A Tribute to Those Who Have Attempted to Help Me Stay Sane

Each passing day I become more and more aware of how difficult it is to rear children.  And each passing day I become more and more thankful for those people who have not left me to my own devices in rearing my children (my children and their future therapists thank you as well.) Two days ago as SK and I were driving to get her pictures taken it really hit me that connections are important, they sustain us and some last a lifetime.  SK was texting and laughing.  "What's so funny? " I asked.  "Nothing, Ford and I are just snap chatting."  SK and Ford haven't lived in the same place since 1999 but he, his three siblings and Mommy and Daddy Adams have remained as much a part of our lives as they were when we lived in Athens all attended Emmanuel, tailgated together, trick-or-treated together, and hung out in the cul-de-sac for hours as the children ran and played.

 Of course for me, first and foremost is my husband who helps to keep my neurosis in check (he is also thankful for all those who have journeyed with us as they too have helped to keep my neurosis in check.)  Seriously though a vivid memory from 1999 stands out--Christopher had just been diagnosed with severe asthma and allergies; we had already been in and out of the hospital several times, and I went into controlling mode.  I researched everything I needed to do to "protect" him. I was panicked; I had three children under three and was pregnant with my fourth.   How was I going to do it all, and so I made a list, color coded it--how often to vacuum, how often to crawl under the house to turn up the hot water heater to was his sheets, how often to give which medicines and how much, how to measure his breathing, what sports I thought would be acceptable etc. That evening I laid the spread sheet out before Chris and began to "educate" him on when and how we could take Christopher out, what to look for, who he could be around etc.  He closed my notebook, took my hands in his and said, "I appreciate the work you have done; I  love you for it,  and it will help us.  But hear me, you are not going to turn him into a freak.  We will deal with this in a normal way."  For some of you that may not sound loving or kind, but it was exactly what I needed to hear, and now 14 years later Christopher is a three season athlete who only uses a rescue inhaler occasionally and whose room is maybe vacuumed twice a month.

But there are others many others--

Six weeks after we moved to Pittsburgh when Caroline was fighting to save her left pinky and eventually her life, Aunt Julie dropped everything; left her three boys under 2 and drove straight through to get there. I was a mess--I hadn't left the hospital, hadn't showered, barely slept and only ate what people literally put in my hand.  As only a very close friend can do she firmly said to me, "You haven't left this hospital for five days; you have three children at home who are scared and need their mommy and you have a husband who is willing to stay at the hospital.  And he is perfectly capable!" She then sat up with me and listened to my fears until the wee hours of the morning.  Caroline did lose her pinky and Julie stayed until she was safely out of surgery and we had other people come to help.

A few months later, one day in the early fall  I received a call from Sarah Katherine's elementary school.  She was in the first grade.  They said she was in the office crying hysterically and they couldn't figure out what was wrong.  I bundled the other three up and rushed to the school.  I calmed her down and began listening to her story, "I'm scared," she said, "what if I come home from school one day and you're not there?  Who will take care of me?"  I took her in my arms trying not to let what I thought were the accusing glances of the office staff distract me--I wanted to shout at them, "That has never happened!!  Never I tell you--not once!!!Please don't call child protective services!!!"  Instead I said, "I will always be home when you get there or have someone there for you."  As Sarah Katherine tried to calm herself she hiccuped out, "But it won't be Miss Leslie or Miss Gillian.  I miss them; we NEEEEED them."  (If she only knew how much...) What occurred to me was that my close friends in Athens mattered to her; their love gave her and still gives her an added layer of comfort.  They are part of the community holding her and holding me up as a parent.

Two and a half years later we gathered the children in the living room (they have learned to be very afraid of conversations that happen in the formal living room--they're either being told I'm pregnant again or we're moving), and told them we were moving to Virginia.  Caroline stamped her little saddle oxford foot and said, "No way!"  I asked her what the problem was (she was only 4) and as her big blue eyes filled up with tears she said, "Who will I sit with in church?"  "You'll sit with us," I responded.  The tears were flowing now as she said, "But you're not Miss Janie, and I love Miss Janie."  It's true every Sunday as Caroline came into church during the peace she would search out Miss Janie, the Rector's (whom Caroline called "Father God) wife, and sit with her.  As the fourth of four, she needed someone to give her special attention and Miss Janie did that. (She also has given me much parental advice over the years either answering my questions or as I asked and continue to ask myself, "what would Janie do?")

Not long after we moved to Virginia, our dear friends the Harris' were to move back to Germany where Uncle John would be stationed.  Our children were devastated because we "always celebrate New Year's with them."  "Start saving so we can fly over there."  It mattered being with the Harris family even if only once a year. In a world that was constantly changing with numerous moves, there was a constant.

Four years ago the babies were in Augusta visiting Daddy and Marguerite.  I cannot remember the details of why I was suddenly in a bind, but I called Mommy Adams and said, "Can you go to Augusta and get the children and keep them for a few days?"  "When?" she asked.  "Would now work?" I stammered.  "On my way" and I knew they were safe.  A few days later she was to bring them back to Augusta and Marguerite got called into work, so I called Miss Susan--can the babies stay with you this afternoon?  "Of course, " she replied, "And I might not tell them everything you did in high school."

All of these people and many others have helped Chris and I rear our children.  Uncle Mike shows up whenever and wherever we live--loving all the children but making sure his Godson Christopher feels extra special.  I only had to send out a message to Ingrid and Anne that their God daughter needed prayers and immediately both of them sent long heart felt letters.  Miss Jamie takes off work to support "her William" as he earns awards; she provides him a safe place when he needs to get away, and I trust that he will be well loved and cared for.  There are so many people who have touched and continue to touch our lives and the lives of our children.  They sustain us with love and laughter, support and prayer.  They walk with us through the highs and lows.  What they may not know is that they matter as much to our children as they do to us.  They help to make the world, for our children, a less scary, safer place because they know there are many people who love them and to whom they can turn.  That matters--love matters.  Community matters.

We are called to be live in community both with those to whom we are related and to all those in the world.  Carolyn Sharp of Odyssey Networks writes, "A truly faithful life can only be lived in community."  May we all strive to live truly faithful lives each day with all those we encounter. May our communities continue to grow until there are no boundaries only love.

Names and Nicknames Matter

This morning I posted the following on facebook:

Boss wants me to be available Friday night to transport he and his friends around (because as he says, "you're always available"). I told him that I couldn't because I was going to the Male/Manual football game. He was not happy. SK, to avoid conflict, says, "don't worry. She'll be available. Have you seen the weather. It's not getting out of the 40's on Friday." I am taking that as a personal challenge. See you at the game!

Almost immediately I began receiving messages from people who could not believe that my boss would make such a request of me.  I giggled to myself and then quickly made certain to post that this "Boss" was not in fact my supervisor but rather my eldest son.  Boss is the nickname we gave him at birth--it in fact was my concession as my husband wanted to legally name him "Boss Bailey Doyle" as Boss Bailey was Georgia's number one recruit the summer of 1997.  (Our daughter born in 1995, he wanted to name "Samaki Walker Doyle"--those conversations are for another post.)  What was interesting this morning was that many people knew exactly who I was talking about in the post.  Everyone in Athens called him Boss and family and friends who have known us for a long time called him and still call him Boss.  It's part of who he is, part of his history, but for others it was not so clear.  "Boss" held different connotations for different people--and that got me thinking about names--our given names, our nicknames, and what we call others and ourselves--they matter.

Our children were all named for family members.  When they were younger they loved hearing the stories of how we chose their names and the stories of what they would have been called if they were the other gender.  It connected them to generations of people; they love being a part of a long line, to being a part of a bigger story.  My name matters to me; I was born Ann Katherine Kanto after my maternal and paternal great-grandmothers both living at the time.  When Chris and I got married I couldn't let either name go and I also still wanted to keep Kanto--Chris loves tax time when he has to remember which three he used the previous year--also makes for interesting monograms; but I diverge.

The children also each have nicknames, Monkey Moo, Boss, Willie Wonka and Carolina.  We use these names as often as their given names--they also have stories behind them--and they were given in love.  I myself have carried nicknames through life and when I remember them I remember those who gave them to me, those who loved me, those who played a part in my life.  Daddy calls me "Katherine Mouse", my sister calls me "Doodles", my cousin "Cuz", high school friends called me "Scooby", my almost little siblings "Big Katherine", college friends "Kunta Kanto", adult friends "K squared", my children's friends "Mama Doyle", Chris "Darlin'", and my children "Mommy" or "Madre".  All these names help define who I have been and who I am; all these names and the people who bestowed them on me have helped to shape who I am.  

Then there are the derogatory names I have been called over the years, some by people I can no longer remember, but I remember the names "Buffalo Butt", "Tom Boy", "Snob", and others.  These also remain a part of me.

There are also other names or descriptions that I  carry, "recovering anorexic", "child of divorced parents", "adult child of an alcoholic", and these names have also helped shape me; they are also a part of who I am. And finally there are the names I call myself, "neurotic", "controlling", "outsider." 

Names and nicknames play huge parts in forming who we are as people.  Perhaps what we tend to forget most easily is that we were first and foremost formed in the image of God, and God's name for each and every of us is "Beloved."  May we always be shaped primarily by that and may we strive to live lives that remind others. 

It's Important to Ask the Questions

Several weeks ago I was at the beach with my daddy and step mother.  They are both Roman Catholic.  On Sunday morning they invited me to attend church with them, and I gladly accepted.  I was actually delighted to be able to share in their church with them; both Daddy and Marguerite always attend the Episcopal Church with me, and I wanted to extend that same hospitality to them.  Additionally, I am, or thought I was, very comfortable in the Roman Catholic Church and this one in particular.  I was reared by a Roman Catholic father and a Methodist mother and until the age of 15 I went to both churches every week. I "knew" Catholic.  Further,  we have been attending this particular island church for over 40 years.  I was not prepared for what happened.

As we entered I thought how wonderful it was to be able to sit with Marguerite and Daddy.  I have always been on the altar and have never sat with the two of them.  It was a very special time.  I easily followed the service and the rhythm of the liturgy soothed me.  As I stood reciting along with everyone else, it felt a little bit like when I was in the early stages of pregnancy and no one knew.  I had an identity, "a mother to be" that no one knew except Chris, myself and God.  Standing there it occurred to me that no one in the building minus my parents and God knew I was a priest.  I was responding as a member of the body of Christ.  It felt peaceful and right.

During the Eucharistic prayer I began to feel a little more restless, should I go forth for a blessing or just remain seated as I have since I was 15?  It never crossed my mind to receive as I have always respected, though not agreed, with the teachings of the Catholic Church.  I did, however, feel a draw to go for a blessing; I felt especially close to Daddy and Marguerite, and I wanted to participate with them.  I wanted to line up and walk forward with them.  The feeling was powerfully intense; it was about sharing worship with my family.  As it got close to time for our pew to rise, I noticed how quickly others were moving through the procession to the priest.  No one was receiving a blessing; there didn't even seem to be time.  It felt rushed and robotic.  The struggle within me intensified, to go or not to go?  What would the priest do?  It was our turn and Daddy turned to me and said, "Aren't you going to come?"  I knew in an instance that he didn't mean just come get a blessing but come and be a part of the Eucharist with me.  My "I was an altar boy when they said mass in Latin" Daddy, my Daddy who says being Catholic is as much a part of him as being a Virginian, a doctor, a father, and a husband.  My daddy who wept on my ordination day and for the first time ever received communion in a church other than a Roman Catholic one.  He wanted me to come--to taste and see with Marguerite and him.  And my heart broke because I knew while I may be welcomed by him, I was not by the Church.  Try as I might, I couldn't stand up; I shook my head and willed my tears not to fall.

As I sat there and looked around my feelings were so raw--I felt excluded, lonely and judged.  I wondered how many other people in that place felt the same way?  I thought to myself, "Why am I not good enough?  Not worthy?  I've received six of the seven sacraments--three of them actually in the Roman Catholic church (baptism, first communion and penance).  I've been confirmed, married and ordained--the only sacrament I haven't received is Catholic Last Rites.  It even crossed my mind that I had received one more sacrament that the priest presiding had--I was married!!!Why was I not invited, not included, not wanted, not worthy? I knew in my head the answer to the questions; I've studied theology enough to know why the Catholic church doesn't have an open table, but the raw feelings weren't driven by my knowledge; they were pulsating through my body from my heart and soul.  "How must other people feel?" I wondered.  "I know the "reasons" and it, for the first time, is extremely painful.  How must people feel who don't understand, who have never been told the 'why' feel?"  "Being excluded and not knowing why must feel worse," I thought.Mass ended and we knelt for the final Hail Mary's which I prayed with the congregation, but the closeness, the bond was broken.

The discomfort and pain I experienced that day has not completely left me.  I'm not sure how I am going to, or if I'm ever going to be comfortable being in a Catholic Church again.  In the past, at weddings, funerals, and other times I was the one who encouraged my non-Catholic friends to respect the teaching of the Catholic Church and not go to communion.  I defended the Church and its right to their tradition.  Now I no longer feel I can be that person.  But my discomfort goes further--much further.

The Roman Catholic church is not the only church with doctrine and traditions that can seem to exclude.  I wonder how people who come into my church may or may not feel excluded, unworthy, not good enough.  How is the church deliberately or not causing pain?  How is the church seen as unwelcoming?  What do we need to spend more time explaining or letting go?  What doctrines and traditions are we allowing to guide us and which ones are we allowing to constrain us?  Do people who come through our doors, who worship with us and who want a place to be loved and belong feel that in our churches?

I don't have the answers; but it's worth asking the questions.

A midnight phone call elicits a tinge of fear to almost anyone; a midnight phone call from your teenager sends a spike in adrenalin; a midnight phone call from your teenager sobbing brings sheer terror; a midnight phone call from your teenager sobbing about something you can't fix causes a sleepless night, a great deal of prayer, a lot of reflection, and a blog post.  I got that phone call last night....

Yesterday afternoon three of my four children left for All Saints their home away from home.  The place about which one of my children routinely says, "it's the only place I'm religious."  But he also says, "it's the place where I found my faith."  In our family we begin counting down the days to the next All Saints trip the afternoon we get back from the current one, so I was completely unprepared for the phone call.

It broke my heart to hear, between sobs, "I have no friends here except John MacLean." (Thank you dear John--you continue to bless our family.)  And, "I shouldn't have come.  It's not the same."  As her Mama I knew what she was really saying and so I said, "It's really hard being there without Mason isn't it?"  While this question unleashed another torrent of tears, it also affirmed the feelings. After a few moments I followed the question up with, "What other girls are there?"  Between sobs she replied, "I'm in a room by myself because they are all inseparable and so enthusiastic!  "Sweetheart," I said, "they are the next generation of you and Mason.  Ya'll followed the Paige/Rachel's and behind these girls come the twins/Caroline/Maria.  And it will go on and on and on because these relationships are what are formed at All Saints and they last a lifetime.  But these relationships are formed so that you can change the world.  This is a time of change for you, a huge transition."  I thought to myself, "It's like the 36 hours of labor to birth you--lots of pain but so worth the effort.  A new life springing forward."  After we hung up, as I said, I didn't sleep.  I hope she did.

The pain SK felt last night caught me by surprise, but it shouldn't have.  I know how much she deeply loves and needs All Saints.  For her college applications she has to answer the question, "Describe a place or environment where you are perfectly content. What do you do or experience there, and why is it meaningful to you?"  And without thinking twice, having traveled the world, SK chose All   Saints on the outskirts of Leitchfield, KY.

As I read back over her essay, the word "same" continues to jump out at me.  She writes, "We play the same games, sing the same songs, canoe to the same rock.  But I also get to meet new people and piece together who I am."  With the stress of senior year, SK needed "the same"; she craved "the same", and what she got was another experience of piecing together who she was as a person at All Saints,  not a person connected to Mason but completely by herself.  She began to feel the labor pains of moving out and moving on--always knowing All Saints would be there but feeling the beginning of not having it as frequently or in the "same" way.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that All Saints for the youth is a microcosm of the church.  And just as SK is struggling with change and what does it mean to be part of All Saints now that it's different, we in the church are struggling with changes all around us .  Some changes we embrace and some terrify us. These changes can be big--who's welcome and invited into positions of leadership; and some are small and seem insignificant.  If you'd told me 10 years ago I would not have turned my nose up at teenagers in jeans at church--four of whom are my teenagers in jeans at church, I would have scoffed at you.  The struggle that SK is experiencing at All Saints is the same we struggle with in our own perception of church. If it's not what it's always been, what will it be, and will I still fit? Will I still belong?

The real ah-ha moment for me came when I thought, "this discomfort, this change, this is exactly what the purpose of All Saints and the  church is."  We are not called to be just a place for respite, just a place for solace.  The Book of Common Prayers says, "Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength, for pardon only, and not for renewal." (BCP, p. 372)  Mason has already begun to live into this, SK is transitioning, others have embraced it.  It's a process.  To illustrate, the eighth grade giggly girls are coming for solace and comfort and unconditional love and acceptance.  They are coming for an escape from the "hell" of middle school.  The 10th and 11th graders are coming and exploring their faiths; they have moved from just a place of refuge to a place of trying on identities, figuring out what it means to take All Saints with you into the world.  And the seniors and college students are ready, thanks to All Saints, to take the strength and renewal they have gained and move out into the world.  All Saints will always be there for them in their hearts and for many it will continue to be the place they return summer after summer for solace, strength, pardon and renewal.  The lessons All Saints are teaching these youth are the very lessons we as a church need to learn.

Some people come into the church broken and hurting.  They come believing they have nothing to give; they come for solace and pardon only.  And that is okay.  They come and hopefully are accepted where they are on their journey and accepted as people created in the image of God.  As they are cared for, nurtured, blessed, not only do they bless those already there in ways they could never imagine,  but they also gather strength and renewal so that the church in the world becomes bigger and stronger--more accepting, more empathetic, more tolerant, more holy.  Things change, people come and go but the church in whatever form is the place where we are taken, blessed, broken and given to the world.  Church is where we come both for solace and for strength.  Church is where we come to be healed and to heal.  Church is both the same and different--it lives within the tension of tradition and change.  Church is not to be hoarded but to be given.  It is hard; it can be painful; it is definitely scary; and it is our calling.  "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord." (BCP, 366).  We have felt the peace, now give us the strength to go and serve.

Jesus is not a sound byte

Luke 14:25-33 

Just saying right now that Jesus could in no way run for political office here in the US in the 21^st century—in one fell swoop, he just threw away any credibility to espousing family values.  And that is precisely the point, Jesus is not running for public office; he is not trying to figure out how to convince us or persuade us (read manipulate us) into buying into a bunch of sound bytes that will close the deal without giving us the full story—the full picture of what choosing Jesus will entail—the costs and the benefits.  He is not telling us partial truths and glossing over reality, not telling us what we want to hear, and definitely not pulling a switch and bait—no in today’s Gospel Jesus is laying it out completely—all the costs and yet also begging us to choose him because in choosing him we are indeed choosing life.  But it does come with a cost, a discipline, a choice.

                Earlier this summer I was desperately trying to get back into an exercise regiment once I could run again.  I don’t know why it’s so easy to get out of shape and so hard to get back in—so I was struggling and in my frustration (I can be a little competitive even with myself) I was not completely committed.  In the mornings I would come up with lots of excuses—good excuses about why I couldn’t exercise; I needed to get to work earlier and didn’t have time; it was too hot; too rainy, one time I even said too cold.  A friend was also struggling and she decided to take action.  She formed a group 100 miles in 100 days and we each pledged to either walk or run at least 1 mile every day for 100 days—no excuses.   I made a choice—a choice that requires a commitment, a discipline, a choice, an intentional plan every single day.

        God is asking us to make a choice that requires a commitment and a cost every day—it’s not the simple choice on whether or not to get up and go to church on Sunday—that’s the sound byte; it’s a choice to say yes to Jesus guiding our every thought, word, and action—every day and in all we do.  We are being asked to make a decision to be a disciple of Jesus even when that choice brings us into conflict with those we love most dearly—our family and friends; a choice that may bring us into conflict with those with whom we work, go to school , and with our neighbors.  It is a choice to continue to follow the example of Jesus even when it puts us on the outside of our comfort zone; on the outside of the popular way of life.

        By making this commitment, we are also saying yes to paying attention—to paying attention to where the world seems broken and to being a part of the healing grace of God.  Sometimes these times are obvious, but sometimes not so much.  Often these times come up with those we know, love, and respect are centered around what we call the hot button issues--social issues such as sexuality, racism, sexism, health care etc.  And often it’s not overt and so we are called to pay attention and to make a choice. Do we speak up against our friend, do we challenge the actions of our mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, do we risk division of a friendship?

In the end for most of us, these decisions will not mean that we shun people when we disagree about a social issue nor will we take it upon ourselves to reign down God’s fiery judgment because we think the other is deliberately and cruelly making choices to bring harm or making severe errors in judgment, rather the choice is whether or not we allow these relationship to ultimately trump what and how Christ is calling us to be with each other and in the world.

        As strong as the language in today’s Gospel is, nowhere in it does it say become people of judgment—get in people’s face, judge, condemn—do whatever you have to to win—to cram your way of thinking down everyone  else’s throats.  Frankly that is dangerous—many times the one with whom we disagree may be in fact also be living their lives in a way they believe to be a committed life to Christ.  They may be as sure in their belief as we are in ours—a good time for dialogue, for discernment, for conversation that may open us all to hear something new.  Jesus is asking us each to make a personal choice and to live our lives fully and completely committed to him-- to live a life of love, and grace and openness, and forgiveness, and mercy.  We are not alone—we couldn’t do it alone, but “Glory to God whose power, working in us, can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine: Glory to him from generation to generation in the Church, and in Christ Jesus for ever and ever.”

        This is not a political ad, a sound byte.  It cannot be because being a disciple of Jesus means there are no separations—we don’t separate church and state or work and play in our lives—it is one life lived completely in thought word and deed completely and totally committed to God.  An integrated life lived with costs but oh the benefits—God is begging us to say yes.

Cousins Weekend--Where wearing lipstick and mascara at the same time means your overdressed

What is so special about Cousins' Weekend?  It's not like we don't see each other at other times of the year.  Seriously this family travels en masse to all events.  I almost laughed out loud when I was asked if I'd need one or two pews reserved for my Ordination--could you make that 10? So, what makes Cousins' Weekend so special; I'll try to put the indescribable into words.  It all begins when we drive through the hedges of Ditchley Pointe.  It's when we leave the world (and the make up) behind....

We come from three states; we come as marketing execs, guidance counselors, insurance execs, contractors, priests, health care analysts, elementary students, middle school students, high schools students and those in college.  We come as those who've been born into and married into this

mess; we come as first, second, and third--we've quit trying to figure it out, we're all just "Cousins." We come having experienced promotions and demotions; academic honors and academic disappointments, athletic success and bench warming status.  We come not to impress, not to outdo, but to just be; to be who we are at the core--"The Cousins." We come as people who have experienced trauma and loss, rehab and recovery, financial loss and gain, friendships lost and friendships gained, death and resurrection, moves and adjustments, but we come each and every year-- we just come.  And as we pull into the drive we know that despite all that has happened in our lives and all that will happen, we have three glorious days of just being "The Cousins."

The magic equality of Cousin Weekend this year began as we pulled into the driveway..
The new 16 year old driver pulls in and is greeted by the 8 year old who says, "You can drive now? Well look what I can do." as he
swings from the nearest limb.  And both are equally celebrated for their new skill as they run off to play lacrosse together, creating a secret handshake--simply Cousins.  Cousins embarking on another weekend of the solid and familiar, the routine and the tradition, the love and the laughter, and the unconditional pure grace and forgiveness.

We come to hear the familiar phrases of, "Don't leave the door open." "Don't forget your life jacket." "The mosquitos are really biting."  "Children take showers outside."  "Who wants to give Papa a massage?" "I'll just have a smidgen." and "Sit a spell and talk before you head out."

We come where every adult is as likely to reprimand anybody's child misbehaving as they are to grab him/her up in a spontaneous hug.  We come where we know that the first day we will swim and tube, the second we'll sail, kayak, tube, and go to the beach.  We'll pick crabs and eat at Sal's the final night.  In between they'll be every sport and card game imaginable.  We come each loaded down with food for his/her assigned meal but knowing that everyone will

be gathering together for dinner. There is always a pasta casserole the first night, banana bread, blueberry muffins (in honor of and remembrance of Gangan) and fruit for some breakfast, always ice cream, and always gummy bears and worms.  We come with lacrosse sticks, volleyballs, swim suits, towels and needlepoint. We come knowing the same pictures will be taken in the same spots that we have used for 18 years, and we come missing those who couldn't be there this year.

Oldest to youngest

By height--changes every year

But most of all we come with our hearts full of  love- and we come with and for the stories.  The stories we've told for years and the new stories we bring each year.  And all these stories are tightly wound together; they are wound as if they were multiple colors of yarn.  Yarn that is wound together into a tight ball; they are wound together so that all the stories combined become not your story or my story but part of our story.  The story of the Cousins.

As we drive away each year, each cousin takes a hold of a piece of that yarn and carries it in his/her

heart back through the hedges at the end of the drive and into the world--back into our separate lives into our separate states, the ball unravels as we move out; we are each given the right amount of string to be ourselves, but it never breaks; we are  always connected at the core because we are "The Cousins."




More about Cousins' Weekend

A Letter to Gangan
Another Letter to Gangan
Cousins of the Heart

Holding Hands

Two nights ago Sarah Katherine climbed into my bed, laid her head on my shoulder and reached for my hand.  Instantaneously the memory of the first time she reached for my finger as an infant flashed through my mind.  She clung so tightly then, and she clung so tightly the other night.  It was a powerful moment that has stayed with me for several days.  That moment followed a conversation I had earlier in the day.  A close friend with a most precious 7 month old asked me, "What have you learned in the last 10 years that you would have done differently?"  I'm pretty sure I droned on about the same old things most parents do who have a child on the threshold of leaving home, but again I couldn't get this question out of my mind.  This morning on my run a list just kept coming, so here is is.

• I would have said "no" to being on so many  boards and "yes" to more time being on swings
• I would have smocked and sewn fewer clothes and spent more time getting the ones we had dirty
• I would have made fewer gourmet meals and spent more time outside, rushing in to make whatever was quick (Lucy, I may have even made hamburger helper)
• I would have spent less time worrying about the future and what might happen and more time enjoying the present
• I would have spent less time asking questions and lecturing and more time listening
• I would have spent less time running errands and more time running on playgrounds
• I would have taken fewer pictures and been more involved in the moment
• I would have spent less time trying to make sure I was getting it right and more time just getting it
• I would have been less controlling about creating memories and more spontaneous in letting them happen
• I would have spent less time rushing around and more time holding hands

And I wonder, what am I missing in this moment?  We all have to slow down, be present, and allow hands to clasp ours.  In our busy lives, in our busy world, there is so much that goes unnoticed.  So many hands reaching out for ours.  Take time and hold one today..