do; she rarely (well at least outside of the family) tries to make things about her.  Her humility inspires me. I, meanwhile, tried to ease my throbbing stomach pains by telling the world; I was completely convinced that if I faked it enough that I was thrilled she was accepted and could potentially be going to college 10 hours a way, I would believe it.

Part of staying in the background for me literally meant sitting at one of the back tables while SK sat up front; participating in the singing and energizers in the back while SK was up front; and definitely making very little eye contact; not correcting manners and only asking questions that had to be asked. Despite my best efforts, I still earned a few eye rolls.  Saturday evening, I was sitting in the back listening to Diocesan reports as I needle pointed Christopher's belt.  I saw SK approaching me; she reached down and moved my purse  at my feet.  I leaned in expecting her to need to tell me something.  Instead, she sat at my feet, scooted back against me, and laid her head in my lap.  No words were spoken but as I stroked her hair, I knew, this was a God moment--a comfort for me in the face of the reality of letting go, (perhaps for her as well) and we needed to be here together for it to happen.

Once again Saturday night Kellie and I stayed up until the wee hours  discussing theology.  (It really must have been a God thing because I was still able to make the 12 hour drive home in--11 hours-- and not fall asleep.)  The next morning we went to breakfast and an assortment of other adults, clergy and lay leadership, randomly gathered at our table.  We brought up our conversation from the night before.  The 8 of us then discussed  Eucharistic and sacramental theology.  We came from different places; we used different lenses, and we acknowledged that.  We acknowledged that we all struggled and were trying to understand each other.  What was very clear in the conversation was that we all respected and loved each other.  Most importantly what was indisputable was what united us--we loved God, we loved each other, we loved the youth, and we loved the Episcopal church.  It was a life giving conversation for me; a chance to participate in a conversation with opposing views, and it felt holy.  I needed that and God knew it.

As we were driving home, all these moments and more (like the connection that now exists between Patti, Beth and myself) enveloped me like a warm blanket.  I was able to honor that Cookie was right; this year I was meant to be there.  As I thought about that, I said a silent prayer for those going next year; I hoped at least one of my other three children would go, and to be honest I was a little sad.  I would miss gathering with this group.  At that very moment, Sarah Katherine, who I thought was sleeping, looked over at me and said, "You should go back next year.  They liked you." Uncharacteristically for my children, she didn't mention that someone liked me with surprise in her voice.    Then she added, "Amelia from Louisiana found me this morning to thank me for bringing you."  I needed that too, for Amelia to say it and for SK to tell me; and God knew it.

Cookie was right--God knows who needs to be where even if it means bringing in the third string.

Cookie, me, and my girl

The Gift of Grace in a Text

Monday morning I had a complete break down. I flat hit the bottom of  the world of overwhelmed with a potty break in the land of self pity.   I suppose I should have seen it coming.  Two weeks ago I scrubbed every baseboard in the house and last week I sorted and organized my sweaters and t-shirts.  My sweaters are now stored based on style--cardigan vs. pull-over; solid vs. pattern; long sleeve, short sleeve, 3/4 sleeve; and  fabric and texture.  My t-shirts were far more simple to do--I only have  three types--UVA, All Saints, and Finlandia (what does that say about me?).  I sorted them by theme and long sleeve/short sleeve.  So yes, I suppose I should have seen it coming.



My family should have also seen it coming if not for weeks then definitely this weekend.  The most glaring "clue" was when I asked Sarah Katherine to make sure she wrote any of her activities on the family calendar.  When I made this request the whole family, who had been milling about in the kitchen, froze.  No one wanted to make eye contact but you could feel the electricity of terror just below the surface.  "You mean you want me to actually write on the calendar and not just tell you so that you can write it?" SK hesitantly asked.  I have to give her credit, she slowed my descent into breakdown mode for a bit-- not enough to actually stop the process and definitely not enough to reverse it, but a definite reduction in speed.  "Yes I replied" a little frightened myself, "but only in your color and make sure you don't write too big.  I think you can handle this."  Chris looked at Sarah Katherine and I could almost hear him saying, "You screw this up and your on your own kid.  I don't touch command central, I mean the family calendar."

There were more clues Sunday evening that neither I nor my family chose to recognize.  We are very good at denial when we need to be.  They have seen this rapid fall before and perhaps they were silently hoping that if they didn't move too quickly or draw too much attention to themselves I would take the dive alone and not bring along casualties.  So they were very quiet as I ran around the house making piles, cleaning out drawers, color coding the chalk board and researching the best apps for keeping track of your calendar and to-do list.  (You know there are a wide range of opinions out there, but most lists include aNote and 2Do.  I already had 2Do and realized I hadn't opened it in months, so I bought aNote and was thrilled to see it syncs with my google calendar and evernote.  Too bad it doesn't with my paper calendar.  (Yep, I'm one of those dinosaurs.)

Sunday night I even stooped so low as to write in sharpie (that is tres serious in this house!) on the list of things for them to do--a list that had been growing ALL day--that if I didn't have Christmas lists by the end of the day there would be no gifts. I was definitely in hot pursuit of Mother of the Year.

Later that evening as I fell into bed exhausted but with my head still spinning rainbow colors and tears of exhaustion seeping from my eyes , Chris calmly and lovingly asked me what was wrong.  I couldn't even answer because frankly, I didn't know.  I just felt angry, out of control, and overwhelmed and now guilty because I could see how I was acting and yet I couldn't seem to stop it.  Definitely not a good excuse.

So Monday morning--I woke up tired and the final clue that I was sinking, or perhaps the obvious sign that I had hit the bottom, I didn't make the children hot chocolate and coffee.  They definitely had the good sense not to complain-in fact they said nothing.  And I felt worse; I realize I do that for them each morning not because they expect it but because I love to do it.  It makes me feel good to prepare it, carry the tray upstairs, and wake them up.    It really is all about me.

When Chris finished showering, it was obvious to him I had hit the bottom, and he, as he always does, tried to talk me off the ledge.  Okay, there really was no ledge--he was talking to me through the shower curtain as I was getting ready for work but a ledge sounds so much more dramatic, perhaps I should say I just wanted to follow the suds from the shampoo straight down the drain--anyway,we talked and talked or rather he listened as I listed my failures--only doing 3 loads of laundry and not four, haven't done as much Christmas shopping as I wanted to have done by now, found my nephew's birthday card and check (from July) on my desk,..well you get the picture.  It was about doing--not being.  I felt like Martha and I want to be Mary.  Chris, who I suspect also wants me to be Mary with a little Martha thrown in every now and then,  listened and said all the right things; not just the right things but the true things.  We are doing a pretty good job; our children are happy, we have each other--relationships are strong.  I was getting so bogged down in what I wasn't "doing" that I had lost sight of "being".  And he also spoke the truth in love, yes some things were slipping through the cracks; but not, he stressed, the important things and we just needed to work together and we could get it done. I began the slow crawl back up from the pit.  Chris left for work and I continued to get ready and to crawl out of the abyss.

It's harder to keep your eyes on the light and to keep pulling yourself up when your solid rock isn't shining the light down and holding out his hand.  But Chris had to go to work, and honestly, some journeys have to be made on your own.  I really tried to stay focused on our conversation, and for the most part I did.  I did feel better; I could rationally think about and differentiate between what were the essential things that needed to be done and what were the nice but neurotic things.  As I said, it's hard to keep the forward momentum when your alone and only have yourself to talk to (and yes I was actually talking out loud), so there were a few times that I slid back down, just a little.  I took another potty break in the land of self pity and thought about all the years I was a stay-at-home mom and how much more I felt on top of things back then, how I got everything done effortlessly and with a perpetual smile on my face--basically I pictured myself vacuuming in heels while singing a tune with a five course meal ready to serve to my family as they came home from school and work all in good moods and ready to have a family sing-along around the dining room table.   (The land of self pity also has a magic drug that helps you forget reality.)  And then I thought of my cousin who really and truly has to be one of the kindest, sanest, most reasonable, and happiest people I know.  William once asked me, "Does Cousin Beth ever not smile?"  I thought of Beth and how she has worked since her children were born and while she may have had her own descents into madness, I don't know about them.  I do know, however, that I am in awe of how she's done it all these years.  So I decided to text her and tell her that. I actually thought I was giving her a vitamin dose so that if she ever did find herself on the downward spiral she would know that someone recognized her amazingness.   And she texted me back--and that text back was the final push I needed to return to the world of being only semi-neurotic. My text may or may not have given her anything, but her text made me laugh out loud--out loud and at myself; her text was a gift of grace.

Everyone should have their own personal "Cousin Beth" if you don't, I can rent you mine!

We Are The Chris Doyles

In the last three weeks Chris and I have been in the same house for five days.  We'll both be home for the next 4 days, and then I'm gone again.  It stinks.  It's  not that either of us cannot handle being the sole parent at home.  The children are still being fed; they're still getting to their activities; they're still being supported in their activities; they're still getting their homework done.  They're not being forgotten--okay, last Thursday I forgot Caroline didn't have a ride home, but I quickly reduced the number of hours she will need in therapy with a desperate pleading text to Mama C. So I would say we are operating at a 98% effective rate.  But it's still not easy--re-entry for all of us is hard; the daily operations continue but....

As I was running this morning I was reminded of a phone call I had with one of my most honest and loving friends, Gillian.  Chris had been out of grad school for two years and we were living in Pittsburgh.  We were still trying to rebuild our finances and Chris was offered the opportunity to go into consulting.  (The children were 3, 4, 5, and 7) We were seriously considering it.  The bump in salary would decrease our debt quickly and thereby increase our budget.  It was very tempting.  We rationalized that we could do it for a few years while they were little and didn't have as many activities.  (By the way, that was the only realistic part of the rationalization, they didn't have as many activities.)  I was on on the phone with Gillian and telling her about this opportunity.  "Have you really thought this through?" asked Gillian in a tone that said, "I'm sure you haven't thought this through AT ALL! And you have lost your ever loving mind"  "Yes" I responded, "It will help so much, and it's not like I haven't been at home with the children during the week by myself before.. Remember the summer between his first and second year of graduate school?  He only came home on the weekends.  I was able to get everything done."  Loooooong silence.  Me, "Gillian, don't you remember?" Taking a deep breath Gillian said, "Oh yes I remember, we ALL remember.  Yes you got stuff done" she said in her most compassionate but remembering she was probably talking to a still somewhat unstable and exhausted person, "but it was HELL!  PLEEEEEASE don't do this again." Only for a moment, but for a very important moment she lost her I'll be supportive of you no matter what persona and entered her own survival mode.   (I should probably be thankful that I was so exhausted during those years that I was experiencing and am probably still suffering from a form of survival amnesia.)  I do, however, remember well one particular episode.

It was a Saturday evening; we had finished dinner, and Chris said, "I'll handle the baths and then come down and help you clean up the kitchen.  Why don't you just sit down for a bit?"  Well you didn't have to ask me twice; I jumped up from the table and moved into the living room as Chris headed up the stairs with a 10 month old, 2 year old, 3 year old, and 5 year old.  I settled into a well worn arm chair, placed a glass of wine on the sill next to me and got ready for some mindless TV.  I was flipping through the channels barely listening to the squeals and laughter wafting down from above enjoying a brief moment of not being touched or talked to when I heard one blood curdling scream.  Before I could get out of the chair a symphony of screams began to bounce off the walls as they made their way down the stairs at lightening speed.  I raced up the stairs already forming a plan in my mind of which of us would take the obviously seriously injured child to the hospital and which would stay home and clean up the mess and calm the others.  I entered the bathroom and came to a sudden stop.  I saw and heard Sarah Katherine screaming and trying to claw her way back into the tub.  William was sitting on the floor with his hands over his ears screaming, "No, no, no" like a broken record.  Christopher was standing in the tub saying, "Please don't; it's not right."  And Caroline--well I can't remember what she was doing--more therapy hours for her.  Chris was standing in the chaos repeating more and more loudly and more and more sternly, "I am the father and you'll get out when I tell you to."  I froze--there was no blood but there were a lot of red desperate and angry faces.  "Mommy, he's not doing it right.  He's not following the rules.  Make him stop." Sarah Katherine barely got out as she hiccuped her way through her tears.  Chris looked at me with a deer in the headlights look--or perhaps it was the look of someone who has entered an asylum and just wants out.  "I have no idea what they're talking about."  Now I have to say that one of the things Chris and I have worked hard at then and now is presenting a united front, but there was that glass of wine and mindless TV downstairs still calling my name although it was muffled due to the cacophony of wails.  "Just let me do this," I said. I just wanted it done and them in bed.   I'm not sure, but I think Chris might have heard those words as words of grace; he definitely heard them as permission to leave with no threat of me crying later and inaccurately saying "I have to do everything."  (not that he'd ever heard me whine or cry about that before) because he flew out of the bathroom and down the stairs saying over his shoulder, "I'll come back for bedtime stories if you want me to."  (I suspect he was secretly hoping I wouldn't.  We love our children, but we also know when we need to step away from the chaos.)

So what had happened?  I had a system, an order.  There was a way of getting the children out of the bath that happened each and every night, they counted on it, and Chris didn't know our system.  Honestly he's always been more flexible than me (I know that is shocking), and he truly didn't understand the big deal.  We had a way of doing things, a way of being a family, a way of operating and he didn't know it.  Later that night I said, "Honey I appreciate you helping tonight, but I just need you to do it my way.  I need our lives to stay the same--orderly and in control or when you leave tomorrow night it is hell for me."  Those words were painful for him to hear and they were painful for me to say.  I didn't recognize it then as well as I do now.

Both Gillian and I were right that night on the phone.  I did manage the day to day routines of the family, but there was a cost.  The five of us became a group and that summer Chris was on the outside.  We loved him coming home, but honestly it was hard.  It changed the dynamics; we forgot to fill him in on how we did things.  He was home, we were a complete family, but he was always a little bit on the outside--a part of us but.... I know there are families that handle this much better than we did, but I suspect there are still always the bumps that come with the re-entry and there might always be the person who always feels a little bit on the outside.  I know for our family we want to feel whole and being together makes us whole--we are The Chris Doyles,  and we need all six of us to be that in all its fullness

As I ran this morning and thought about this I had an "aha" moment.  I often hear the question, "Why does it matter if I go to church every week?  Someone else can do the _____________."  The answer is yes, someone else can do whatever it is that keeps the operations going, but no one else can be you.  No one else can bring to the community what you can as your own person.  So my answer is going to be, You're right--someone else can do your task.  But, we don't need you to do for us; we need you to be with us because without you were are not a complete "us" in all the fullness of  being God's family.

Lessons Learned from Hot Chocolate in Styrofoam Cups

Yesterday morning as I was driving the children to school I looked down and it was 23 degrees--it's going to be a looooooong, cold winter.  As we rounded the curve leading to the school the police officer who was usually standing outside wasn't there.  "Wonder where the police officer is?" I asked.

 As we approached we saw that he was actually parked in the parking lot in his car.  "Must be trying to stay warm, " said William.  "We should start bringing him hot chocolate or coffee in the morning." I suggested as I stopped the car to let them out.  Dead silence and then Christopher looked at me quizzically--I often get that look; my children are not quite sure what to make of me and they're never sure whether I will do something "embarrassing".  "Mama, no" he muttered.  Caroline piped up from the back, "I will just die if you do that."  I tell you it was very hard to resist the urge to tell her I was going to take her up on the challenge of proving her theory.  Instead I said, "We used to take it to the crossing guard in Pittsburgh. Ya'll loved doing it."     "Yeah I know and to everyone else.  And we gave it to the mailman, but Mama I was five!" Caroline sputtered as she got out of the car.   I felt a little sad...

When we lived in Pittsburgh we would take hot chocolate to the crossing guard when we went to pick Sarah Katherine up from school.  We also took it to the parking lot attendant at the Children's Hospital every time we went down there (which was a lot!), and we gave it to the mail people in Pittsburgh, Lynchburg, and England.  The children loved doing it so much that we had to have a chart (color coded of course) for who got to run to the door each day to hand the person the hot chocolate. I was so thrilled when I found that Costco sold Styrofoam cups with lids--that running to the door was pretty messy before I found those.  It wasn't that anyone could stay and talk for very long--long cold routes they had to walk, but we felt like we did get to know them a little.  It brightened our day and perhaps theirs as well.

On one level I understand (or try to) why Caroline said what she did for this particular situation.  I suspect if I pull my car, with its monogram on it,  over every morning and hand hot chocolate out of the window they will be noticed.  Being a middle school girl is not for the weary.  While you want to be noticed, you do everything in your power not to be noticed.  I suppose all of middle school perhaps all of adolescence in general is a life continually lived as a paradox. Nonetheless, it bothered me and has stayed with me.  I can't get the questions out of my mind.  "When does it become uncool to show care and concern for others?" "When do we lose the innocence of a child who finds so much joy in caring for someone else--in caring for the stranger?"  And most importantly "how do we stop it from happening? How do we keep our children from losing the joys they experience in childhood, the joys of helping others, as they enter adolescence and adulthood?" Perhaps the most disturbing questions in my mind is "Do we ever get it back?"  "When do I, when do we adults, fail to notice someone and to care for someone because that person doesn't fit into our world or worse because we don't want to bring attention to ourselves?"

Many people volunteer in soup kitchens, food pantries, homeless shelters, and these are good things to do. It is good to get outside of ourselves and our own insulated worlds.   It helps others, and lets be honest it feels good for us too.  But I wonder do we show that same care and concern for those who are in our "worlds" or pass through our "worlds"?  Do we seek out ways to extend the love of God to all those who come into our lives regardless of the cost?  Or do we sometimes turn into adolescents not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, not wanting to be different.  Do we keep our heads down and our eyes focused on ourselves and on those who are like us, who don't challenge us, who fit the status quo?  Do we carry those things we learn in adolescence into our adult world? My prayer is that instead we carry our child like joy into our adult worlds--it just may brighten someone's day; it just might warm someone's heart (or hands).

I think I will go buy some Styrofoam cups....

"He said, 'Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven."  (Matthew 18:3)

We Were Fine

Chris left for six days in Rome Sunday morning shortly after I left for work.   I went to work; Sarah Katherine got herself and the other four to church; and we all reconvened Sunday evening after basketball practices, soccer banquets, yard work, play practice and homework.  We were fine.

On Monday Sarah Katherine and I were off work/school.  The other children went to school.  We cleaned house, did laundry, had lunch with friends, ran in the morning, walked with a friend in the afternoon, picked up from play practice, picked up frm basketball practice, went to ballet until we were all once again back under one roof sharing our day.  We were fine.

On Tuesday I returned to work, SK to school.  I officiated Morning Prayer, worked in the food and clothing closet, worked on my sermon, made pastoral calls,  made doctor/dentist appointments for the children, lunch with friends, finished announcements and the prayers for the bulletin, came home to run, and went to the grocery store before heading off to Caroline's basketball game and to pick up from dress rehearsal (stopping at Taco Bell for the Boss).  Everything was going fine--I was doing fine.  Chris and I had texted some, but the time difference makes things difficult and we weren't able to talk, until---

I was in Trader Joe's and the phone rang--it was Chris.  I answered and as I tried to multi-task; we shared our last three days.  We passed on the need to know information and we caught up.  Chris described where he was in Rome.  We love Rome--it is the only place we have ever gone (since our honeymoon) just the two of us for no other reason than to be together.  He said it was hard being there without me and he beautifully described the collesium all lit up in the clear evening sky.  I so wanted to be there.  And then he said, "But how are you doing?"  (read not what are you doing, not can you handle it without me, but how are you doing as in you the person I love and I miss.)  I choked up a little and said, "Fine.  I really should get checked out and get to the game."  We said I love you and hung up.

I finished checking out and headed to the car with a palpable ache in my heart and soul.  I thought to myself, "I was doing fine until he called.  I can do this fine; I just need him not to call."  And I considered texting him and telling him just that--please don't call anymore; it's easier for me.  I literally stopped in the parking lot--it hit me that if I sent him that text he would be so hurt, and I absolutely could not do that.  In order to avoid my own pain, I could not and would  not hurt him.

Loving someone completely brings great joy, great vulnerability, and sometimes great sorrow.  Loving someone completely doesn't mean you need them or what they can do for you but rather that you love them as they are for who they are and for the joy they bring to your life.  Sometimes loving someone completely means putting your own needs aside; sometimes it means exposing yourself; and sometimes it means pain will come.

And I wonder, how many times in our lives do we avoid love in order to avoid pain?  How many times do we reject love to reject pain?  How many people do we hurt to protect ourselves--to make it easier for ourselves?  How many times do we settle for just being fine?  It's worth considering....

Next to the hotel where we stayed

Gifts We Give and the Stories They Tell

This morning I was feeling a little sentimental (okay a little more than usual).  Three of the people I love most in the world aren't here with me--Chris  is in Rome, my daddy is still living and working in Augusta, and Gangan died four years ago.   I know will see her again one day but for now she just remains a part of my heart (and a constant voice in my head.)  I was missing them, and so as I often do when I miss one of them, I put on a special piece of jewelry each had given me.  It may seem strange, or perhaps more people do this than I know, but wearing them reminds me of them and how they love me and I them.  As I put on the pieces, I retold myself the stories of receiving the gifts and what they meant to me.

New Year's Even 1988 Gangan took my sister, my cousin and me on a week long cruise.  She wanted to spend time with us and it's what we wanted to do.  (The following winter she took the grandsons out west to ski--yes she was in her 80's)  We had a wonderful time and the memories of that trip--the stories from that trip we still tell each and every time we are together.  One afternoon while we were in port, Gangan took us into a jewelry shop and told us to each pick something.  She gave us a dollar limit.  My eyes were drawn to a sapphire and pearl ring which was above the limit.  No matter how hard I tried I kept coming back to it (remember I was a 20 year old ).  Beth and Meredith each chose their piece while I continued to browse always returning to the ring.  I was trying it on "for the last time" and  Gangan came up behind me and said, "It looks beautiful on you.  I wish I had your long fingers.  I'll tell you what; we'll get it and it will be your 21st birthday present as well."  Two months later when I turned 21 Gangan drove to Charlottesville to take me out so that she could buy me my first legal drink.  Each time I wear this ring I think about Gangan and how important being in relationship with her grandchildren was to her.  She met us where we were; she became involved in our lives and in our interests.  She made the relationship about us and our needs.  And she rarely asked for anything in return.

Easter of 1989 I came home for the weekend.  Easter morning there was my basket filled with the things I got every year--jelly beans, white chocolate bunny, and peanut butter eggs.  Easter afternoon after our traditional dinner of lamb I got ready to leave for the drive back to school.  Daddy came into my room where I was packing and handed me a box.  "What is that?" I asked.  "A little something for Easter for you." I opened the box and inside was a beautiful pair of earrings.  "The sapphires reminded me of your eyes," Daddy said choking back tears.  I hugged him so hard; he had never given me anything like this before.  As I pulled away he said, "I wanted to be the first man to give you a piece of real jewelry."  Looking back all these years later I realize there was so much more to that gift.  He was admitting I was growing up (I had just turned 21) and he was trying to let go while also holding on.  And he was admitting I was ready-- This September Chris and I gave Sarah Katherine a  pearl bracelet for her 18th birthday.  Chris chose it, and as I watched him give it to her, saw them embrace both in tears, I realized it too was a gift that said "you're growing up but you'll always be my little girl."  I know how hard letting go of Sarah Katherine is for Chris (and me) and because of that I know how hard it was but how much grace Daddy showed as he let go of me.  Wearing these earrings reminds me that although he let me go we will always be connected.

On July 3, 1993 as we were walking into our engagement party Chris asked me to wait for a minute.  Everyone else went inside and he pulled out a box.  Inside the box was a gold locket with my monogram on it and the date inscribed on the back.  "I know you've always wanted one of these, and I wanted you to have this.  It will be the last time I give you anything with that monogram, but I hope you'll wear it always."  This gift was more than fulfilling my wish of having a gold locket; this gift said, "you are going to become my wife, take my name, but you will always be you." His gift acknowledged I was my own person with my own identity that started before we were a couple and that will continue afterwards.  And this gift represented the huge step we were both taking as we "officially" launched our engagement.

So I put these pieces of jewelry on today and I am reminded of the stories and the relationships behind them.  I am reminded that I am loved and respected for who I am both in relationship with each of these people but also as my own person.  And I wonder about the gifts I have given people and the stories and meanings they have created.  Our gifts to one another often go far beyond what they are to what they represent; the value of the gifts is far less important than the love that comes with them.  We give gifts to one another both tangible and intangible. Today take a moment and remember a gift and the person who gave it to you and give thanks to God for that relationship.

Today I am wearing three beautiful pieces of jewelry given to me by three people I love and who love me dearly.  Today I give thanks for them.

An Unexpected Gift of Grace

Explaining the relationship I have with my sister is very difficult; to say we're best friends doesn't seem to be adequate.  To say that she's the half that makes me whole isn't accurate; that is more the place and role of our husbands.  (Back when we were married almost 20 years ago, my father gave our husbands long distance gift cards--this was in the days when we paid for long distance.  He said, "I'll start you out with what it's going to cost you with these two, and then your on your own.  The telephone cord is their umbilical cord to one another--I suggest you not cut it.")

I suppose that as limiting and inadequate as these words are, I would have to say she's my compass--she orients me because she has been with me and knows my past, we're together in the present and she'll be with me through the future.  She is the vessel that holds my memories, the companion of my present, and the instrument which catapults me toward the future.  Together we remember who we are--"the Kanto girls" and together we push one another to stretch ourselves into becoming more while holding onto each other.  We have a relationship that cannot be described, defined, or imitated.  It is an intense relationship and as can be the case with intense, vulnerable relationships, it isn't always easy.  We've recently had one of those times.

The details of our disagreement are ours alone; suffice it to say that texts and emails are not always the best modes of communication even when or perhaps especially when you love someone so dearly.  We had a misunderstanding and that coupled with very busy lives resulted in our not communicating for ten or so days; I convinced myself it didn't matter.

Friday night I was with two sisters.  One lives in Washington DC and one in Kentucky.  I was there when they reunited, and I saw the love and joy they shared just  being together.  It made my heart happy and it felt like an arrow piercing my heart.  I was overcome with an intense painful ache-a longing for my sister that pulsated through my body and soul.  I thought nothing of our "misunderstanding" but only about our relationship, and I needed to know that it still mattered to her too.  I was shrouded in fear; what if this was what permanently tore us apart?  I didn't trust in our relationship; I doubted, if only for a moment, the strength and endurance of our relationship, and I suddenly felt like I had been cut off from a part of myself. All of these emotions came on suddenly and intensely.  As the evening wore on and the festivities of the night continued, the emotional typhoon subsided some, but it remained a dull ache in my soul.

I said good night to the sisters and the almost sister and headed home to my family.  As I arrived I noticed a box on the front porch.  It was addressed to me.  I began to rack my brain wondering what I had ordered (and how mad Chris was going to be that I did order yet another thing).  I opened the box and in it I found an "it's so ugly it's cute" owl.  Initially I didn't find any card; when I did it said, "Love your chi omega sister."  I wanted to believe it was from my sister who also happens to be my sorority sister, but I couldn't let myself completely give into that hope.  We hadn't spoken for days, why would she send me this gift?  And so I again doubted the strength of our relationship and instead protected my heart.

The next morning it was confirmed.  It was a gift from my sister and that owl (that my children say will haunt them at night) became both a gift of love and grace and the tangible reminder that our relationship is more than misunderstood texts and emails--that our relationship is anchored in unconditional love.  Our relationship with all its warts, like many relationships, can in fact be a testimony to God's active presence, through ordinary relationships, in the world.

Friday afternoon The Rev. Canon Jason Lewis proclaimed that our calling as a church is to listen for and look for God's presence in the world today and then to point to it.  I suspect we often miss it when it's right in front of us.  But we need to pay attention to the whole world--the big and the small, to what seems momentous and to what seems ordinary and coincidental.  We need to notice, identify,and celebrate .  God is active in our lives.  God's present activity is known in forgiveness, unconditional love, mercy, and in broken and restored relationship. Sometimes that presence is seen when we feed the hungry, when we tend the sick, when we witness the reunion of sisters, and sometimes it's when we open an unexpected box containing an unexpected gift.

Enjoy it today Darlin'

Today I finished day 100 of my 100 day challenge--at least 1 mile walking or running everyday for 100 days straight.  It was cold, and I was running late which may explain why I was running 8 minute 15 second miles.  Whatever the reason, I was pretty pleased with myself; I would have started singing the happy song but I was having a hard enough time breathing--45 years old (middle aged, not old, right Cliff?) but still running at a decent pace.  And then I remembered my 16 year old son coming home last week and telling me he had finished the mile in 6 minutes 20 seconds.  Back to that middle aged thing... I flashed back to  March 2010 and a 5K we did together.

It was another cold morning and the first of the triple crown leading up to the Derby mini marathon.  Chris and I were both signed up, but he had the flu.   He really wanted that t-shirt and you have to do all three legs, (or maybe I really wanted to not go downtown alone) so Boss stepped up and said, "I'll run this one for you."  We were both a little surprised; true we all run the turkey trot every Thanksgiving morning, but other than that, I'm not sure we'd ever seen him go out and run.  But off we went.  We started the race together and I tried to pace myself with him.  I was a little worried about his asthma, and I wanted to help him, to encourage him.  Towards the end of the first mile he turned to me and said, "You know, I'd really like to do this on my own.  You go ahead; I'll be fine."  So, not being the mother of the year but rather being the competitive mother of a child with asthma who justified leaving him with the thought, "there's lots of EMT's around" I took off.  I crossed the finished line and my maternal instincts kicked back in so I began walking the route backwards.  About half a mile from the finish line I saw Christopher.  He was still running but looked a little tired; I broke the rules and went back on the course to finish with him.  As I got over to him he said, "I haven't walked once."  He was so proud and we finished together.  As we were heading back to the car he said, "Thanks for coming back for me; I know I could have done it but I'm glad you were there at the end."  I too know he would have done it; he's quite competitive--not sure where he gets that?   When we got home Chris asked us how we did and I went back into competitive mode and stated my time and then Christopher's.  Chris responded, "Enjoy it today Darlin' it's not going to last." Truer words have never been spoken.

As I was remembering this I started thinking--when the children were small I had to drastically slow my walking pace down so they could keep up.  I distinctly remember one afternoon William saying, "My legs hurt trying to keep up with you."  It hit me like a ton of bricks.  What was I in such a hurry to do?  And so from that day forward, as hard as it was, I tried to match my pace with theirs.   I couldn't walk ahead of them--it wasn't safe and my job was to protect them, to nurture them, to be there for them.  And what a joy it was to watch them explore the world, to see things I wouldn't have seen as I rushed through the day.  It was an even greater lesson, honor, and privledge to listen to them--to hear the stories of their days, to hear what was important to them and to listen to them dream.  As they got older they needed a little more freedom and to go at their own pace--sometimes alone. They need to know they can accomplish something with their own grit, with their own inner resources and strength.  Sometimes they needed and need to be alone; to struggle through their own life race but to always know I'll be there for them.  I will come back, and I will find them.  Some of their stories and dreams they still share with me, but I suspect some are just theirs.  And now as they are moving towards moving out and on with their lives, it sometimes feels like they are leaving me behind, and that is hard.  I am watching them move forward; I am cheering them on; and I know they are ready, but I miss those old days.  I suspect that one day when I am much older they will have to slow their pace down and wait for me.  It's a circle of life.

It reminds me of walking our journeys of faith.  Sometimes we need people to really slow down their pace or we need to really slow down ours and just be with each other wherever we are.  We need to listen to each others stories, hopes and dreams and walk hand in hand exploring our lives and the world God created for us.  Other times we have to struggle and move forward by ourselves understanding there are people who are cheering for us and who will continue to be there for us whether they have to come back or we have to slow down to wait for them.  Sometimes we may even have to break some rules to walk with someone.  Sometimes, as hard as it may be, we may even have to let go.

"Remember that life is short and we have too little time to gladden the hears of those who travel with us.  So be quick to be kind, make haste to love, and may the blessing of God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit be with you, with those you love, and with all those you encounter this day and all the days of your life."  (Anonymous with some changes by me)

My "Standards" Have Fallen

I can't remember what "trauma" prompted the phone call last spring to one of my oldest, dearest, and wisest friends.  This friend is always there for me; I wish I called her more frequently just to catch up. Instead this is the friend I call when I need to be grounded, when I need a calming presence, a listening ear, and a nonjudgmental conversation.  She is someone who knows me and my neurosis and loves me anyway.  And perhaps most importantly, she loves my children and outside of the family may be the only person who knows everything about them. Everyone should have a friend like this.

Anyway, I called her with the latest "issue"--I can pretty much guarantee that I went on and on about how I was failing as a parent, about how I didn't know what to do; basically I went on and on making it all about me.  And she patiently listened, offered wise counsel, and then we moved onto catching up on our other children--we have a passel between us.  Our oldest are either in college search or have made their decisions.  We laughed about how when they were three and four years old they used to compete with multiplication facts. We laughed about all the things we used to worry about (okay I'll be honest,  I worried and obsessed about it more than she did.  She's always been more level headed.) As we were concluding our reminiscing my wise friend said, "You know I've let so much go.  My goals and standards have certainly changed.  If I can just get them out of high school and not in jail, I'll consider that a success."  I laughed and added, "Yeah, and not pregnant or addicted to anything would be icing on the cake."  We were making light and laughing but the comments have reverberated with me for all these months.

What did we mean by letting so much go and our goals and standards changing?  Are we just tired? Are we giving up?  I knew that wasn't true.  Suddenly this week it hit me--the goals and standards I was striving for all those years ago were about me.  I suppose I needed to be validated; I needed the children to "achieve" in order to make myself feel important and successful.  And I believed that achievement had to come in the way the world defined achievement and success.  I wanted to be the mother of the valedictorian, the quarterback, the captain of the team, the class president, the star of the play, the Ivy league graduate because I thought then I would know I had been a "good mother."

Let me be honest, I love watching the children reach for their dreams and I cheer and support them as they chase them.  I cannot watch Sarah Katherine dance without tearing up; I watch with pride as Christopher and William take the field or the court; and when Caroline is performing or playing sports, the pure joy on her face brings joy to my heart.  But what I have learned is these "things" are a) not about me and b) not the measure of success that is most important.  It is hard to let go of that. What I now hear when I think about our flippant comment is that I want the children to grow up and be caring and compassionate people.  I assume that if they can graduate from high school not in jail than they have tried to "persevere in resisting evil, and to respect the dignity of all people, and have tried to strive for peace and justice among all people." (BCP, p.292)   And if they do these things--it is THEIR success, THEIR achievement; while I can be proud of the people they have become, it is not about me.  I may have been one of the important people in their lives guiding them, but they have made their own choices.  Yes I want the children to be successful, and  yes I want them to lead productive lives, but I have to remember that they are their own people--they will make their own choices and have to face their own consequences--good and bad.  Some choices I will agree with and some I won't. I suppose it's not that I have let my standards and goals fall but rather I have tried to stop making then all about me I have tried to release the goals the world says I must have for them, and I have have attempted to loosen my death grip on the children and instead  allow them to claim their own personhood.  It's a daily challenge, a daily struggle, and a daily joy.

PS
I have to say that I am so thankful that despite all the things I have considered traumas I have not had to face (at least yet) addiction, teen pregnancy or any other truly difficult and life changing situation, and my heart and prayers go out to all those parents who have.

Responding (or not) and Relationships

Halloween has always been a big deal at our house--we always fix a big pot of chili and the children invite as many friends as they'd like.  This year Caroline asked if she could have five friends for chili, trick-or-treating and to spend the night (no school on Friday the 1st).    Plans started being made; costumes designed and space scoped out--Christopher was also having four friends over for all of the above including spending the night.

Wednesday afternoon (the 30th) I got a text from Caroline stating that three of the five girls had backed out.  I asked her what they were doing instead and she replied the three of them were going to one house.  She made no mention of having been invited to go too.  My Mama Tiger adrenline started pumping.  I know these girls, and I know their parents.  It didn't sound like something they would do.  I couldn't figure out what had happened.  I asked Caroline what was going on and she said, "I'm not gonna make a big deal about it because I already learned my lesson from that."  Ahh--last summer

Last summer Caroline was uninvited from a trip to an amusement park.  She was very upset; I suggested that she just ask the girl who was organizing it why she wasn't invited.  I suspected it came down to a numbers thing--perhaps this young lady had been told she could invite people and she went over the agreed upon number.  I had no idea, but I convinced Caroline that it was a good idea to just ask and get an answer rather than imagine all sorts of things.  I projected my need to know onto her. And for whatever reason, this time she listened to me (why this time she had to I'll never know)--the next thing I knew she has thrown herself across the bed and was sobbing.  I honestly to this day cannot figure out the whole story, but I do know asking was the worst thing she could have done.  It stirred some middle school drama pot and the texts were flying--for two weeks she felt that she had no friends.  No one would talk to her; no one would come over; she was miserable.  It ended when another girl came back in-town (one who had not cancelled on her for Halloween). This young lady knew nothing about the weeks of drama we had all just endured so she invited the whole gang over to her new hot tub.  It wasn't perfect; I ended up getting a call to come get her, but it broke the ice and by the time school started a few days later the estrogen storm raging through the various households had subsided.

Caroline took that lesson and chose not to ask the girls for details.  She chose relationship over the need for a response.  She told me they were still all sitting together at lunch and things were fine on the basketball court.  By Thursday all but one had cancelled.  As Caroline and her friend got in the car on Halloween, they were excited and full of energy.  They had decided to just have a good time; and a good time they did have.  Yesterday Caroline came home from school and all was well.

I still believe that sometimes we need to clear the air, ask the question and have open and honest dialogue.  We do, however, also have to consider why we are starting a discussion--is it for clarity, for healing, for reconciliation or is it just to make ourselves feel better, to erase the discomfort we feel?  It matters--when we our only striving to keep ourselves from feeling any pain and we are not considering the other--it becomes about the response and not the relationship.

Relationships are hard; sometimes they require difficult conversations and sometimes they require silence.  James P. Bartz writes, "If in our reading of scripture we search only for behavioral directive in order to achieve the best possible experiences and outcomes for our individual selves, we miss the "pearl of great price", which is the truth that the kingdom of heaven is at hand when humanity is actively engaged in the mission of loving God and loving or neighbors as ourselves." (Anglican Theological Review, Fall 2013, p.690)  Sometimes loving our neighbors means allowing ourselves to be uncomfortable, to remain silent--sometimes it means speaking up, but it should always be about relationship because it is in and through our relationships with one another (even overly dramatic estrogen infused middle school girls) and with God that we experience the kingdom of heaven right here and now.  Through our relationships we catch glimpses of the kingdom of God in the halls of the middle schools, in the workplace, in our families, and in our churches.  God grant me the courage to speak when I need to speak, to remain silent when I need to remain silent, and the wisdom to discern the difference.

A Lesson in Forgiveness--from a 3 year old

The third and final part of Caroline's trauma trilogy took place in May of 2004--21 months after she lost her pinky.  (The pinky accident took place 21 months after the skull fractures--we held our breath throughout February 2006, but it came and went and eventually we exhaled..)

This particular Sunday evening we packed a picnic dinner, loaded the four children into their four carseats/boosters, and headed down to the Three Rivers Art Festivals to hear music and enjoy the finally warm weather.  We ate and then decided to walk around a little bit to see the booths--read walk around and listen to the children beg for face painting and balloons and cotton candy.  As we were walking we passed a man with a golden retriever.  The children all asked, as we had taught them to do,  if they could pet him and he said yes.  As we made our way back to our blanket we saw the man was sitting less than 20 feet from us.  Caroline asked if she could sit by the dog and pet him.  The man said yes--the other children were right around there and everyone was in our sight.

The concert ended; Chris went to gather the children, and I began to pack up.  The next few minutes are seared into my memory.  I was leaning down picking up the basket, as my head came up I heard screaming and saw three of the children running towards me.  William was screaming, "blood, blood, blood" over and over; Sarah Katherine's face was pale white, and Christopher grabbed my hand and said, "Run!"  I had no idea what had happened but I took off running covering the 20 feet in lightning speed.  As I approached I could hear Caroline screaming, "Mommy" and I saw her in Chris' arms.  What I couldn't see was any of her face--not one feature there was so much blood.  As Chris handed her to me he began saying, "I don't think it's that bad; remember head wounds bleed a lot.  It was the dog--he lunged at her when she stood up."

The next 20 minutes were frantic but also a testimony to the goodness and care of people--of strangers.  A young college kid whipped off his t-shirt and we wrapped it literally over Caroline's head.  He and his friends then took the boys about 50 yards away and started throwing the football with them, engaging them in conversation, keeping them from seeing the chaos.   A young woman took Sarah Katherine's hand and they went to regather the dropped picnic supplies the woman talking to SK the entire time--asking her about music and anything else.  A security guard appeared; he looked at Caroline's head and immediately radioed for an ambulance.  Four very large burly men, and I'll admit it men who looked like people I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, surrounded the man with the dog.  The man still hadn't said a word; he never to this day has spoken to us, but he had tried to walk off.  These men were having none of it.  Chris and I desperately tried to stop the bleeding but it wasn't working.  I still hadn't seen my baby's face; every time I wiped away blood, more poured forth.

As we were waiting for the ambulance I called my good friend Nicole Kitchen--I got the words out, "I need help with the children; Caroline's hurt"  She immediately responded, "I'll meet you at Children's--"  The EMT's radioed back that because of where we were they couldn't get any closer and asked if we could begin walking towards an open field.  The entire group of people I have mentioned, minus the four burly men still surrounding the dog, began the walk towards the ambulance.  It felt like a procession; it now feels like a holy procession.  For the third time I was loaded into the ambulance holding my child; as the doors closed I saw the faces of all those whose names I didn't know but through whom the love of God had been extended.  I never saw them again; I never thanked them; I hope they know.

We arrived at the hospital and were immediately put into a room.  Several doctors rushed in and began examining Caroline and talking amongst themselves.  "I see her skull"  "Not sure if she's lost part of her nose."  I stood there shaking and praying.  I wanted to hear what they were saying, and yet I didn't really want to know.  I looked at the nurse and asked, "Is Dr. Saladino here?"  "No," she responded, "He's off today."  They got the bleeding stopped and put temporary bandages on her.  About this time Chris and the children walked in.  Following them was our friend the security guard who always stands at the parking garage doors.  We knew him well--always brought him hot chocolate during the winter.  After the children saw Caroline and were assured that she was not going to die, the guard took the children back to wait for Mrs. Kitchen.  I heard these words again, "I'm not supposed to do this, but yous both need to be hear with this angel. I'll take care of these urchins."  (Yous is not a typo :))

As the children left a young doctor walked in and explained that they were going to have to sew her up but in layers because of the extent of the injuries.  He asked when she had last eaten and we said within the last hour--ugh--that meant we had to wait some time because they were going to need to put her to sleep.  I looked at the young man and it hit me, he was a resident or an intern--and so I said, "Excuse me, are you a resident?"  "Yes, a third year," he responded.  I hope I said the following kindly, but I can't promise that, "Sir, I know you're training.  I'm sure you're very good.  But I'm going to have to ask you to call for a plastics attending.  You are not touching her.  You're going to have to learn on someone else."  (I probably shouldn't have added that last part.)  Just then the door opened and in walked a nurse with  Dr. Saladino.  He told the resident he would take over and the young man left.  Dr. Saladino said to us, "Just a minute" and he stepped out.  I heard him say, "She doesn't mean to be rude.  Her father is the head of a children's hospital.  She probably knows you've been on for hours."  (To be honest I didn't care if he'd been on for hours or at just arrived--I was still asking for an experienced attending.  But he didn't have to know that.)  The nurse told Chris and me that Dr. Saladino happened to stop by on his way home from the very same concert to sign a chart.  Someone told him a family asked for him; he asked who it was and then immediately called his wife and said he wouldn't be home.  We love that man!!!

We waited for what seemed an endless amount of time for her to be prepared for surgery, thank goodness they gave Caroline lots of pain medicine.  The police showed up to take the report.  They told us that they had taken the dog into custody because he had no shot tags and they would run tests and let us know.  Chris asked what would happen to the dog.  The officer couldn't look him in the eye.  "Chances are he will be returned to his owner."  An intense rage flashed across Chris' face and he said, "I'll kill that dog with my bare hands" as he walked out of the room to compose himself.  I stood there with the officer, staring down at our child and he said, "I would too.  I'm so sorry m'am."

Eventually Caroline was sewn up--86 stitches in her forehead and 7 in her nose.  We were released around 4:30 am.  God love Nicole who kept our other three all night AND got SK to school the next morning in time for her talent show--dressed in full costume.  Chris stayed home with Caroline and I went to watch--102 elementary acts!  A woman I semi-knew said, "You look exhausted--fun weekend?"  I couldn't even respond.

Within two days I realized that things were not going well for Caroline.  Despite the antibiotics that she was on the incision was oozing and red.  Wednesday morning, the first morning of summer vacation, I knew she had to go back to the hospital.  Chris had already left for work so I loaded up the four children and headed back to Children's.  We were admitted immediately and IV antibiotics were started.  The doctor explained that she would most likely need at least 5 days of them.  Five more days in the hospital and now no school to help with the children.  It didn't matter.  Word had spread and people were ringing our phone off the hook wanting to bring us food, visit Caroline and take the other children.  Caroline's preschool class made sure that at least one person came to visit and brought her a gift everyday.  Her bed is still covered with the stuffed animals she received.  Chris' co-workers, the COT, took over his work so he could work with lawyers, (we didn't know if we were going to need additional funds for future surgeries--this was a very uncomfortable time for us and difficult decisions; this was the first time Chris and I prayed aloud together for guidance.  It came through the voices and advice of my father and Dr. Saladino.  "This isn't about you and being nice.  This is about protecting Caroline and providing for her future needs.  When doctors recommend hiring a lawyer--seems like Divine intervention and we decided it was the thing to do. We called one of our friends from church who was a lawyer.  He said he'd take it but he wanted us to have the best, so he got Chris into "the office of the best in town" for these type of cases.)   On the day of their son's graduation and graduation party the Woodyard's took the other three to the pool and then brought them home with trays of shrimp--we'd been invited to the party and the shrimp were bought knowing we'd be there.  Miss Pat spent hours reading to Caroline before she left on Saturday to lead the youth mission trip.  Angels surrounded us.

We were discharged very late Saturday night.  Sunday morning Chris and I were watching TV having decided that God understood that we simply couldn't get all the children up and to church. Our bodies hurt we were so exhausted.  I have to admit I was also worried about taking Caroline out in public.  She looked really bad--double black eyes, swollen face--guess I didn't really learn about that vanity stuff.  As I was sipping my second cup of coffee Caroline walked into the room and said, "When are we leaving for church?"  "We're going to take this Sunday off" I responded.  "NO!!" she screamed.  "It's Sunday, we have to go."  I looked over at Chris and we exchanged the what do we do now look.  "I'll go I said but let the other children sleep.  I'll just take Caroline." "You do realize," said Chris, "Church starts in 20 minutes."  No shower--throw on clothes--and off we go.

Caroline went to children's chapel and I sat in the church way back in the corner of the nave--a long distance from the front pew where we usually sat. I sat and I cried.  I felt so overwhelmed, so tired, and yet so thankful.  I worried about the scarring and I yelled at God in my head--how many physical "deformities" does this child have to endure?  At the peace Caroline came skipping into the church, mary janes clicking on the stone floor, and for the first time she found me and not her beloved Miss Janie.  She climbed up in my lap and brushed away my tears and then settled in.  As we were leaving church Kelly, one of the children's chapel volunteers, stopped me.

"I have to tell you something," she said as she squeezed my hand.  Caroline had run off for her doughnut as she did every Sunday.  Children's chapel at St. Paul's was amazing.  They basically followed exactly what we were doing in church but it was very interactive.  Kelly said, "During the prayers Caroline had a special request--she asked that her mommy and daddy learn how to forgive the man and the dog and not be mad anymore.  Tears began streaming down my face--there's more said Kelly.  She also asked that God let the dog know that she was okay and that she knew he didn't mean to hurt her.  She didn't want the dog to be sad and she knew he was sorry.  A lesson in forgiveness--a lesson I needed and that I struggle to remember.