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The Hat

There is a couple that sits in front of us at Mass on Sundays. She always wears the nicest hats. They are the quintessential older couple: smartly dressed, clearly still in love, and about the same age as our children’s grandparents. I would like to say that we would know them anyway were it not for the hats, but you never know.

A few Sundays after the family moved up here last summer, the oldest child wore a hat to Mass. It provided the perfect opening for Mrs. C to say something to our eldest about how good it is to see someone else who appreciates a good hat.

Since then the friendship has blossomed. Mrs. C has presented hats to the girls and going to Mass has become something I know they will enjoy because Mr. and Mrs. C will be there.

We have been to their home. They have baked us a cake. We pray for their daughter, who’s fighting an illness, every night. Mrs. C is one of our first-born’s “five” – that small group of people she knows she can count on, go to, trust, admire, and emulate. It’s more than just a hat now; they are part of our extended family.

As we sat behind them at Mass this morning, Mrs. C in her purple hat and Mr. C in his matching scarf, I thought about how, in a few short months, they had become a part of the village helping to raise our children. It made me think of the life of our parish community – filled with many such stories. A parish ought to be a family. Faith ought to be transformational. We discover that God loves us and values us only when we are loved and valued by others.

No matter where you sit on Sundays, relationships matter. Stories matter. Stories disarm us; shared responsibility disarms us. Faith is at the center of the table but we all share in the responsibility to make sure faith doesn’t just stay there. Our understanding of God grows only as we learn that God is beyond our understanding.

Sharing the Good News requires legs and arms and voices.

And, yes, on occasion, the right hat.

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Blind Guides

I can relate to this morning’s Gospel reading. Jesus is chastising the Pharisees for their arrogance, their impudence, and their failure to hold themselves accountable to the same rules they force upon others. The Pharisees, in short, miss the point.

Sometimes, so do I.

I mistake the whining for immaturity when it is really rooted in hunger. I mistake the moodiness for irritation with siblings when it is really rooted in nervousness about a new school. I mistake the over-sensitivity for pettiness when it is a struggle to find balance between a child and being a big girl. I excuse the lack of confidence on the fact that she is the youngest, when really she just wants to find her place among the others.

I get irritated when the dishwasher is not filled the way it should be but do not take the time to teach them how to do it. I complain about the condition of the bedroom but do not take time to help straighten it. I expect maturity and empathy and responsibility but sometimes fail to lead by example.

Blind guides indeed. Blind parents. Blind father.

This week, I will teach instead of tell. I will model instead of demand. I will listen for the explanation instead of jumping to conclusions.

This week, I will be less pharisaic and more like the Master.

The real struggle is what happens next week, and the next, and the next…

 

 

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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.