A Rainy Day at the Beach is...

Yesterday morning I woke to torrential rain. Already our house looked like it was on an island and the rain kept coming. Winnie sadly looked at me knowing as much as I love both her and the beach, I was NOT going to take her for a morning run. Instead I settled myself on the porch, with a book and coffee...

I knew in advance the forecast for this week--we start watching it the minute it becomes available, so I had already prepared myself for more rain than sun--not happily but it is what it is. Just being here is what my soul needs. I was thinking about this as I read these words from Dorthea Benton Frank's Isle of Palms, "For me to be content and happy, I had to be on this particular island. I mean, I couldn't breathe right anyplace else." (p.5) I had written almost these exact words--or at least their sentiment 9 years ago (A Journey Home) about this very place. As I sat on the porch my sister texted me, "I am so sorry the weather is like it is. I really wanted it to be nice for you." (Have I mentioned I have the greatest older sister? Always looking out for me. She would control the weather if she could--and remember she's older...a point I enjoy making.) I responded, "A rainy day at the beach is still a better day than anywhere else." And I mostly meant it, which is not to deny I was cursing in my mind those people who said to me before I left, "I'm going to pray it rains a lot so you'll come home." They know me well....

Old mother nature was really taunting me though. It would clear up; I'd begin making the move to get ready to head down to the beach, and the skies would open up and pour again. Finally around noon it looked like we might have a 30 minute spread, so Chris and I scurried down to the beach. We brought no cooler and put on very little sunscreen--you don't need much for 30 minutes.

As we sat by the water the dark clouds rolled in; it even got chilly, but the rain didn't come. The clouds rolled through and the skies turned blue. Three hours later we were thirsty and Chris was getting a tad burned (thank you Daddy for my dark skin), so he went up to the house for a bit and I took a walk.

As I sat back down I thought to myself, "God really knew I needed this day." Then in my I can't just say thank you but have to analyze everything way, I thought, "Okay do you really believe that with all the things going on in the world God stopped everything to make sure you had a good day at the beach? Do you really believe this day was only for you? How many other people got to enjoy the day? And what about those people who wanted it to rain? Do you really think you're more important than they are?"

I guess the real answer is yes and no. I do believe God loves me and only wants good for me; I don't believe God favors me and my needs over others; I do believe God has the power to change the weather; I don't believe God is a puppet master. I stopped myself when I thought, "How about just saying Thank you God for this day? How about just seeing it as a gift? Perhaps we could all see the grace and wonder of God around us if we just looked--if we just chose to see it." I picked my book up, took a sip of the beer my husband brought me, and silently said thank you to God for the gift of this day and all the gifts of my life.

(Today has started in much the same way--took Winnie running, saw God's promise of abundant love, and when it rained, I got wet.)

The Holiness of Sheets--They're Worth the Work

Last week my mother-in-law called and told me she had some

linens for me because I was probably the only one who would want them. She was right--they are beautiful! And I definitely wanted them. They are linen sheets with hand stitched embroidery and tatting which of course require ironing (hence no one else wants them). They belonged to Chris's great grandmother, and I fell in love immediately. 

As we were going through the pile, I was also gifted with napkins and absolutely stunning pillowcases--again hand stitched and embroidered with a "D". These belonged to Aunt Florence--her last name wasn't Doyle--it was Davis, but a D's a D. (Who am I kidding? I would have taken them anyway.) I couldn't wait to get them home so I could wash and iron them--but I had to wait--a week of junior high camp stood between me and my ironing board.

Yesterday was the day! I needed to change our sheets and iron the sheets to put on the bed for our house sitter--to say I was euphoric is an understatement. As I was ironing them I thought about a conversation I had been a part of the evening before during a baby shower. We were talking about family antiques; I was shocked by how many people don't want them, but apparently that is very common. As I was ironing I thought, "I don't get it at all. I love having pieces from both our families. I love sitting at my grandmother's desk and writing letters knowing that is the very desk where she wrote letters to me."

I went upstairs and began making our bed. The pillowcases don't really match our room, but I didn't care. I love them and love they are part of a long line of family I married into. As I was straightening the top cover in bounded the babies ready to spring! How is it they can't hear me ask them to clean up their rooms when I'm shrieking at the top of my lungs, but the minute I begin to put freshly washed and ironed sheets on my bed, they hear the gentle rustle and drop all previously important things and appear in my doorway. And why is it they love to flop on MY bed? While I threatened them with bodily harm or more seriously cutting off finances, I semi successfully hid both a grin and a tear. I secretly enjoy this game we play; I love after the flop when we lie on the bed and just talk--in just a few short weeks my bed will always be perfectly straight (well maybe not always...) and there won't be any bodies to flop or spontaneous conversations. I wondered how many other mothers have put these very sheets on beds with babies underfoot--or towering over them?

And then last night happened...

Let's just say it wasn't pretty. There were tears--lots from me--possibly one or two from Caroline--definite frustration from them both. I was trying to explain how I was feeling--left out, ganged up on, unappreciated, and pulled between 4 children who will be in 4 different states--four children with different needs and expectations--mostly put on me by me. I decided to pout, Chris decided to take a walk, and the babies decided to disappear into their rooms.

I sat there and reluctantly admitted something to myself, I'm floundering; I'm lost because in just a few short weeks my primary job--the one job, as I wrote in my journal this morning, that I was 1/2 way decent at on most days, will drastically change. The truth is in many ways I am ready for that. But somehow in the conversations that happened last night, I "heard" that what I have done for the past 20+ years, what I have thrown my heart and soul into wasn't that important. I heard they were moving on and I would be left out and forgotten. I know, I know--that's not what they said, but it's what it felt like they were saying.

As I climbed into my bed--actually my grandmother's bed and eased down between the freshly ironed sheets of Chris's great grandmother, I thought about the mothers that came before me. I wondered how they felt letting go of their babies. I thought about my grandmother getting down on her knees every night next to this very bed and praying for her family--my beloved Papa Jim, my mother and my aunt and then the many grandchildren, great grandchildren and those who married into our family. I fingered the hemstitching on the pillow cases and thought about the many tears that have probably been shed and woven into the fabric--tears of sorrow and tears of joy--woven into the fabric of the pillow cases and into the fabric of life and love. I thought about the women who have washed, ironed, folded and made beds with these sheets--some had to bury babies long before they weren't babies anymore; some had to let go of their children as they headed off to fight for our country; some could never have children, some had children who struggled well into adulthood and some had children who grew up and brought home their own children.

And I thought about the conversation from the baby shower...

It's really not about the "stuff" we inherit, but for me these things are tangible reminders of the family that came before. They are tangible reminders of the intangible gifts passed down to me--the gifts of love and perseverance and courage and faith. They remind me, as I am also reminded every All Saints Sunday, that I am part of the community of saints--past, present and yet to come--a community that is praying with and for me. A community of which I'm proud to be a part. These sheets have ceased to be just sheets--they have become sacramental objects that remind me of the holiness and grace and love of God passed down from one generation to the next.


Making the bed this morning I again began to think about those who have made up beds with these

sheets before me; I said a prayer of thanksgiving for their lives and for mine. I put the pillows on enveloped in the cases lovingly made by Chris's great aunt and then put the pillows on that I have made in recent years, and I gave thanks that we are connected. I gave thanks for the strength shown through the lives of the women who have come before, and I prayed that I may show that same strength in the days, weeks, months and years to come.

And I would like to publicly say, if you're one of my beloved offspring reading this, please don't ever get rid of these sheets.....

Getting In Shape

On the first Monday of camp (June 18) I giggled as I took this picture of the stairs leading to "upper campus." Every year for 10 years our family convinces ourselves that having to walk up these stairs all summer is going to get us in shape. Every year we say, "We walk so much at camp and particularly these stairs that there's NO WAY we won't lose weight and get in shape." I chuckled as I thought, "But we always forget about the fabulous and not low calorie/low carb food is at the top."

As I began to climb my mind quickly went to the two Doyle children not here this summer--they're not here because they are young adults out living and expanding their lives. At that very moment SK was in Iceland having an adventure and creating memories before returning and serving as a delegate for The Episcopal Church General Convention, and Boss had just moved back to Georgia after telling me, "Mama I love you, but I need to grow up. I need to go and do what I need to do. Please don't write me letters every day." (A promise I have reluctantly kept.) "The babies" are still here this summer, but no longer the wild campers (we prefer to call it extremely enthusiastic) they once were. Instead, they are in leadership roles--William for the third summer and Caroline has a rookie. And they are rock stars (proven by the camper evaluations and not just Mama's bias).

It didn't take two winks for my mind to hop, skip and jump to the real shaping of these stairs. Our thighs and backsides may not have changed much, but our hearts, souls and minds did. These stairs and all the time walking them at All Saints camp helped shape the O'Doyle children, now young adults, into the people they have and are becoming--people who have confidence, strength, courage and faith--people whose minds have been open to other perspectives in the world--people whose hearts have learned to love unconditionally--people who sometimes had to walk difficult paths but who walked them with hope even when it felt like just a sliver---people who know in their souls, even when the world tries to tell the otherwise, they are worthy and good---people who are on paths of self discovery and are striving to be the people God created them to be--people who want to be a part of bringing about God's kingdom in their own ways.

As the summer draws to an end and the "children" prepare to move into their next phases of life (Have I mentioned those phases include the states of Mississippi, Georgia, Virginia and New York?) I am once again reminded that God is always present to help shape us into the people God wants us to be. God uses the "ordinary," things like a burning bush or the stairs at All Saints. The ordinary becomes holy when we turn and look. I give thanks for these stairs and the paths to which they have led.

Oh, and the delicious food at the top...

Relationships, Couch to 10K, and Holy Obligations

Yesterday woke up to the first full day of Cousin's Weekend and a gorgeous sunrise. I drank some

coffee, talked to my uncle, and got ready for my run. Took a quick side trip to the green egg where my cousin and husband were starting the butt smoking. I don't remember what it was but Hank said something about me running or being a runner which made me feel uneasy but I didn't correct him...

At the end of the driveway I began to run and not two minutes in stopped. I wanted to run to the end of the road and back--4 miles--as I do every year but I've not been consistently running even though I like to pretend I have. I already knew I wouldn't make it, and I was sad and angry and incredibly disappointed in myself. Yesterday my friend Jason told me about the couch to 10k app; I thought about it, but I didn't want to use it. I AM A RUNNER!!! was screaming through my head not someone who has been sitting on the couch, not someone who has to start from scratch. And yet I am...

My daddy often says about himself, "I am a husband, a father, a doctor, a Virginian and a Roman Catholic. That is my identity." As I waited for the dadgum app to download I thought, "Words I would have used about myself include 'I am a runner and I am a mother'--but both those identifying nouns are beginning to look different as I not so gracefully move into this next phase of life." The app downloaded and I admitted to myself that while I have been a runner in the past, and that I can be again (I hope), right now I needed something to hold me accountable.



As I started my now structured exercise I thought about another conversation...SK is in Louisville for a wedding and not for very long. Someone wanted to see her, but she didn't have time. My mother identity went into full blown mode--I started arguing in my head, "It might just be a little too late. In the past this person never seemed to make time for her and was in and out of contact and now it's not a priority for her and that's fine. She doesn't have to make time." Thought didn't stick long because my mind jumped to a conversation with my aunt last night.

We were talking about visiting family and friends and how sometimes someone might feel like they are being included because of an obligation and not because they're wanted. Here's the honest to God truth I said out loud in that moment, "Mostly it is an obligation." There was a split second of embarrassment over admitting that to myself, but then also a freedom that only comes with speaking truth.

As I often do I remembered a conversation I had with Rev. Hubert Flanagan during Christmas break of my freshmen year of college. I told him I felt guilty because I often go to church out of habit and not because I really want to. "Katherine, " he said in that soft southern drawl, "Why is it everyone considers habits or habitual behaviors bad? Aren't there good habits too?" he paused and then continued, "You know sometimes you may go out of habit; you don't want to be there; and you don't listen much. But there might be one line in a hymn, one word of the sermon or one smile someone gives you that becomes transformative for your week or even your life."

I thought about all this--the obligation of maintaining relationships as well as finding a way to be accountable or obligated (sometimes I have to stretch these thoughts of mind and twist them (read manipulate them like a full fledged teenager) to returning to running as well as Rev. Flanagan's words and I let myself off the hook of guilt, and I also admonished myself for I'm not sure what. I guess for being so all or nothing, for not remembering resurrection. It's not too late, I thought, to rekindle or reorder relationships even if the beginning of that process is out of obligation. It's not too late to become a runner again.

And now back to Cousins' Weekend....