Accidentally Amazing

On Friday, we accidentally had an incredible afternoon.

Charles had to go to Salina at lunchtime to work in a clinic there for the afternoon. He called on his way out of town, and as we talked, one thing led to another, and we decided that the kids and I would drive up with him and kill time for a couple of hours while he was working. We had no real agenda, just a decision that a little adventure would be fun.

So, I grabbed a bunch of stuff (water, snacks, shoes for the kids) and we were off. An hour and a half after Charles' initial phone call, he was dropped off . . . and I decided that rather than randomly driving around, hoping to figure out a plan for our down time, I would use my resources and Google it up. So I typed in park, figuring that running around and burning some energy would help the littles with the drive home.

And so, I happened upon Oakdale Park, which was huge and wonderful. I mean, maybe if you live in Salina you don't agree, but we loved it. We ended up staying until Charles texted that he was ready to be picked up. The weather was perfect: the sun was warm, and the breeze was cool; I was neither hot nor cold. The kids played and played and there was barely a squabble or shriek between them. 

Without plan or intention, it was the most perfect day. 

We saw the train.

Can you guess which kid was more interested?

We played. 

Clare was the "captain."

We made music.

We played some more. (And made a giant mess!)

And yes, they are both laughing. 

I mean, I know I keep going on and on about how great it was, but I mean it. We had the most lovely afternoon on a day I had planned on folding laundry and making a casserole. 

Isn't that how it goes oftentimes? We have these big, great plans that we are sure will bring us joy and wonder, and things go askew. For whatever reason, they just don't measure up.

Then, we let go and let God. We go with the flow. Grasp an opportunity. Do something that maybe even sounds a little crazy (e.g. drive two kids to Salina, KS, for an afternoon for no reason.) And it ends up being accidentally amazing. Totally amazing.

Taking a Risk {or Reflections on Doing God's Will}

Are you a risk taker?

I am SO not. I'm so far from being a risk taker that I could reasonably be called risk averse. I get too comfortable with the status quo and don't step outside of my comfort zone. 

If you are anything like me, your blog reader and Instagram feed seem to be full of people stepping out and doing something BIG. And possibly something agrarian.

Cari and Dwija and now Rosie are moving out of the 'burbs and into the country. 

Haley and fam didn't just give up the corporate gig to give farming a try, but made a road trip of it before they got there. What the what?!?

Here I am, happily ensconced in that suburban life with the minivan, the ballet class, the preschool. The family dinners and the commute. It looks so common and so boring. Their lives look so interesting. It's easy to start thinking that to be a good, Catholic mom, you gotta get your homestead on. But no. No no no.

Just no.

God wants us to do his will for our lives, not theirs. He's asking us, like he asked his disciples to leave everything and follow Him. 

I look again at how I'm living God's will for my life. I do a little reframing, to try to see my life how God does. You know, the life where I moved halfway across the country with my husband and two kids under two to a small Midwestern city far from family where we barely knew a soul, to set up shop for three years, so my husband could work a million hours a week, receive amazing training, and not have to worry about (or be alone in) not prescribing contraception or referring for abortion?!?

That one. My boring little life.

Yeah, I'm living my own brand of stepping out. But you know what? It didn't feel like that. It just felt like living. It felt like prayer and response. I think that that's the key: a life of prayer, so that when we hear God's voice, we can respond. 

Maybe it was a risk, but it didn't feel like one. I trusted that God is guiding our path. 

How is God asking you to step outside of your comfort zone? Maybe He's asking you to be Abraham, to move your tribe across the desert on his promise of something great to follow. Maybe he's asking you to be Mary, to simply give your fiat. "Be it done to me according to thy word." But know that by making the radical choice to give your life over to Him, you, like me, are becoming that risk taker.

Food Is My Love Language

It's not an original comment. Surely you've heard it in some form before. Food is my love language. Coffee. Chocolate. Wine. Whatever. I certainly know I have. And I know it's meant tongue in cheek, but there's some truth to those words as well.

I've been thinking about it lately. Because, oh my gosh, you guys, food is so my love language. The kitchen is my happy place. I talk whine here about my kitchen a lot. And I really, truly am grateful for a functioning, reasonably modern Western kitchen. But I daydream about the kitchen I long for. I watch Property Brothers and Fixer Upper to swoon over the kitchens. 

If you're not familiar with the Five Love Languages, I'd definitely recommend you checking them out. Understanding how to communicate love to those you, well, love, goes so far in keeping those relationships running smoothly. And if things are rocky, you might just find that there's a love language disconnect. I think the apology language stuff is really interesting, too.

So food is my love language. And quality time, acts of service, and, sometimes, touch. I score just about zero when it comes to gift giving --  I try for those who value it, but it's just not my forte. Sorry.

That's what got me thinking.

I was making dinner to take to the mom of a recently birthed little bambino. I had met this woman exactly one time in my life, but I very, very happily spent the better part of a day getting her dinner perfectly aligned and ready to deliver. For someone who doesn't do gifts, this was turning into quite the spread.

But it wasn't a gift, I said, it was an act of service. I totally do acts of service.

Lightbulb.

People, food isn't a love language. It's all of the love languages.  Or at least it invites all of the love languages. Think about it. Food invites us around the table: quality time. We prepare it, clean it up, share it: acts of service. Eating is a physical activity: touch. It call us to words of affirmation and thanksgiving: for preparing food, for joining us at the table, for sharing your story or your joke. And giving food to those around us: gifts. 

And then, my mind kept going . . . what is the centerpiece of our faith? A meal. First, God called the Israelites to prepare for, and then commemorate the Exodus with a meal. Then, he perfected it by becoming the Passover lamb. A meal we become united with at each Mass. Christ calls us to share in him, in his unity, in his love . . . through food.

Maybe I'm on to something.

Reflections on 4 Years of Marriage

{I started this post on our anniversary, July 9, but things got busy, so it's getting published today.}

Four years ago, Charles and I stood before our family, friends and God and freely promised to be together faithfully, and (God-willing, (and He has been)) fruitfully, for all the days of our lives. We exchanged rings and prayed. Our first act together as man and wife, really, was to kneel at the altar for the Liturgy of the Eucharist at our wedding Mass. God first. After sharing in the Lord's Supper, we celebrated. 

I shared this picture on Facebook with the following caption, "4 years, 2 kids, 1 great adventure, countless blessings! So grateful to be celebrating with Charles Armstrong today. (As an aside, this is one of my very favorite pictures from our wedding, because it exemplifies what we want our marriage to be, man and wife in prayer with Christ as our focus.)"  Left unsaid was my prayer that, in some small way, we were, are, and will be something of an example to our community of people trying our best to live an authentic Christian life in this world of turmoil. 

(by Noyan Photography)

This morning, we woke up in our king-sized bed, a tangle of arms and legs, stuffed animals and blankets, kids and adults. A beautiful tangle of the life we have built in that time. I could think of nothing more perfect.

I mean, I get it, we've only been married four years. We have plenty to learn. 

The weekend before our wedding, we were at a 4th of July BBQ where a woman, married for 30something years, from our then-parish shared this story with me:

She had, the week before, made blueberry pancakes for her husband. As she told the story, it was clear that she was pleased with the gift she had given her husband, and as he was eating, he looked up, appreciative, but mentioned, "You know, off all the berries, blueberries have always been my least favorite." The moral of the story was that there is always more to learn about your spouse.

I reflect on that story frequently. 

On the surface, it's a silly story about blueberry pancakes and learning about your spouse, but it's so much bigger than that to me. I think it's an example of how marriage should be. Serving one another. Accepting one another's love without condition. Learning, molding, growing, changing, honesty, giving, together through thick and thin. Kindness.

And above all else, love. The wife told the story with love; the husband chuckled at it with love. At the end of the day, they love each other, not in a fit of frenzied romance, but in a true desire for the best for one another. 

The Second Reading at our wedding was from Romans. We chose it because of how it reflected Christian love. "Do not grow slack in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer" (verses 11-12). (The full reading is Romans 12: 1-2, 9-18).

I only pray that, as the years go on, our marriage continues to be full of growth, of love, and of life.

In Thanksgiving (In June)

Eucharist means Thanksgiving.

We were reminded of that yesterday morning at Mass, as our priest reflected on the Eucharist in celebration of Corpus Christi -- the Body and Blood of Christ. He suggested that, during Mass, as we prayed, and as we fight the distractions that can make focusing on Mass so difficult, we offer our prayers of thanksgiving for the blessings in our lives.

And really, I am so blessed.

It's something I try to remember frequently, but I need to remember it constantly. And not just in November.

I am so blessed.

I have clean water. I have a lovely house in a safe neighborhood with a fully equipped, fully functioning western kitchen. I have food to cook and the means to buy it. We have clothes on our backs and shoes on our feet. We have more: so many luxuries that we don't even remember that they are luxuries anymore -- dishwasher, washing machine, central heating and cooling, cars, televisions, computers, telephones -- tools that are the stuff of modern life, yes, but in truth, they are luxuries. 

I have the best family -- an incredible husband; two beautiful, healthy children; extended family and friends who love me and miss me. I love all of them more than they can know. 

Little Blessings

I have faith. That alone means more to me than words can express.

Today, instead of grumbling through my chores, sighing when asked another question, or whining about my imperfect kitchen, I pray that I give thanks for the ability to do my chores (and all that entails), for my healthy, developmentally normal, inquisitive children, and for my perfectly imperfect kitchen. I take so much for granted. 

I need to practice gratitude and giving thanks where it is due. And to God goes all the glory. 

Crosses, Sacrificial Love, and the Facebook Article I Needed to Read

I've talked about it before, but night float is hard. It might not be the worst, but that doesn't mean that it can't still be hard.

Yesterday was hard. Wednesday was hard. I was struggling. I was lonely. I was all kinds of ready to spend my evening typing out a post complaining about how **** hard this round of night float was. Poor me.

But then, I scrolled past an article on Facebook. I had scrolled by it a time or two already, but, in a moment of hiding from all the hard in my life, I clicked through. And I was convicted. Thanks, God.

The article was written to address the future-focused mentality of many medical families, especially those still in training, but I think the message is good for any of us in the trenches of childbearing and rearing. Always waiting for the promise of a brighter day robs us of the blessings that are right in front of us now.

But this offshoot is what got me: the advice to acknowledge something as hard without getting caught up in it. Because I'm so not good at that. I tend toward the Pollyanna, because once I see the muck, it's like quicksand. I find myself sinking deeper and deeper, and not doing much to get out of it. 

It doesn't have to be that way. See, what the Catholic worldview gives us is the knowledge that things may be hard -- the crosses in our lives -- but they are also good. They are sanctifying. They teach us to die to self. They help us create hearts the are for God, not for ourselves and our worldly comforts and desires. 

Night float, for better or for worse, is a sacrifice. Charles sacrifices his comfort (believe me, he wants to work nights, well, not at all) for the good of his patients, and for the long-term good of our family. The kids and I sacrifice time with him for those same goods. Acknowledging that it's hard, and then moving on is a healthy point of view. Acknowledging that it's hard and then turning into a snippy, angry, shell of a mom is not.

Know what finally got me out of my funk yesterday? I said a prayer. I asked God to give me the grace to get through my day, to get through the rest of the week.

When will I ever learn?

It practically goes without saying that my attitude improved after that. I got some rest and was able to hit reset. And know what? If I'm honest, the rest of yesterday was still hard, but it was easier to get through once I stopped thinking only about myself. Go figure.

And if night float is a cross, so be it. God willing, it will be one I bear with grace.

On Liturgical Living These Days

A lot of months ago, I declared my intention to really start incorporating the Liturgical Year into our home life in a more meaningful way. Since neither Charles nor I grew up that way, we're starting from scratch here, and if we try to do anything too unnatural -- inorganic to our lives -- it feels flat and forced. It doesn't work or stick. Maybe it's a great idea that we're just not ready for. Or maybe it just wasn't a great idea for us.

Regardless, it's really important to me that we find things that do work for us. I've understood for awhile that our human hearts, for whatever variety of reasons, crave the rhythm of liturgical living. We want to live seasonally -- we plant, tend, harvest. We work six days and rest on the seventh. We spent cold hard cash on decorations and goods for every holiday imaginable. We pepper our year with celebrations of all sorts. Pi day, anyone?!?

As a family, I'd call us "rising intermediate" (read: we're getting better) on the liturgical living scale. We celebrate a lot of days, but we don't go big. We keep it simple.

We have a good grasp on the basics: a big "Sunday dinner" on Sundays. Lent, Advent, Christmas, Easter. We're getting there more and more each year.

We celebrate what Kendra calls the "Big Three" -- birthdays, baptism days, and name days. The person getting celebrated gets to pick what we have for dinner. Bam! Easy Peasy. And since I can't help but celebrate stuff, there are often things like cupcakes and cookies and candles and treats and giving you your favorite breakfast, too.

Thanks to our kitchen chalk board, remembering the saints and feasts is much easier. I try to add an extra little treat or something to our day to acknowledge those saints to whom one or more of us has an additional devotion.

But I've had this nagging issue with Holy Days of Obligation and other Solemnities.

It started in August when, for reasons I no longer remember, I was looking at the school calendar for the parochial school attached to our parish, and I realized that they don't have school on Holy Days of Obligation. Like a thunderbolt, it struck me: as Catholics, these are not merely days that we need to drag ourselves to Mass. They are days that we should be treating as holy days . . . as holidays. Gasp! (No, really, it was that earth-shattering to me.) So, accordingly, I've been trying to, at least, make what would normally be a special or Sunday dinner on those days.

Then, when I was reading Kendra's post yesterday on Solemnities, and starting to feel overwhelmed once again with trying to invent traditions for all of them, the solution dawned on me. Like I said at the beginning, we are at the point where "celebrating the liturgical year" still means keeping it simple.  And what could be simpler than adding to the meal we're already enjoying? Adding dessert, which we almost never have as a family? What is more celebratory than dessert? And with the decision that there will be dessert for Solemnities, there was peace.

So today, on the Solemnity of St. Joseph, we're eating roast and having ice cream. Easy, beautiful, and celebratory as that.

St. Joseph, pray for us.

Transformation! {Kitchen Update}

Even though I am the least crafty person ever, and even though my project barely qualifies as crafty, I'm linking up with Ana, because I can.

For the uninitiated, when we moved into our house in Wichita last summer, it included this horrible, horrible sight:

From the moment I laid eyes on the Green Monster, I said that the first thing I was going to do was paint it. Well, once I got here, that promise got delayed by: 1) other painting projects, 2) indecision about what color to use, and 3) the realization that the whole kitchen needed paint, not just the Wall O Doom.

Finally, a few weekends ago, Charles announced that we were doing the kitchen and forced me to (finally!) make a decision about paint. I could not have been more thrilled with the outcome!

Which left unanswered the question of what I wanted to put on the wall.

Meanwhile . . . I know I've mentioned before that I saw the sunrise through our kitchen window on Christmas morning. I made this little number, because it put the Canticle of Zechariah in my head.

Ever since then, I've been noticing the sunrise in the mornings. I've been appreciating the dawn and seeing Christ in it, opening my heart to God first thing in the morning in a way I never have before. I felt called to say the Morning Offering. Problem? I don't actually have it memorized. So, I would go fumbling through my phone, getting distracted more often than not.

Solution? Kendra's printables! I decided to print and frame the Morning Offering. I also decided to put up a copy of her Grace Before Meals, because I wanted to have it up in our kitchen somewhere. Once I got those hung, I finally felt inspired to put stuff up on Zee Vall.

Fancy me took a plain, cheap blackboard and put lots and lots of coats of silver craft paint on the frame. In retrospect, I should have either tackled my fear of spray paint or used a layer of a dark paint under my silver, but live, learn and craft on. Or something like that. I used a chalkboard marker to put "Today" in fancy-ish letters and add "ora pro nobis" at the bottom. In the middle, I update with what's for dinner and what we're up to for the day. I add a saint at the bottom, and done. It takes about 2 minutes a day. (Thanks, Grandma, for the amazing calendar that has saints every day! It makes daily saint finding a breeze!!)

Overall, I'm super pleased with how the wall turned out and absolutely love how I'm using the chalkboard. It makes me think about my day, and helps me be a bit more intentional. I very, very purposefully put the Morning Offering right by the coffee pot. It ensures that it is one of the first things I see every morning and encourages me to take a moment to pray it as I start my day. One of the best decisions I've made.

Keurig pictured, but the main coffee pot is right next to it.

(Side note: My poor girl came down with a bug yesterday, so we're laying low again today and, hopefully, getting better. Please pray she recovers quickly and that none of the rest of us get her bug.)

Praying

I wrote about four drafts yesterday. I started another this morning, but I feel like I need to hit publish on this before my mind can sift through the rest.

For the second time in less than two years, my small hometown is facing tragedy of great proportions.

I didn't know Kayla Mueller personally. But Prescott is a 3-degrees of separation town. My dad knows some members of her family. That's close enough for me to for me to feel rocked by the news of her death. Too close. Too close for comfort.

There is evil in the world. People might try to whitewash it or qualify it, but the truth is that there is evil in the world. When I first accepted that fact -- like really, truly accepted it -- I felt crippled. What could I do?

But now? Now I know.

I can pray. I can hit my knees and pray like it means something. Because it does. For the repose of Kayla Mueller's soul. For her family. For our country. For our allies. For our enemies. For her captors. For the still-murky circumstances that led to her death, and for those that caused it. For those still being held captive. For peace. For a world where peace is possible.

Maybe it is too much to ask for in this life, but I have faith in God, through whom all things are possible.

For Kayla all all the faithful departed: Eternal rest grant unto them, oh Lord and let perpetual light shine upon them.

Reflections on Making Sandwiches

When Charles worked at Andre House, I became the Sandwich Girl.

Each night, four "guests" (those we served) volunteered to sweep the parking lot/gathering space outside of The Building (yes, that was the main structure's "name"). In exchange, they got to be the first four people served and received a sack lunch, presumably for the next day. Some days, it was a popular job, and the volunteers were selected by lottery. Other days, only one or two people were up for the task.

As the Sandwich Girl, my job was to make those sack lunches. Because Charles' night to run soup line was Thursday, and Andre House does not serve dinner on Fridays, I felt that pouring my love into those lunches was of utmost importance. Two sandwiches (one meat, one peanut butter), a piece of fruit (the best-looking I could find among the food bank produce), some snacks, something sweet, 2 bottles of water. Once a week I would line up the bread, 8 slices at a time, and made sandwiches, assembly-line style. Very often, I reflected on how this was, hopefully, preparing me for my vocation as mother.

At the time, I envisioned some point in the still-distant future when I was packing lunches for my kids to take to school. Lining up the stuff they should eat (the sandwich and fruit) with the stuff they would eat (the snacks and sweets).

Last weekend, I found myself, for the first time in a long time, with the stuff lined up to make four peanut butter sandwiches. One for each member of my little family.

My time has come.

And it was interesting, because, even though each one was made with extra customization, fitting the needs of each member of the family, the love was the same.

It's beautiful, really, how God prepared my heart for making lunches. I know plenty of moms feel dread when noon strikes and the charges decide that they need lunch now. 5 minutes ago, preferably. Believe me, I've been there, too. But there are also moments when I'm prepared or when the natives are a bit less restless or I take a moment to breathe and reflect. At those moments, I feel that love. I feel so blessed to be able to do something as simple -- nay, as important -- as making sandwiches for my family.

Yes, I'm blessed to have the means to make lunch. Food security is an important blessing that I don't give thanks for nearly often enough. But it goes beyond that.

You see, God called us, with great clarity, to feed "the least of these brothers of mine." He didn't leave much room for interpretation. At Andre House, in my kitchen, at the place of some future calling, when I make sandwiches, I feed the hungry. When I feed the hungry, I feed Christ. And when I feed Christ, He gives me more than mere food. He gives me the stuff of life.

What Teaching Confirmation is Teaching Me

This fall, thanks in no small part to Clare's Miraculous Medal ("Mawee Mehdal") that she wore to the new parishioner brunch at our parish (true story--thanks, Grandma!), we got recruited to help teach confirmation this winter.

For three fast and furious months, we host a group of high school sophomores in our home each Sunday evening, hashing out the faith, drinking cocoa, and eating baked goods. More and more, thankfully, we are laughing and having fun along the way. Hopefully, they are opening their hearts to the workings of the Holy Spirit in the process. Definitely, they are seeing a glimpse of family life, with Clare dancing through the living room and Peter showing off his chill and happy baby skills.

Clare looooooves the "Confirmation girls" and likes showing off for them.

You know that adage about learning things by teaching them? Yep, that is definitely happening. I've learned so much about the Sacrament, about the book of Acts, about our faith. Most importantly, though, it is teaching me about how awesome the Holy Spirit it. More than ever, I find myself open to the workings of the Holy Spirit.

Teaching these kids has reinvigorated my faith.
Since Clare was born, I have often found myself missing the days when I served the Church in more obvious ways. I especially miss serving as a Mass coordinator and Extraordinary Minister of Holy Communion at the parish where Charles and I met. I was so close to the liturgy, and a lively faith was the direct result of that. Serving the church through diapers and PBJ is just not the same. Motherhood, is, of course, a terribly important vocation. And marriage is a really, really important Vocation. But I've inadvertently found my faith muscles growing flabby.

Now, for 10 weeks at least, I'm reading -- and since I have to teach what I'm reading, I'm reading it that much more closely -- and thinking and lesson planning.

I feel intellectually invigorated. A lively faith is bubbling back up from under the surface. 

The last two weeks, we've read and discussed excerpts from Pope Francis' encyclical "Joy of the Gospel," which I had never gotten around to when it was released, and was doubly renewed.

At the end of the day, maybe I'm helping teach our "Confirmation Kids" a little something, but really, it's the Holy Spirit working in and through me that's making all the difference. For me, and, I can only pray, for them.

Veni, Sancte Spiritus.

Looking for Peace in All the Wrong Places

Since Thanksgiving, I have been severely lacking in peace. I've spent a lot of hours trying to peg the source of my troubles. I mean, there have been plenty of stressers in my life lately: Clare's bout with the terrible twos. Residency (always). Night float. Teething. Seasonal busyness. Lack of sleep. Lack of downtime. Holiday plans. Not being around family for Christmas. Being far from home generally. Dealing with my grandma's recent hospitalization (and, so far, recovery).

I have not been at my best. Far from it.

My heart has ached. I've spent too much time on Facebook. I've tried keeping my phone in the other room. I've turned on the TV. I've turned off the TV. I've talked about it. I've thought about it. I've cried about it. Just today I've started no fewer than four different blog posts.

Know what I haven't done? Pray.

Oh sure, I've prayed for patience in dealing with Clare. I've prayed for my grandma's recovery. I've prayed for the kids to get a good night sleep and for Charles to have a good shift at the hospital. Know who I haven't prayed for? Myself. Know what I haven't asked for? Peace. I've not sat in silence. I've not sought God as the way to heal me. I've not asked him to lighten my load.

No wonder I've felt restless.

Touche.

Today, as I write, it's snowing. Earlier big, fat, quarter-sized snowflakes were falling. The biggest I have ever seen. It was beautiful. Magical.

All evening, I tried to capture it on film via digital image. I was desperate to share the beauty with Charles and people in Arizona. I got pictures of Clare running out to experience it in all of her exuberance for snow. (She insisted on bundling up and running around outside as soon as it started to fall!)

Doing a twirl in the snow!

I got pictures of snow slowly covering the ground, but I couldn't capture the magic.

Seriously, each little "pile" is really only one flake.

I gave up. Then, seemingly suddenly, it was dark, and I was going to try again. I looked out -- Christmas lights glowing in the background. Saint Lucia candles flickering in the foreground. And, as I have so many times before, I saw God in the light.

I didn't just see light. I saw The Light. I felt excited by the promise of Jesus, coming in just a week to lighten the darkness. That is what I need. I need to allow Jesus to be my light, to share my burden, and guide my path. That is Advent -- waiting on the coming of our Savior, and doing it with joyful hope.

O Come, Radiant Dawn. O Come, Emmanuel.