Do Over

When they hand you the baby in the hospital, take off the little LoJack, and tell you to go home, they forget to tell you a bunch of stuff.

Sure, they give you a ton of those blue and white blankets, mostly so the kid fits in the car seat and her little head doesn’t bop from side to side as you do thirty miles an hour down the interstate, confident you will break the child if you go too fast.

But I digress.

They do not tell you what to do next. They do not tell you what to do when the kid is a teenager and is caught in a web of bad decisions. They don’t tell you siblings will keep secrets from you. They don’t tell you that the worrying only gets worse.

Most of all, they do not tell you that the world in which you grew up doesn’t exist any more and that it’s no use trying to do what your parents did because those days are gone and you have to figure it all out by yourself.

If I had to do it over again, I would have chosen a different school when we moved here. I would have delayed technology, maybe forever. I would have protected them from television and movies and other people. I would have interviewed their friends first and asked their parents a hundred questions. I would have, if I could, protected them more from themselves.

The reality is that infants turn into toddlers and toddlers turn into children and children turn into teenagers and it just gets harder with each phase. The world seems to get scarier and less Christian at the same time; the culture is shifting away from the holy and that just makes things harder. The kids have access to excess in their pockets and everything is overly sexualized.

In short, the world is a mess. It’s no wonder that kids suffer from more anxiety and depression and loneliness than any generation in history. How do we keep our children from being dumb when the stare our mothers gave us apparently skipped a generation or at least somehow, this generation seems immune to it.  You remember it, don’t you. Your mother could look at you and you could feel the stare go through you like a lightsaber. Either I don’t have the look, or my children just don’t care.

People keep telling us that it will get better, kids will outgrow this, and all will be well because our kids are good kids and every kid goes through this phase.

They better be right. I have all my eggs in this novena-shaped basket and my hopes are high that prayer and positive thinking (with a measured dose of discipline and counseling) will get us through these teenage years so my children become well-informed, well-adjusted, smarter-than-the-average-bear adults.

Because, right now, the internal button marked, “dumb,” seems to be stuck in the on position.

St. Jude, pray for us.

 

Open House

Schools host open houses around this time of year and, for many, it is simply a chance to boost enrollment. For the one we visited yesterday, it was much more.

We spent Sunday afternoon at the first of what I imagine will be many visits to high schools. The oldest is in seventh grade and we are thinking about life beyond middle school. The other schools we might visit have a high bar to reach after yesterday’s outing. I use the word, “might” because halfway through the tour, Ace Number One exclaims, “I will die if I don’t go here.”

Well, if it is a matter of life and death, the choice seems clear.

The young people giving the tour were kind and gentle, struggling somewhere between being high school freshmen and seniors and still trying to stick to the script. What struck me about the young women is that they were not giving tours of their school as much as they were showing us around their home. This is where they spend forty-plus hours a week. This is where they discover who they are. This is where they are fed – academically and spiritually. The only time our student guide faltered was in her explanation of the chapel. I shuddered as she struggled with her explanation of the liturgy, going to Mass, and the language around all that happens in this holy place until I reminded myself that she had no idea whether the audience was Catholic or not. This room, too, was a part of her home, but she did not want to assume everyone else had a room just like it in their middle schools. Still, her enthusiasm for getting to go to Mass, spending time with our Lord in Eucharistic Adoration, and having the opportunity to spend time in prayer was clearly meaningful to her. I wondered if my own explanation to a group of strangers would be any better.

Every classroom was filled with teachers, outlining the curriculum and reminding us that we could ask anything. I felt bad that I was unprepared to pepper the teachers with questions, though I imagine that might get old as the hundreds of parents pour through the halls. I discovered that I had traveled to Italy with one teacher 17 years ago and that another one I knew from a party across the street from our house. Small state. Small town.

Walking around with my two oldest, I was fascinated by the things that made them anxious (the gym) and what made them excited (the art room, the science room), and even what made them giddy (the menu of clubs). The showcase of work of the students betrayed the depth and breadth of the studies happening in the rooms we visited. From the science experiments happening all around us to the incredible artwork of Biblical Illumination, you would expect to see in a museum. As a dad who has not quite grasped that his eldest will be in high school in a few short years – or how we will pay for it – I was glad to see the variety of opportunities that await.

We wrapped up the tour in the cafeteria, where we found the rest of the family and homemade goodies covered the tables. Nothing calms the nerves like fresh chocolate chip cookies and punch.

As we walked to the car there was no need to ask what anyone thought. It was a gorgeous day on a gorgeous campus with faith-filled people and a spirit that echoed excellence and holiness. There was no question that this was a special place where young women are taught to advocate for themselves. As we crossed the yard through the falling leaves and tried to find the car, I wondered what people would think if my family hosted an open house. Would they encounter the person of Christ or a busy host? Would they feel welcomed or rushed? Would they see Jesus as the center of who we are or would we miss the mark?

This week, I will use the example of Sunday’s visit to welcome people to my own journey of faith. I will tell stories of encounter and work hard to be the face of Christ to others. I will bake chocolate chip cookies with the children and share them with others (the cookies, not the children).

May your week be blessed.

God Saw How Good It Was

It is a dad-only week as mom travels to Pittsburg for her organization’s annual meeting. I have caught up on laundry, mostly because Maureen did nearly all of it before she left. I have tried a new recipe for slow-cooker oatmeal, which the children voted “not as good” as the last recipe. And I let them have garbage for dinner one night while we watched the documentary, Planet Earth (and no, the irony of mankind’s treatment of the earth and the effect of dinner on their bodies wasn’t lost on the eldest).

It is only day three.

But there was moment in Mass yesterday when I was listening to Father John read about salt and light, that I began to think about how my children are lights in the world. The oldest is fascinated with the possibility of alternate universes and wants to study quantum physics. I’m not sure I could spell the word “quantum” at eleven.

Child number two wants to be a teacher. I have never met a child who could turn anything into “playing school.” If she helps her sister study, there is an imaginary classroom involved. If they are playing with Legos, she’s building a school. I’m not sure if she wants to impart wisdom or just likes being bossy.

Child number three will illustrate the next great graphic novel. He has taken a cue from his eldest sister and fills sketchbook after sketchbook with illustrations. When he isn’t drawing, he is casting spells from Harry Potter on all of us. I think he wishes the school would add Parseltongue to their foreign language choices.

Then there is the youngest. We are hoping the upcoming celebration of Reconciliation curbs her ability to lie to your face (“You were gone for thirty seconds and I’m not deaf, so there is no way in the world you brushed your teeth!”). Still, her gymnastic abilities are amazing. Her confidence is overwhelming. The lying will pass, I am sure, but I pray the playfulness never leaves here.

I look at these four amazing children and pray their father doesn’t screw things up. I pray that they will grow to cherish their relationships with each other. I pray that they will change the world in powerful, pervasive ways. I look from my chair to the four of them sitting on the couch, eating Chex mix and popcorn (we were out of ice cream) and I realize they are the light of the world. They are the light of my world.

And it is very good indeed.

Five to One

Those of us in ministry have gotten used to ratios. We know how many adults need to chaperone a field trip. We know how many young people we can invite to something before we start recruiting more cleared adults. As parents, we know what to ask when our children are invited to parties about the number of adults who might be present.

Chap Clark, author of great books like Sticky Faith turned the ratios around about 15 years ago when he first suggested that every child needs five adults investing in their lives. In a 2004 article in Decision Magazine, he wrote, “Here’s the bottom line: every kid needs five adult fans. Any young person who shows any interest in Christ needs a minimum of five people of various ages who will say, ‘I’m going to love that kid until they are fully walking as an adult member of this congregation.’”

Substitute “congregation” for “parish,” “faith community,” or even “family” and you start to see what could happen if each of our children are guided by responsible adults until they themselves can guide others. Pope Francis calls it “accompaniment.” The latest research shows that young people who have five such adults are three times more likely to live happy, healthier, more Spirit-filled, God-centered lives.

Kara Powell, who gave a great presentation at the National Conference on Catholic Youth Ministry, which Maureen helped coordinate and from which I just returned, mentioned this ratio in her talk. It got Maureen and I thinking: “Who are the five adults, outside mom and dad and grandparents, who will accompany our children?” Some of the answers came quickly. There’s Mary and Madeline. Vanessa and Fr. Joe. Charlotte. Mrs. Brady from school. Patrick from work. Mr. Mark who makes great pancakes. Aunt Cathy on dad’s side. Kathleen in England.

There are others too. But those are our answers. That’s our list.

This Advent we will sit down and make lists with the children. Who are the adults in their lives they want on their list? Who do they want to walk beside? Who do they admire in faithfulness? Who will accompany them on their journey to and with Christ? My guess is that the lists will have overlapping names and that they will name people mom and dad haven’t even thought about.

I think we all need a list. I think we all need guides – at any age. So this week, make your own list. Write it down. Then tell those people you are counting on them to lead you to Christ. But be forewarned. You might be on someone’s list too.

Let us pray together that we share in the responsibility to carry one another to the manger, to the Temple, to the garden, to the cross, and to the empty tomb.

May your week be blessed.

 

 

 

Holes

The children wanted to dig a hole in the backyard this weekend.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because. It’s a big yard. It needs a hole.”

“Don’t you remember digging holes when you were a kid?” My wife asks.

I honestly don’t.

I remember tying the wagon to my bike and going on imaginary trips. My maternal grandmother would even mail her paper boarding pass to me so I could use them when I pretended to travel. I still have one tucked away in a book somewhere. It serves as a memento of a generation passed.

I remember being younger and having absolutely nothing to do. Of course, you dare not admit this boredom for fear of being overheard and the avalanche of chores that might follow.

I remember putting fireflies in jars.

I remembering eating tons of ice cream and not getting an upset stomach and I remember drinking a coke and still being able to fall asleep.

I remember riding my bike until it was dark and walking to McDonald’s with my brother.

But I don’t remember digging holes.

Still, at some point this weekend I paused from the home construction project I wanted to get done and looked out in the yard. There were the children, digging a hole. I found myself unconsciously humming a song I heard once upon a time. The song is “Eulogy” by The Hereafter and, though I have no idea of its origin, I love these lyrics:

Let’s pretend that we can still pretend/Let’s pretend that we are young again/I am only looking for a friend/Let’s pretend that we are young again.

As I hummed the tune, I wandered out to the yard. The kids were so proud. So dirty. So happy.

And I had to admit. It was an impressive hole.

This week remember what gave you joy when you were kid. Hitch your wagon to your bike. Smile more. Email less. Put down the phone. Catch a firefly.

Dig a hole.

 

 

Calm Amidst The Storm

A friend told me that it takes a year to really move. A year to get settled. A year to feel at home.

As the son of a military officer, he moved around a lot as a child and young adult, so I remember thinking he must know what he is talking about. Still, I thought, it will not take us that long. Being together is what counts and it will feel like home quickly.

My friend was right.

Sure, the house feels like home some of the time. But there is a restlessness that is shared by the children and the parents as the projects continue. The basement is off limits as our first project of preparing the playroom and movie area is stalled. The walls are framed and the drywall is hung, but the rest of it is waiting for the whole house air conditioning to be installed, which had to wait until the bank gave the okay, which waited for the estimates and paperwork.

So we moved the Legos to the sunroom to give the children some space to play. Then the sunroom project of new walls, windows, and a sliding door forced the Legos to move to the dining room table. To save money, we let the company schedule us whenever they wanted so when they arrive and say, “It’s time,” we moved. The sunroom will not be finished until the insulation and drywall go in, but to save money, the insulation crew is waiting to come out until it’s time to do the attic, which cannot happen until the air conditioning is installed.

Champagne problems, to be sure.

Still, there is a restlessness as movie night is moved to the master bedroom and we crowd into the bed and argue over who sits where. There is restlessness as we squeeze into the kitchen to eat dinner, having surrendered the dining room to the Legos. There is dust everywhere.

Thankfully, the heat has abated and the windows are open, cooling the house. Boxes and toys are still unpacked as they are moved from room to room. Books litter the floors as I try to catch up on writing. Amazon keeps delivering boxes for projects that have to wait for the weekend or other pieces of the puzzle to be completed. We would use the garage for some larger things but the doors are broken and do not open. They, too, are on the list.

Then, in the midst of the craziness, we look out the window and see the deer that wander through our yard. They like to eat the Hostas, but since landscaping is on next year’s list, they can only wander through our yard to see what the neighbor’s have to offer.

But in the stillness we stand silent. We stare out the window knowing that any little noise will scare them off. In hushed tones we huddle at the window and talk about how pretty, how small, how tall, how majestic, how quiet, how everything they are…

We stand in our home together and watch.

The stillness is interrupted by the rapping on the door.

“Why is that person knocking so loudly?” I ask no one in particular.

“Oh, yeah,” comes the response. “The doorbell is broken.”

(Sigh)

“It will take a year,” I tell myself, “It will take a year.”

 

 

Amused at the Park

The children and I spent a day last week at the local amusement park. It is called Quassy and the kids named it Connecticut’s version to Lancaster’s Dutch Wonderland, which used to be part of our summer tradition. Though smaller and boasting less rides, the park is manageable and affordable, two things often missing from similar parks. Since the admission to the park was included in the day camp our local parks and recs hosts, I decided to save the kids from the bus ride and join them. Plus, child number two is a bit skittish on some of the rides so it helped to have Dad along.

We started at the swinging chairs. Every year since she was tall enough to ride them, child number one has sought to conquer the ride. This year, her brother joined her. In past years, the screams coming from my first born would have passers by thinking someone was dismembering her and then there was the one year the operator stopped the ride early. To be fair, the bar on the front of the chair had come down and split my lip and since she was sitting behind me screaming, the teenage  operator saw the blood on her shirt (flying off my lip), heard her screams, and wondered what he had done wrong. But I digress.

This year, she climbed aboard, buckled herself in and pulled her hat down over her face. No screams. She later commented that if she didn’t look, she wasn’t scared, and could just enjoy the ride. There is a lesson in there for life in general, I am sure.

Then it was off to the wooden roller coaster. “I’m not going,” child number two repeats the entire 20 minutes in line. “I’ll wait with you,” I think to myself. But as we near our turn, she summoned the courage and off we went. Two thoughts went through my mind as we hit the first hill: First, I am taller than most of the youngsters on this ride and I really hope the designers of this ride took that into consideration for that tunnel up there. Second, the bar, though tight on me, has left significant room for the child next to me to wiggle around and if she falls out, her mother will kill me.

Unless they are filled with actual tea, I don’t do teacups.

The pirate ship was my undoing. Back and forth motion makes me ill and it didn’t help that the eight year old next to me kept coming off the seat as the ride made its return trip down and then up again. Half way through, he say, “Okay, I’m good, we can stop now.” I explained that it doesn’t really work like that as I close my eyes and hold him tightly. The oldest child, who took her sisters to the merry-go-round while we were getting nauseas, is waiting for us at the exit and say, “I thought you hated that ride.”

“I do,” I said, “But I love your brother.”

“So do I,” she says pointing back to the ride, “But not that much.”

We hit the other rides in due time and the water park was a nice place to sit and watch the kids run hither and yon while I took a nap. “When did I get old?” I think as I sit in the shade and close my eyes, wondering why no adults work at this place.

The end of the day sees us parked at the bumper cars for four or five turns. The lines in the park have dwindled and Joe, the teenager running the ride lets the kids go again and again. I find the bumper cars to be both exhilarating and counter-intuitive. I was taught not to hit things when I drive, so I instinctively swerve around the cars and navigate the traffic in the pen around and around without hitting anything. “You’re doing it wrong,” Joe says over the intercom, mocking my abilities to steer clear of the others. Then, wham, the kids have ganged up on me and hit me from all sides. They shout with glee as Joe tells them to do it again. “Everyone hit the man in the blue car,” he announces, pleased with himself. I consider trying to jump the tracks to hit Joe with my car, but enjoy the moment of bliss on my youngest child’s face instead.

“Have fun teaching them how to drive,” Joe calls as we depart. I laugh, praying that day will stay far away, knowing deep down it will be here before I know it.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” I announce like I always do when it’s time to head back to base. I am hoping they will sleep. I am hoping the sun has exhausted them.

If only wishing made it so.

Five Years On

As I look back on the five years since we lost Dad, I am moved this morning by the reading from the second letter of Paul to the Corinthians.

Brothers and sisters:
We hold this treasure in earthen vessels,
that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us.

Dad taught us that we are not in control. Ours should be a life of quiet service to others, not one of power or prestige.

We are afflicted in every way, but not constrained;
perplexed, but not driven to despair;
persecuted, but not abandoned;
struck down, but not destroyed;

In the last few months of his life, Dad came to know what persecution really meant. Still, he was a man of prayer and confidence, never despairing, never losing hope. Though he knew the ending of the story, he filled its pages well, living intentionally, knowing that each day mattered.

…always carrying about in the body the dying of Jesus,
so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body.

He knew he became what he received, so he received the Body and Blood of Christ often. He let Jesus live in him and through him and with him.

For we who live are constantly being given up to death
for the sake of Jesus,
so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh.

The ups and downs of life are a shared effort between us and Christ, so long as we remember that we are rooted in Him. If we connect our sufferings to Christ, so too will we share in Jesus’ resurrection.

So death is at work in us, but life in you.

The relationship is changed, not ended.

Since, then, we have the same spirit of faith,
according to what is written, I believed, therefore I spoke,
we too believe and therefore speak,
knowing that the one who raised the Lord Jesus
will raise us also with Jesus
and place us with you in his presence.

Dad professed his faith proudly, knowing that care for his wife and family – bringing others to Christ through himself – was his ticket home to God.

Everything indeed is for you,
so that the grace bestowed in abundance on more and more people
may cause the thanksgiving to overflow for the glory of God.

Thank you, Dad, for who you were and what you continue to be in our lives. We miss you every day and give thanks again and again for all you taught us about life, love, and peace.

Holding Hands

As we walked the neighbor’s dog the other day, something happened that changed my day entirely. I had worn flip-flops as we left the house, not expecting to walk a mile with the dog or the children. But as we drove towards Home Depot (where they know us by name at this point), the children remembered they needed to feed and water Digby, so we stopped at our neighbor’s house. No problem, I thought, I can sit in the car while they complete their chores. They had failed to mention a walk was part of the deal.

So off we went around the circle. About half-way through the first loop, the youngest sighed and announced that having a dog is hard (she’s not much of a walker) and it would be easier if I carried her. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. She was hot, I was hot, and she is not as small as she used to be.

Another deep sigh from the seven year old.

Then, as if resigned to continuing our journey, she simply slipped her hand in mine.

As a parent, there is something very sweet when a child slips his or her hand in yours. All at once it gives you a feeling of pride and a sense of responsibility. She knew she was safe with me. She knew she could keep up if she stayed in step with dad. She knew she would not get lost, left behind, or left out if she simply held on.

As we walked, I wondered what went through her mind in the moments before she took my hand. We teach our children to hold our hands when they are very little and we are crossing the street. We teach our children to hold our hands in the store when the crowds are overwhelming. Though they fight about it, squeeze one another’s hands too hard, and generally annoy one another we hold hands when we pray at Mass. Sometimes on movie nights, when the movie is scary and the characters on the screen face the unknown, we hold hands. Somehow, the act of touching someone makes the unknown more bearable.

Do you remember the first time you held the hand of someone you loved as an adult? That moment there was a connection, a spark, a nervous calm as you realized you were falling in love?

It still overwhelms me sometimes to think about how much responsibility comes with raising children. Inside, I am still a child wishing I could hold the hand of my father or mother.

I know that the day is coming when the hands of my children will grow too big to hold. The day will come when they will reach for someone else’s hand to make them feel safe.

For now, however, I will hold on. I will protect them. I will guide them safely across the busy streets. And I will cherish the moments when they slip their hands in mine and, despite all my faults, trust that I will walk them home.