Musings of a Mother With a Dirty House

     This is my official declaration stating why the house is never clean when Cory gets home.  That way, if he ever decides to make a comment about his abode in disarray, I can lovingly shout,  "Read the blog!".  No, really, it's important to gather my thoughts on this subject and write them down in a memorable way so as to remind myself, when I get frazzled about cleaning, why I seldom pick up the mop or swing the broom.  I'm sure many moms can relate to this, and if you can't, well shut it.  I will only accept comments such as, "You are sooooo right!" and "Brilliant! Just brilliant!".  Because I'm the dictator here at Poops and Poodles, so if you don't fall in line and agree with me on this, you are not a welcome member of this community-- in a loving way, and all.
     See, when I used to daydream about getting married and having a family, the completely idiotic musings went something like this: I would picture my cute little kids (usually about four of them) in cute little outfits playing so cutely together while I looked downright amazing in some trendy outfit giggling over the stove, preparing some gourmet meal to make anyone with a mouth count down the minutes until dinnertime.  It was all vague, you know, I didn't go crazy overboard with the fantasies, just imagined what having four kids would look like.  And, well, you seldom daydream about nightmares and I never pictured horrible tantrums and getting hit in the face with flying food.  I conveniently left out diaper rashes and burned beans, too.  Isn't this proof that I'm a ridiculously optimistic person?  Of course it is.  And when I pictured me playing with these super cute kids, the house was always very clean, except for the errant toys we had just played with because you don't want your house to look un-lived in, for Pete's sake.  The great thing is, I think I subconsciously told myself that the house was clean in all of these dreamings because I had cleaned it.  I never saw a maid, so I must have cleaned it.  I gave myself a lot of credit.
     So, due to the fact that I at one time imagined what life would be like being married with several kids, I set the bar stupidly high for myself.  I thought this would be....easier.  And it's so not.  SO not.  When we found out I was pregnant with James, I quit working and became a stay-at-home mom.  And I love it, even while I'm having my weekly meltdown.  But here's the thing, I thought staying at home would help in the cleanliness department.  I thought, "Well, gee, if only I could be home all day then I would have time to mop and dust and fold the millions of shirts we seem to have..." and, once again, I thought wrong.  Because it dawned on me, about three weeks in, that I was a stay-at-home MOM, like, there are people here with me all day.  Incredibly needy and dirty people, I might add.  Now, I realize you would have to be a stay-at-home WIFE if you want the house clean.  Hubby runs off to work and you clean the baseboards.  See, that would work.  But it's not the deal-e-o right now.  No, I have two little friends who accompany on nearly all of my daily chores.  I call them Dirty and his pal, Filthy.  Or Cowboy and Sassafras:

    And here's what cleaning up looks like with Cowboy and Sassafras:
- I try and clean the dishes around mid-morning, when I've finally gotten over the trauma of waking up and fixing breakfast with Cowboy acting like he hasn't eaten since the Alamo.  This is not so bad when Mr. Big Stuff is here to help.  But, you know, he leaves to go to work and I'm left at the barn with my friends.  So, I start to clean up and they suddenly are hit with an INSANE desire for a snack.  I try and resist but it always gets worse if you fight it.  Cowboy comes over and starts rummaging through the silverware (and its always the knives he goes for first), Sassafras sees a sippy cup and it reminds her she hasn't had anything to drink in hours, Cowboy climbs on top of the open dishwasher door and starts jumping up and down and I resist the urge to take the spray on the faucet and hose them out of the kitchen-- because then you're looking at MORE work. So I give up doing dishes.
-I head to the playroom and start picking up the mess that always is.   Cowboy and Sassafras follow and realize it is light years more fun to play in the play room when I'm in there.  So it becomes a game of trying to pick up faster than they can take out- but, let me remind you, there are two of them and one of me.  This never works.  Plus, they take out toys in a frenzy.  It takes time to sort through the mess and put it back in its correct spot.  I tell Sassafras she better help me clean up the playroom or she won't get to watch a show before her nap.  This sounds like it would work.  But it doesn't.  Because she gets in clean up mode and her clean up mode is INTENSE.  And she gets herself all worked up because Cowboy continues to ruin the playroom and she thinks this will infringe upon her TV watching capabilities, even though I've tried to explain a gazillion times that it doesn't matter what he's doing.  So it seems to always end with Sassafras knocking Cowboy down with the swing of a bat, or Dora, or his truck, or whatever she can reach and is strong enough to use as a weapon.  So I end up with a hysterical Cowboy with a welt on his head and a hysterical Sassafras who laments the loss of her TV show and a time-out.  This is just wonderful and puts everybody in a good mood.
-So then I try laundry.  Sassafras loves to fold washcloths and feels like a "mommy" when she helps me, which I love.  The only problem? Cowboy apparently likes to fold washcloths, too.  So I give them their own sets of washcloths to fold but Cowboy won't accept this and inevitably reaches for Sassafras' neatly folded stack.  Can you say ROYAL MELTDOWN?  In her eyes, he has just destroyed her very motherhood.  She has beautifully created a gem of a washcloth with no wrinkles and he threw it on the ground with the swagger of a gunslinger.  POW.  He has crushed her maternal instincts and he knows it.  So he runs.  And she chases him and either pushes him down, pinches him, sits on him (my personal favorite) or some other physical torture and calls him something with "poo poo" in it for a dash of verbal abuse.  You know, like, "poo poo head", "poo tee tee-er" or some other name that denotes disgust.  Naive little me thought that kind of talk only came from boys.  Heh heh.
-So I move on to the vacuum.  Sassafras has a love/hate relationship with the vacuum.  She either hates it and thinks its "too loud!", which she always manages to scream louder than the vacuum itself, but whatever, or she loves it and wants to vacuum herself.  So the whole time I'm trying to vacuum, she's following me either yelling that its too loud or doing the Chinese water torture version of: "Is it my turn? Is it my turn? Is it my turn?" until I'm ready to stick the vacuum attachment down my throat and suck out my own beating heart (it seems less painful at the time).  Cowboy loves the vacuum cleaner.  So much so that he follows me around with the goal of pressing the on/off button repeatedly until I'm near certain the vacuum is going to explode or the electrical current in the house is going to go haywire and we're all going to go up in smoke.  So every time I turn to tell Sassafras it's not her turn to vacuum, Cowboy presses the button.  And every time I lean over the pick up a random shoes off the carpet, Cowboy presses the button.  Drives me BANANAS.
-Finally, I just try and pick up.  You know, the clutter.  The debris.  The little sprinkles of love that let me know that little people live here.  And it's chaos.  If I'm not entertaining them, then they are entertaining themselves which many times is far worse.   As in, Cowboy will climb anything and everything, including the pantry shelves if he has decided it's time to eat.  Never mind that there is essentially concrete underneath him.  If a cookie is in sight, its apparently worth the risk.  Or he'll find a stick of some sort and go after Boo Boo.  Or he'll dump Boo Boo's food into his water which makes me want to throw up.  Or he'll start digging in the trash, or turn on the oven, or climb the chair that is next to the computer and start banging.  You know, innocent little stuff like that.  And Sassafras will make a train in the playroom with every single toy she can get her grubby little hands on.  Or she'll go exploring in the refrigerator for something to eat, leaving the door wide open.  Or she'll get into my makeup because she wants to look like a mommy. So I end up picking up only what they've managed to destroy during the time I tried picking up the rest of the house.  SEE WHAT I MEAN?!?!?!
    So that's my story and I'm sticking to it.  I try.  Really, I do.  Because if I have a messy house, that means I have to look at it all day long.  Its the failure that's always in my face, if I choose to look at it like that.  Which, by the way, can drive you clinically insane.  So, I try to focus on what I did do during each day.  Like how many times I colored a picture with Sassafras.  Or how many books I read to her.  Or how many times I pushed her on the swing.  Things like that.  And I remember that I did actually find time to teach Cowboy where some of his body parts are and what the chicken says.  And I prevented him from dying a couple of times, too.  From falling off the slide, to eating a penny, to getting eaten by Boo Boo for taunting him.
    So, in the disheveled world of the mom, it can be hard to be proud of what you're doing on a day-to-day basis.  It's not exactly brain surgery.  It's waaaayyyyy more difficult.  Doctors get years and years of schooling to figure out how to operate on a bum brain.  And here we are, entrusted with forming typically several tiny brains into effective machines that govern smart, well-behaved individuals who thrive in a dysfunctional world.  With usually NO schooling.  We don't go to school to be parents.  We get tossed about in the world of tradition, trends, and try again.  And we get beaten down- often by the kids- and get back up.  There is hardly any glory in the momentary mom triumphs that go unnoticed in a busy world.  When your husband gets home and all the kids are alive, how many of us get thanked?  Even though we are usually life-savers on a daily basis.  When the children are miraculously well-behaved during a dining out experience, we sometimes chalk this up to them finally "growing up" instead of being due to the fact that we have drilled manners and correct eating habits into them on a daily basis.  And when they start to get older and show real compassion and affection to other people, sometimes we can forget that we had a hand in that.  That each kiss they give out was once a kiss given.  Clean house or not, I can think of no better legacy than that.
Happy Mother's Day.

On Suffering- For Tripp Roth

Just in case you're tempted to slash your wrists during the first part of this post, keep reading, I swear it doesn't end on a depressing note. I swear.

    So my little friend Tripp died on January 14th.  My little friend that I never met.  I'm just getting around to blogging about it.  It took awhile for me to process it.  He died, and I cried myself to sleep that Saturday night.  I moped around the house and faked smiles playing Legos.  I went through the motions of fixing dinner, crying into the peas, sniffling next to the turkey.  And then, lo and behold, I noticed something.  Something beautiful started pouring out across the internet.  The love people had for this little boy.  Thankfully, I was not the only hysterical person on the earth over this.  I felt comforted.  There were a ton of other people bathing their pillowcases in utter sorrow.  And boy, did this make me happy.  Not happy because we were all miserable but happy because we all loved so much.  A little boy we never met.  A mother who we all admired more than we could put words to.  A grandmother who essentially stopped her life to take care of her daughter and her first grandchild.  The endless rocking.  The endless, tortuous baths.  The unending, unconditional love.  It was all too much for us humans to bear.  I've never seen something, been a part of something, so darn heartbreaking, but so darn beautiful all at the same rotten-wonderful time.

    ABC ran a news story on Tripp about a month before he died.  The story generated many comments.  SO many of them were infused with love and support, sending love and prayers their Ponchatoula-way.  There were the occasional hard-hearted, why-don't-you-put-him-down-like-a-freakin'-dog comments.  They pretty much got ripped to virtual shreds by the rest of us.  I don't tolerate people comparing a little boy to a dog very well, apparently.  Gulp.   People from all over the world poured out their hearts to this little boy and his family.   So many cried.  So many prayed.  So many hoped.  It didn't end with a miraculous healing and a chorus of hallelujahs.  It ended with reality.  Not everyone is healed.  Tripp wasn't healed of EB on this earth.  All the saints intercessions we implored.  All the Hail Marys.  All the Our Fathers.  Were they heard?  It appears, "Thy will be done" was heard loud and clear.
     Even when Jesus, GOD, walked this earth, not everyone was healed.  Isn't that hard to bear?  That he didn't heal everyone.  Sometimes we only focus on the ones in the bible who were healed, you know?  We know them all- the man at the pool of Siloam, the man with the withered hand, Peter's mother-in-law, the bleeding woman, etc. etc. etc.  But you know what?  He didn't heal everyone.  There were sick people left when Jesus died.  There were paralyzed people left when He died.  There were still lepers when He died.  He obviously didn't come to cure everyone's physical ailments.  I don't know, maybe part of why He came was to make sure that those who suffered could know that it gets better.  Maybe to make sure that those who suffered knew that they were loved.  Fiercely.  That there is a place where there is no suffering.  That even though He doesn't heal your son's EB blisters, even though He doesn't take away your daughter's cancer, even though He doesn't shrink your husband's tumor, that He loves you beyond words.

     Physical cures are NOT evidence of God's love.  Merely existing is evidence of God's love.  Physical cures do not ensure that you go to heaven.  You could be healed of cancer and lead a terrible life and end it with a terrible death.  Therefore, being physically cured could not possibly mean you are loved more than those who are not healed because God wishes all to be saved.  Not to throw a dagger at those who have been healed, no way.  But they received a gift and what they do with that gift is what counts.  Those who were not healed received a gift too.  The gift of an early entrance into paradise.  Maybe not what they were hoping for because we don't have a flippin' clue how great heaven is.  Maybe not what their parents or loved ones wanted because we don't get to peer into the window of heaven and see them so freakin' happy that we're actually jealous they got cancer.  But it's a gift just the same.  I'm sure Tripp feels sorry for the rest of us down here.  He's probably playing the drums and chewing on a cherry Twizzler while I'm sobbing uncontrollably with snot running down my nose over him.  Really?  Actually, he's probably like "Who the heck is that lady with the snot all over moaning and groaning about me?"  I'm sure Tripp Roth feels very sorry for me at the moment.  That's okay, Tripp ole' buddy, just keep praying for the snot lady to be where you are one day.
     It's bitter but it's true, sometimes this is a valley of tears.  Bad things happen.  Sad things happen.  Every prayer is not answered in the way we want.  Every pleading of the heart is not met with earthly consolation and a "everything's okay".  No, sometimes everything is not okay.  I guarantee you Courtney is not thinking everything is okay at the moment.  And good for her for being honest.  I'm sure she heard a million times at the funeral the phrase everyone uses when they don't know what else to say- "he's in a better place."  And it's true.  He is.  But it's still not okay.  It still hurts like the dickens.  It still rips my heart out and punches me in the gut.  And if suffering people can be real with God and say, "I know my boy is in heaven, but this hurts like hell," then maybe we reach acceptance a little quicker.  Even if we're saying it ten years later, that's alright.  Even if we tell God that this world He created totally bites,  that's okay.  He knows it's true more than anyone.  That's why He doesn't leave us here.
      The day Tripp died I let myself be crazy with sorrow.  I didn't even try and drum up every thought I could to make me cheery.  I was mad at God.  And I think I even told Him off a time or two with one of these zingers: "Maybe the atheists are right!  Maybe You don't care!"  I'm thirty-four years old and, yes, sometimes I yell at God like a two-year old.  But, as a wise priest once told me, "You can keep yelling, just make sure you never walk away."  And I didn't.  I didn't walk away from Him, even though I was so sad and He broke my heart.  Because, as St. Peter once said, "to whom shall I go?"  Where else would I go with my tears?  I realized a little bit later that, no, the atheists weren't right.  Because the only thing worse than Tripp Roth suffering like he did would be for there to be no heaven.  No reward.  No purpose or meaning to it.  Yes, sometimes God hurts us in the moment, but He never walks away.  So I begrudgingly told Him I was sorry for yelling.  For like the hundredth time.
     I swear, though, people can be amazing.  Oh the love I saw for this little two year old, blistered boy.  People gave to that family like the world was coming to an end.  Love oozed out every pore of people's bodies as they read Courtney's blog.  Isn't that a miracle somewhat?  Maybe we read about and see and experience a lot of cruelty from others in this world.  But that blog was a place where love ruled.  That boy stole a million hearts and those hearts beat stronger because of him.  Tripp created a situation where, just by existing, love flooded hearts and people were more generous, more prayerful, more compassionate.  In a way, Tripp Roth didn't receive a gift of healing.  He gave the gift of healing.  To us.  To those who don't have a clue.  To those who don't deserve it.  The little suffering boy became a sort of vessel of grace.  It's how suffering works.  It's why it's so powerful.  Those who suffer open our hearts.  To the realities of this world.  To the grace that is flowing.  To the very heart of a God who once suffered terribly, too.

     So, I thank Tripp, Courtney, Grammy, Paw Paw Carey and everyone else I feel like I know now.  You went through the fire.  The fire so many of us spend so much energy  avoiding (with good reason) our entire life.  But this fire fell into your lap.  You can't control what happens to you, only how you respond.  Well, gang, you hit this one out of the park.  You inspired thousands of people and made sure your little boy only knew love on this earth.  You couldn't control the blisters from forming on the fragile skin of your son, but you succeeding in not letting your hearts be blistered- with anger, with despair, with bitterness.  Congratulations.  I know this probably doesn't feel like a celebration, but I celebrate just the same.  Your son died, but Love won.

P.S.

We can't do anything about Tripp, but you know who we can do something about?  Bruce!! Yay, Bruce!  Take a look at this stud muffin:

Check him out on Reece's Rainbow: http://reecesrainbow.org/?s=Bruce - we don't want Bruce to be friends with Tripp just yet.

Yo Quiero Ser Hispanos

     Okay, so, I thought for today's light-hearted post, I would give a complete analysis of my views on immigration.  I mean, why blog if you're not going to make people squirm and squeal and call you names?  I love controversial issues.  About as much as I love going to the dentist and having them say "Nah, I think we can do this without anesthesia."  Um, what?  But, you know, I also have trouble shutting up.  So it's inevitable that I have to give my opinion about everything, and the limiting status update space available on Facebook just wasn't cutting it.  So, yes, immigration.  Here's what I think when I hear a debate on immigration:  I want to be the immigrant.  How's that for a fresh perspective?
     I think my infatuation with all things non-American came when I lived in Central America for seven months.  I applied to go and live and teach at an orphanage called Farm of the Child outside of Trujillo, Honduras.  Here, let me show you on a map:

Notice it's on the Caribbean, but that had absolutely nothing to do with why I chose to go live there.  I swear.  Okay, maybe a teeny tiny bit, but definitely not a major factor.  My original intent on becoming a sort of "modern missionary" was to get out of America.  I know that sounds, well, drastic.  And quite unpatriotic.  But I was tired.  Tired of being asked when I was going to get married, or for that matter, get a boyfriend.  Or when I was going to get a boyfriend who actually went to Church.  Or when I was going to start to be attracted to men who went to Church.  It was complicated.  

    I was also tired of talking about poor people and ready to, um, actually meet some.  Teaching religion I had many opportunities to talk about social justice, to spell out the Church's teaching, to try and rev up some sympathy for those who had little.  But it became redundant.  Empty.  And yes, I had gone on week-long missionary trips and volunteered at homeless shelters and all the rest of it.  But I didn't really know those people.  I tried to help them for a minute, a day, a week, but then I went home and very easily and quickly forgot about them.  I wanted to challenge myself on a new level.  To see if I really could hang with people from a very different background and culture for an extended time.  To build real friendships.  To come to better understand their plight from the inside and stop talking like I already did.  

    So I did it.  I took the plunge.  And it was really hard and really wonderful all at the same time.  But I left after seven months with an undeniable love of all things Latino.  And I still don't know whether the terms Latino and Hispanic are interchangeable.  Not a clue.  But what's really important to know is that I was entirely jealous of those with the pretty olive skin, big brown eyes, and fluent Spanish speaking skills.  I know its their primary language, but still.  I was jealous it was their primary language.  The women cooked easily over an open fire, laughed heartily with a sweet glint, and their plight of poverty became just that much more intriguing.  Truly, I was not jealous of their struggles and I was despondent over their lack of basic healthcare and good education, but they were so beautiful in the midst of it.  The food, the language, the celebrations all held its own mystique and I fell in love with "other".  With that which was so different than what I had known.  I loved cooking baleadas and tried my best to thrust my hips to the earthy beat celebrating a quinceanera (with very little success, people.  I do NOT have Latino hips.  Never have and never will.  That I have accepted.  It gets ugly quick when I try and fight it).

                                   

     Some of the people were intent on coming to America, sure that it held the key to their prosperity.  It was difficult to witness that because in many ways I knew that to be true but in other ways I wanted to shout: "No! Keep what you have here.  This is wonderful.  I haven't heard Beyonce's name in weeks and this is good."  But sometimes it's just not.  America holds many opportunities that some of these countries just don't right now.  In some of these countries where people flee, corruption has a firm grip and getting out from underneath all of it will take a lot of time and lot of really good people to step up (and then I look at the corruption in our own government and think, "We're the answer?!?!? Good Lord.)  But we are in many ways.  And so we have an immigration issue.  

     It ain't easy and I got NO answers.  I listen to the Democratic argument and I'm like "Yes, definitely" and then I listen to the Republican argument and I'm like "Oooohhh, good point."  Totally confused.  And I just want to switch places with the immigrant and say, "Here, you can have my spot."  Not to glorify the places in which they come from, no, I know it's not that simple.  But to acknowledge that no country embodies every dream.   Everybody deserves a safe place to raise their family and food and clean water and education and.....the list keeps growing.  But you can have all that and still feel very needy.  Still feel very disconnected.  Still feel very alone and confused.  Happiness takes on a very perplexing landscape when you really sit with it.     

     It's my dilemma.  I meet the Hispanic mother in Wal-Mart who only speaks Spanish and I want to be best friends.  Amigas beunas, por favor.  And I want to follow her around with my cart and get the same ingredients as her, sure that she is making some delectable item tonight- from scratch, of course.  Some would call this stalking.  I call it intensely admiring.  Big difference.  And I lose the ability to even be able to process my infatuation.  Why am I obsessed with these people?  It's lost on me, but I am.  And get this, it's not even just Hispanic people!  I know, this is getting juicy.

    We have neighbors that are from China and, don't you know, the obsession has crossed over to them.  Scary.  They just happen to have two little girls the same age as our kids and so it's just impossible to not be friends.  And to not get a swing set so that they'll keep coming over and Cory and I can keep bombarding them with questions about all things Chinese.  And get so excited to tell them that we watched a documentary on rural China and it was awesome.  And to practice "Ni hao!" because it's the only flippin' Chinese word I know and I got it from a cartoon Katherine watches.  So embarrassing.  Ugh. I'm telling you, it's exhausting loving other cultures.   

                                        

    Katherine, James and I were over at their house not too long ago and the always gentle, always wonderful mother offered my kids a snack.  A snack that looked like chocolate covered birdseed.  And I was like, oh no, this is going to get awkward.  I was sure Katherine would eye it suspiciously and James would throw it in the grass.  But, no.  Held out with a gentle hand, my kids took to it like little hungry hummingbirds.  Of course they would eat birdseed if it was offered by the lovely Chinese mother.  See?  Even my kids want to be Chinese.  From the mouth of babes...or in the mouth of babes.   And I cringe when all I have to offer her two cute kids is a Twinkie and aging Easter candy.  What is wrong with me?  

    This is all said in a spirit of sincere awe, and a tad bit of envy.  I am consistently amazed at the beauty this world encompasses.  Yes, I know, many Central American countries are in horrific battles against poverty and corruption and the like.  And yes, I know China has a one-child policy that forces many women to do the unthinkable.  And then there's a tiny little issue called Communism.  I get it.  This is a blog post, not a doctoral dissertation.   It's just that sometimes I want to move to El Salvador and sometimes I want to move to China.  And sometimes I want to be Amish.  Don't you ever get tired of the American culture?  Of Brangelina and People magazine?  Of reality shows and obvious plastic surgery?  And I'm sorry ahead of time to all the high school and college girls, but don't you even get tired of the hand on the hip pose and aviator sunglasses?  Cause the good Lord knows that I do.    

     I do know we have incredible beauty right here.  No need to lecture me on that.  But one seldom seems to appreciate the surrounding terrain when it's all you've ever known.  I never knew the unspeakable comfort of a towel that has just come out of the dryer until I didn't have a washer or a dryer for several months in Central America.  In Honduras, my towels and, might I add, my underwear, gave about as much comfort as a pile of rocks.  Dryers do amazing things to cotton.  And I most definitely took for granted my freedom.  I'm not talking about the "land of the free, home of the brave" kind of freedom (although that, too).  I'm talking about the freedom to jump in your car and head to the gas station and get a Coke.  Do we even realize what a luxury that is?  Even as our teeth are rotting out from the sugar, do we realize that not many people are able to choose the way they get their cavities so freely.  In Honduras, about fifty people shared two old cars and the nearest "gas station" was across three rivers.    

     That's when I give thanks for those who have come to live with us from other countries.  No matter the complexities of immigration issue, I try to remember we're talking about people.  People who have a valuable contribution to add to our landscape.  Fresh perspectives, new foods, old customs.  All is well when we see the beauty and vastness of God's creation, from the mountains to the deserts and from the Asians to the Caucasians.  The way we think, the way we live, the values we hold dear.  Everything is more beautiful when it's been challenged.  I'll always be an American at heart.  It's home.    But I have always loved visiting other people's homes, and realizing in all our differences, there is something beautiful there.

    

P.S.

Wouldn't you know, I went to Old Navy today to do some birthday shopping and they had all these "Mexican"-looking clothes (I'm not good at fashion labels).  But, seriously, is that a sign or what?  I wasn't able to do too much damage because Katherine kept asking the little boy mannequin to dance with her.  When he wouldn't respond, she'd shout: "Mom!  This boy is being RUDE!!!!".  She always seems to keep my shopping in check :)

The Crazy Cousins

   So just the other day I went to the mall to replenish my dwindling make-up supplies.  I've been needing a lot of make-up lately considering James is breaking in four molars at the tender age of sixteen months and we ain't gettin' no sleep round here, ya heard?  Katherine insisted on coming.  Anything girlie and you've got yourself a friend in that little muffin.  While Cory and James spun the stroller way to fast through the racks of clothes, Katherine and I plopped ourselves down at the counter of Clinique.  A very nice lady (with perfect make-up) was quick to respond to her two new customers.
     As I started to chat it up with my Clinique friend, I noticed Katherine was awfully quiet in the chair across the aisle.  As in, if there is more than a 90 second interval between comments from her pretty little mouth, I know we're in trouble.  All of sudden, she breaks the silence:  "Whoa! Mom, look what I just got!", I hear from my little princess.   As the Clinique lady and I look over, Katherine hoists up one of the Q-tips used to apply trial make-up.  But it didn't have any make-up on it.  No, of course it didn't.  It had a huge ball of golden wax perched atop the puffy white throne.  She's OBVIOUSLY not girlie enough.  No more make-up trips for you, my little princess, until you're twenty-one and I can safely leave you at the Clinique counter without legal retribution.
    Of course, that little scenario ended with awkward laughs from my Clinique friend and a complete brain-freeze on my end.   On the one hand, I was tickled that she would see a Q-tip and start plugging away at her ear canal.  I mean, after all, that is what they're used for most of the time.  Score one for ear hygiene.  On the gigantic other hand, though, we're in the middle of the mall for crying out loud.  So my natural tendency to dive on top of her and stuff the dirty Q-tip down my shirt in the hopes that nobody notices anything that just happened, well it seemed a bit difficult to pull off.  So the next gut response was to just ignore, but I know Katherine and she will demand a response.  So if I don't want the soiled Q-tip shoved in my face thirty more times with "Mom, look! Mom, look!", I'd better give the dog a bone.  So, I did.  I swallowed my pride, looked at my beaming daughter and said, "Great job, K!  That's huge!".  And ordered five gallons of foundation in an attempt to cover my extremely red face.
    Of course, as I thought about this later, I was so glad I gave the response I did.  The temptation to shout: "What on earth are YOU doing????" and roll my eyes was strong but I couldn't bear to make her feel like she really did something wrong.  I chuckled to myself, thinking how confusing it is to be a kid and to try and figure this weird world out.  I could so see Katherine eyeing a huge basket of Q-tips and being so proud of herself for cleaning her ears on her own.  How deflating it would have been for me to have crushed her at that point.  It was most definitely the right choice to allow my ego to take the beating instead.
    Seeing the world through the eyes of children is an experience in and of itself.  I am consistently amazed at the rapid pace by which Katherine is able to process things.  Her mind is so much quicker now, noticeably more so than even a mere six months ago.  On the way to church last Sunday, she came out of nowhere with this whopper: "Mom, where is heaven?"  Ummm..... and I'm a theology teacher.  C'mon, Moll, you gotta be able to answer this one, huh?  After numerous stutters, Katherine tried to help me out: "Is it in the sky?" she asked.  I thought that was interesting that she naturally went to the sky.  It is, after all, where many of our ancestors truly thought heaven was- thus, the popular reference to the sky being "the heavens."  But I was struggling to know whether or not I should just stay simple and familiar ("yes, Katherine, it's in the sky") or try to be a little more accurate without being fearful ("we have no earthly idea where heaven is--- Pope John Paul made mention once that it was more of a state of being than an actual place").  Calm down, I didn't actually tell her that.

     I ended up just saying "Katherine, heaven is where Jesus is, and when people die Jesus comes and gets them and takes them there but we don't really know where it is until we die."  Of course, that satisfied her for about twenty seconds.  Then it was "Does He fly to us or does He walk to our house?  Does He have a car?  How does He know where I live?"   I was on the hot seat but trying not to let it look like I was.  I was slightly overwhelmed with trying to help a three year old understand "mystery" (which, by the way, is pretty much impossible) and yet give her the answers to her questions.  Three year olds are very used to getting answers.  Why is the grass green?  Well, cutie pie, there's something called chlorophyll.  Why is the sun hot?  It's basically a giant ball of fire.  And so on and so on.  But when it comes to Jesus, well, there's a lot that cannot be explained so easily.  And my three year old finds that frustrating at times.  And I'm right there with her.
     It seems like the trend in our culture is the quick-fix, the one-liner, the snappy comeback.  If you can't fully explain yourself in a five minute interview that will be edited down to three, well then you must not know what you're talking about.  You're an idiot.  You're hanging onto archaic beliefs- I mean, this is the 21st century, people 
(No. Way.  By golly, let me go ahead and pull my Laura Ingalls apron off and undo my double braids down the side).  Can you tell that last one makes me want to stick shards of glass in my eye?  Okay, sometimes I want to stick it in their eye, yes, but Laura Ingalls would never.  And I'm still way back in the 1800's, thank you.

     It's where people of faith, people who know Jesus is not the God-Man of the snappy comeback, struggle.  Because it's a whole world-view we're talking about- not just the controversial issue of the day.  And it makes me mad when Catholics get a bad rap.  Like, super mad.  People aim their witty arrows at the various beliefs of a two thousand year old Church and try to mock it with snippets of pseudo-sense.  The deepest one goes in evaluating the moral essence of an issue is "Does it make me happy?" and if the answer is in the affirmative, well then, by all means it's a green light.
    In the frustration we encounter in trying to explain ourselves to a world we are increasingly becoming an alien to, we have to be grateful.  Grateful that we have been to the deep, and it's beautiful.  Grateful that, even though we might lose the battle of witty conversation, we will win the war of lasting value and meaning.  We know, even though its still a daily struggle, that to seek the pleasure and happiness of self is often nothing more than a clever maze, taking you down roads that lead to the familiar dead end.  It's the epitome of the smoke and mirrors.  How could it be wrong to go fully in the direction of personal satisfaction?  Doesn't God want me to be happy?

      And again, on a Facebook status or in the comments status under a Yahoo story about God-only-knows-what, it's hard to put the one-liner:  "Of course God wants you to be happy....sort of" or "God wants you to be holy and to find happiness in that" or some other clincher that will transmit profound theological truths and not bore in the shockingly short process.  It just doesn't happen.  I'm not saying profound things can't be said in a line or two but to deal with complex issues in superficial ways is almost always going to be found entirely insufficient.  But, I'll be damned if I don't try.  I am not exactly known to let controversial issues slide by the wayside, if you know what I mean.  I find it nearly impossible NOT to say something on a raging controversial Facebook thread.  The more cutthroat the posts, the more I feel the unbelievable urge to hoist my neck on the chopping block.  But I'm here to tell you it's insufficient.  It's twisted.  It's the speech into the microphone as the ship is going down, only to lose electricity as you come upon your most important point. Galling, I tell you.
    The mystery remains.  For a three year old.  For me.  Even what we do know sometimes can't be communicated in the most comprehensive of rebuttals.  Whatever.  We'll never have all the answers.  Will Jesus come and get you in His Cadillac, Katherine?  He just might.  I have no idea.  Does He know where you live?  Most certainly.  You're his daughter and He keeps a vigilant check on all His girls.  Does God want you to be happy?  Read up.  It's the best, most concise, answer I can give.  Read the whole Bible and get someone who knows a whole lot about the Bible to answer your questions and then you tell me.  Don't read "101 Bible Verses that Seem to Point to the Fact that Yes, God DOES Want Nothing But Our Happiness" or "Five Thousand Ways to Distort Everything in the Bible to Fit the New Religion You Just Founded Upon Yourself."

 
 Those are my answers to the hostile crowd.  Confused about contraception?  Read.  Think the Church is anti-science because of its embryonic stem-cell stance?  Read.  Think the Church treats women like trash?  Read.  And after you're done reading everything you can find your hands on, talk to someone.  Someone who knows a lot.  Someone who seems to think deeply and still thinks differently from you.  I'm not saying you'll change your mind.  Far from it.  But you might think we're pretty modern for wearing aprons and braids.  You just might be surprised that we, indeed, are thinking.  We're not idiots.  We're not your crazy cousins that just haven't quite finished evolving yet.  We just take a lot longer to get to know.  We are a people of the coffeehouse, not the Twitter feed.

Duking It Out

     Isn't it weird how some memories just stick out from your childhood over the years and years of life?  Sometimes, it seems, it's not even the important stuff (or the stuff you thought at the time was important).  For instance, I remember when I was about five and we went to Disney World.  Well, okay, I don't really remember anything about Disney World other than learning to tie my shoe.  Isn't that strange?  Of all the life-changing experiences I had there (meeting Mickey Mouse, riding roller coasters, etc:), I remember learning how to tie my shoe.  I am either really dull or I don't understand how memory filings work.

The cutest little sister in the world

     I remember the first time it became clear to me that Emily was different.  Isn't that weird that I didn't really know all along?  I mean, after all,  I was almost seven when she was born.  Isn't seven old enough to know someone is different?  Not this brilliant cat.  It's hard to communicate to people what it's like to grow up with a sibling who has a disability.  It's hard to step back and look inside your family and reflect.  Because, at least for me, it was "normal."  It's confusing sometimes to separate what I thought was normal from what most people would consider normal.  Does that make sense?  I think, as children, we all grow up thinking that our lives are not really unique in any way.  We don't have the perspective yet, or the experience, to realize that each person has a different way of experiencing the world.  Even in the same family.

Em with her big brother and brother-in-law

     I remember, shortly after she was born, my father called us into my parents bedroom and it was dark.  Not sure if it really was dark or if my memory has painted it such.  My mother was propped up on pillows in bed, crying.  My dad sat next to her and held her hand as he spoke to us very frightened kids.  I don't really remember his exact words but it was something to the effect of "something is wrong with the baby."  No words he spoke could have made me understand the gravity of the situation more than my mother's tears.  I had no idea what he was talking about but I knew we were sad.  I ran up to my room and flopped on my bed.  Interestingly enough, I clearly remember yelling at God in a whisper as fiercely as a little girl can: "Why did You do this to us?!?!  Is it that hard to make a baby normal?!?!  I hate You!"  Looking back, I find it terribly interesting that I had enough of a grasp of the concept of God at that young of an age to know where to lay the blame.  I'm sure the anger of a seven year old was distressing to Him, not because He thought it inappropriate, but rather that even God Himself probably struggles to communicate the intricate weave of a blessing to a child.  Blessings take time and time is a foreign concept to the young.  Just wait, I'm sure He wanted to whisper back.  But no seven year old has a concept of future clarity.  At least this seven year old didn't.

Em loves babies- except when they cry or have a dirty diaper :)

    They brought Emily home and I was astonished to see that, well, I didn't see anything wrong with her.  She didn't have a tail, or only one eye, or even multiple limbs.  What's all the fuss about, people?  To add to the confusion, she looked perfect to me.  If only I could have expressed that wisdom to the adults.  She cried, she pooped, she drank a bottle.  She, in fact, was a baby!  It was a seven year old girl's dream to have all of this real baby gear to help aid my imaginative play as the mother to several unruly children with plastic heads and bodies.   I remember frequently stealing her nice, soft diapers to put on my very hungry babies, much to the consternation of my mother.

    The years went on and Emily became an intricate part of the memories of my family.  I stopped being able to remember, at some point, what life was really like before she was there.  All three of us older kids were very much into sports and Emily tagged along to the gym to watch endless basketball and volleyball games.  Our teammates and the other parents took to her with great affection.  Everybody loved her and it all seemed normal to me.  If anything cruel ever was said or happened, it must have flown blissfully over my little brown head.  

Three sisters and a baby.

   Until one morning.  I must have been around ten, and Emily was three.  My family and I went to Mass and stopped by the grocery store after to pick up hamburger buns (again, why do I remember hamburger buns???).  I volunteered to go inside and Emily insisted on coming with me.  Grabbing the money from my dad, we ventured across the parking lot of the Winn-Dixie.  As we passed through the automatic doors, a little girl was leaving the store with her mother.  I made eye contact with the little girl and realized she was staring at Emily.  She yelled out something to the effect of, "What's wrong with her?" and was quickly whisked out of the store by her shushing mother.  My world stopped.  I remember looking back at the hand holding onto mine and tracing it up to an adorable face with eyes the color of blueberries.  Emily was staring at me, oblivious to the charge of the fellow three year old.  I tried to catch my breath.  

     Part of me honestly wanted to run outside, tap the little girl on the shoulder and as she swung around, yell "Put your dukes up!!!".  No, really, I wanted to beat a three year old up.  Of course, you might say, she didn't know what she was saying.  And, obviously, she didn't.  But it didn't matter.  Emotions came flooding into my heart as I glimpsed for the first time what others really saw.  It was painful.  It was maddening.  I saw with horror that they didn't see her.  In an instant of crossing paths, they didn't see that she was full of clever mischief.  They were blind to the fact that she was hilarious and often left us rolling with laughter.  They couldn't tell that she was loved immensely.  They just saw a difference.  And that made all the difference to me.

Em loves animals, especially dogs and horses.

     I clearly remember squeezing Emily's hand, trying to fight tears that were quickly forming.  We resumed our walk towards the hamburger buns but my mind was on fire. What if someone makes fun of her and I'm not there?  What if they make her cry?  What if they don't understand and think she's something less than she is?  What if they hurt her and I'm not there to beat them up?  The first feelings of intense protectiveness were born.  Never, really, to subside.  I have yet to beat anybody up over it, but my fists seem perpetually clenched at times in dread of the moment should it ever arrive.  

    This is partly where my passion for the special-needs orphans comes from.  Born from that moment when I felt like Em was being attacked, was being viewed as something less than she was.  It's what I see in the loneliness of the children who are hidden away with no one to fight for them.  I try to "put my dukes" up everyday in some small way to fight for these kids.  Don't you see?  In some very real way, Emily's face is on each of them.  I don't need to fight for Emily right now but the ever-present adrenaline from the moment in Winn-Dixie pushes itself to the forefront when I encounter in another what I feared would happen to her.   Where is the mother who will fight for her baby?  The father who rests peacefully at night knowing he has protected the most vulnerable in his care?  I feel an irresistible urge to reach out and squeeze their hands, to let them know I will step in and go to battle for them.  Even from thousands of miles away.  I can't protect each of them like I want to.  I can't be a big sister to all of them.  I can't be a mother, at least right now, to any of them.  But I'll do what I can.  I'll do what I must.  Because, if it was Emily out there in some man-forsaken crib, I'd hope somebody would step up to the plate for her.  These are kids, for crying out loud.  These are human beings.  Each with a unique fingerprint of God Himself.  They are our sisters and brothers whether we accept them or not.

     

Emily caught the bouquet at my wedding, after mowing down several small children.  The girl's competitive, people ;)

P.S.

     Well today, my friends, is the 21st of the month and this is the day we're fighting for Ruslan.  Or cheering for him, however you'd like to think of it.  Today is the day we pull back from the hectic pace of our lives and remember those who bear an ungodly amount of boredom in their cribs day after day after excruciating day.  Far away but intentionally brought closer.  Today is the day we remember a boy who has made very little memories in his life- and we see fit to try and change that.  We, the Baboushkas, find great purpose in trying to change the life story of a little boy with just a tad too many chromosomes to be held in esteem by this weird world we live in.  Never fret, Ruslan, in the world of the Babouskhas, today you are king.

   

    And I dare anyone to find a more adorable member of a royal family.  This picture looks to be from the baby house, when Ruslan was younger and probably better taken care of.  They don't allow pictures once the child is transferred to the institution- or at least they rarely do.  My mind wanders to try and guess what he looks like now.  I try to remain positive.  It's the only way I can keep myself from not getting overwhelmed.  From not collapsing into an adult temper tantrum.  I have to believe he is okay.  Not living a dream in any way, but okay.  He's fed and talked to and maybe, just maybe, tucked in at night?  I desperately stretch my imagination to let my conscience rest.  A survival instinct of the most brutal kind.     

     If you have anything to give, please join us.  Our Ruslan needs a family to start creating new memories with.  He needs hearts who will fight for him.  He's our brother.

Monkey Bars

Guess I needed a wake-up call to make me realize I'm getting OLD.  We just got a new (well, used- I love Craigslist) swing set for the kids.  This thing is awesome.  Here's a pic of the kids attacking it at the old owner's house:

Isn't it great?  Well, let me tell you, the devil himself resides just above those swings.  There's about ten horizontal bars some people call the MONKEY BARS.  I call it the "Armpit Rip."  Katherine asked me the other day what they were for and I was so excited because in my much younger days I loved the monkey bars.  At good ole' St. Peter's school we'd swing across them, ensnare a leg on one bar and pull ourselves up to sit on top of them.  And I didn't gloat about it like I should have.  Because I thought EVERYONE can do the monkey bars.  Not so fast, monkey girl.
    So, to explain to Katherine how the monkey bars work I decided she needed a demonstration.  And, because I lost all humility as I have aged, I wanted to gloat about the acrobatic tricks I could do on this magnificent apparatus.  Cory, my Monkey Bars coach, said it's all about momentum.  So I, being the obedient sort of wife, too his advice and got a running start.  Here's what that gymnastics routine looked like:

Whhhhhaaaaaattttttt.  Of course, you can see that the swings below provided a much needed additional obstacle to moving across a bar or two.  What happened to my upper body strength over the last twenty-five years?????  Have I declined that rapidly?  Is it a lack of upper body strength or, ahem, a burgeoning of the lower half?  My sweet Jesus, don't tell me.  Either answer would make me want to punch somebody in the face.  Although it probably wouldn't hurt considering I apparently don't have much upper body strength anymore.  It was almost more than I could bear.  And then Katherine decides to make me feel better by yelling: "That doesn't look hard!"  Of course not.  Anybody can hang from a bar for three seconds, grunt like a dying hippo and drop.
     So I decided to turn to Dr. Google for help.  I entered "Monkey bars adults" into the search engine and waited eagerly for an explanation as to why I can't swing across one ring, much less ten.  Dr. Google, for the first time in his existence, was silent.  Was I really the first person to ask that?  Why are people not flocking to some ridiculous website to seek answers about the draining of our fountains of youth?  What are you people doing all day?  Obviously not swinging on monkey bars.  How could there NOT be a study that has documented the fact that as people age the monkey bars become impossible?  Where is all of our tax money going?  Thanks, Barack.  Now I'll have to do my own study on it.  From now on, any adult that visits Howat Manor will be required to cross the Monkey Bars as I film it and post it to this blog to show that, indeed, I am not the only struggling monkey out there.  A glass of wine after your performance will be optional, of course.
       Dr. Google did provide some crazy CrossFit junk videos showing people who actually can cross the monkey bars.  They were such show-offs, lemme tell ya.  And yes, I did want to punch them with one of my two gimp arms.  See, I'm not talking about personal trainers being able to do it or bodybuilders or Marines.  Of course the people who work out all day can do it.   Can this lady cross the monkey bars?

I'm gonna say 'yeah.'  Mostly because I do not want her to hunt me down and beat me up and tie me into a pretzel on top of the monkey bars.  But it looks like it's her job to be able to do it.  By the way, do NOT google "body builder woman" and press "Images."  That is just so scary, y'all.
     Sadly, the monkey bars used to be less discriminatory.  You used to not have to have bulging biceps to enjoy them.  They have most definitely developed an air about them.  Just being honest here.  The sad truth is that I can still slide, I can still swing, but I would fail adult P.E. because of that wretched contraption.  My armpits literally felt like they were ripped in half.  How do you strengthen your armpits?  I'm not googling it because I'm still trying to get over the last couple of google images I saw.  Somebody look it up and message me.
     Am I the only one who has lost her monkey bar mojo?  See, I hate to be the whistleblower but I think we need to stare our aging selves in the mirror and decide to make a change.  Because I think we went from this:

to this:

in the blink of a wrinkled eye.  And dude on the ball, I am SO not making fun of you.  I would look like I'm having a heart heart attack, too, hopping on that ball.  And just to let you know, the crowd behind you looks to be enjoying your stress quite a bit.  And you don't look like you're enjoying yourself at all.  Why is bouncing on that ball not as fun as you remember it being when you were ten?  I just don't know.  I have NO answers for you, my friend.  Just stay the course.  Don't let the mockers get to you.  And challenge the lady in the blue shirt to take a spin on the ball.  That is the only way to get out of this scenario with your dignity intact.  She WILL look worse, I promise.  Scrap it if she starts to look blue in the face, though.  You don't want to get sued.
     It's been a rough go, I'll tell you that.  I tried to recapture some of my youthful essence by doing a cartwheel.  The world went black and I got a terrible headache for the rest of the day.  I'm not going to say it's only downhill from here, but if we don't start paddling in the other direction, well, the waterfall is right ahead.  My goal is, by the end of this summer, to be able to cross the monkey bars entirely, while three kids are swinging below.  I told you I dream big.  Either I will accomplish my goal or a small child will be decapitated.  The stakes are high, my friends.  Keep paddling.

P.S.
You know who would LOVE to cross the monkey bars?  Rose, that's who.  Take a peek at this cutie:

 

Four years old and from Latin America.  AND she looks like she could give some serious monkey bar lessons.  

P.S.S.

Cory was adamant that I put this video up.  

Whatever.  He's obviously been doing CrossFit on the sly.

Power

    Well that was one heck of a Lent, let me just say that.  Not sure if the ticker could have taken much more, but God has proven to be faithful as we've ventured out.  It's been five weeks since I first started blogging and advocating for little Colton (aka: "Hopper") on Reece's Rainbow.  It's been a crazy five weeks of begging people to donate, figuring out the best options for raising awareness in our community, and praying more diligently than I've prayed in recent memory.  So much good has happened.  So many people have inspired me.  So much is still left to be done.
   I've been thinking a lot about power lately.  What is power?  Who is powerful?  How can I become more powerful?  Better yet, do I want to become more powerful?  I've had a front row seat lately to the immense power that lays at the feet and in the hands of each and every one of us.  Power to change ourselves.  Power to change our community.  Power to change the world.  I think we often buy into the lie that we're "just" one person, or one family.  What can we really accomplish during our lifetime?  It got me thinking....
    First off, there are the people that adopt from Reece's Rainbow.  I don't know any of these people personally, but they continue to shock me into faith by their unbelievable acts of signing up to take home the weakest and most vulnerable of our world.  I scan the faces of the "chosen ones", the little ones who sparked some kind of intense bond with people half way across the world.  I look at cute little Tony:

Those of you familiar with Tripp Roth's story will probably instantly recognize the ravages of EB already inflicted upon this sweet boy.  And yet, someone picked him.  To be their son.  Someone in this world saw his picture and said, "Ah, yes, that one.  He will be ours."  Take a look at the picture of Tony with his family:

Nestled among loving arms.  A child with a disease so scary, but a family with a heart bigger than any disease.  Can you believe?  Can you even comprehend what it takes to take that leap?  I wish more people knew that these people exist.  They are so darn, well, powerful.  When most people think of powerful, I'm sure they start with the famous examples:  the President, the Pope, Brad Pitt.  You know, the people who have the grand stage.  The people who can get BIG things done.  But my focus is changing.  I'm starting to see the power of the "little people" and what they can do.  Like Tony's family.  They're just a small little family but look at what they've done!  They conquered their fears.  They pushed away their doubts.  They let God do something amazing in them.  And I'm just sitting back and watching this.  Watching God make manifest his glory in the small.  In the weak.  In some small family who said some small "yes."

     More than anything, being a part of this journey so far has led me down the road of believing that we are infinitely powerful.  We have this incredible capability of being supernatural lovers.  We all possess, deep within, the divine spark that can light this world on fire with mercy and compassion if we just let it breathe.  If we just let go of the fears and doubts that extinguish what God can do.  

    When I had just finished high school (many years ago), I ran into a lady by the name of Bunt Percy at a restaurant.  Bunt is the wife of the late author Walker Percy, if you're familiar with his writings.  Anyway, the Percy's and my grandparents were very good friends and so we chatted lightly for a second.  All of a sudden, she asked if I would be willing to come on Fridays to the nursing home with her and a couple of other older ladies to help push the old people to Mass in their dining hall.  Honestly, I really did not want to.  Like, at all.  But Bunt Percy was not one to really take "no" for an answer.  After trying out several excuses and watching her shoot them down with her 4'10"ish self, I agreed to go.  

    Anyhow, I showed up every Friday for the next couple of months and helped these old ladies push old ladies to Mass :).  I met a lot of interesting people and have many stories to share about my experiences there.  But one stands out.  One that I still cannot talk about today with crying (I realize that doesn't say much).  One Friday, as I was heading out to leave, Ms. Bunt stopped me in the stench-filled hallway.  

"Oh, Molly," she began,"would you mind going and staying with Mrs. Parker in Room 122 for a little bit?"

Ugh.  And I had just started to count down the minutes until I would stop having to smell urine and see way-too-long toenails perched on the step of a wheelchair.  Agh.

"Um, okay.  Why?" I asked, trying to come up with an urgent excuse that would require me to leave immediately, like intentionally breaking my leg so I wouldn't have to stay.  You know, like that excuse.

"Well, you see," she replied, "Mrs. Parker is dying and I really don't like to leave anyone dying alone and I have a lunch date with some friends."

Okaaaaaaaaaay.  Wait, what?  Dying?  As in dying dying?  SOMEBODY'S DYYYYYIIIIINNNNNGGGGG???????  In all my Fridays that I had been there, I had never been around somebody dying.  Heck, I had never been around anyone dying in my entire life and I certainly didn't want that first experience to be imminent.   I was seventeen years old and had no intention of starting up a ministry for those about to hit the eject button.  Nevertheless, Ms. Bunt would not listen to my endless protests.  

     I began the walk to Room 122 and started to slightly panic.  What would I say to a dying person? Umm, sooooooo, do you like to read? Scratch that.  Who would want to read as they are dying?  I can't read to a dying person!  Imagine leaving this world to the sound of a seventeen year old reading some trash from a magazine she picked up on the way in here?  No. Way.  That would not be an appropriate atmosphere in the least.  Umm, soooooo, where'd you grow up?  Scratch that.  Who would want to talk about their childhood when they're about to kick the bucket?  Nuh-uh. I was always pretty good at casual conversation but it slowly dawned on me this was not the time for such friendly banter.  What on earth am I going to do?  I thought about just running out.  Or diving head first into a trash can.  Nothing could have been as tortuous as hanging out outside Room 122 waiting to stare death in the face.  I think I even moaned out loud as I opened the door.  I'm sure that was pleasant for her to hear as she lay there about to meet her Maker.

    And there she was.  It was a room for four people and she was in the bed closest to the door on the right.   Propped up on her pillows and dressed in a pale blue nightgown.  Her eyes were closed and her breathing heavy.  I remember standing there for a second just taking her in.  Her long gray hair was matted to her head but was long enough to reach just past her shoulders.  I was desperately afraid.  And then she opened her eyes.  I thought for a second I would just pretend I was a cleaning lady, straighten some stuff up and exit swiftly. But I couldn't.  She smiled and a I approached the bed, in awe that someone dying was actually still able to smile.  I reached out and held her hand and didn't say a word.  Partly because I was terribly afraid of ruining a person's dying moment with something really stupid.  Partly because it was kind of peaceful just standing there.  I started to pray silently with my eyes closed, frantically searching my brain for any prayers that mentioned death.  To my utter relief, the Hail Mary was a perfect fit.  I opened my eyes at one point and saw her bulletin board hanging behind her head.  The bulletin board showed pictures of her on her wedding day and pictures of what looked to be family.  I got sad, realizing she was once a healthy, beautiful lady and now was reduced to shallow breathing in a nursing home bed.   Where was her family?, I thought.  Maybe they were all dead.  They had better be dead.  If they did exist and they weren't here, I might have taken matters into my own hands.

    I don't know how long I stood there.  Not sure how many Hail Mary's I said.  But I will never forget one moment.  The moment this poor lady, taking difficult breaths and struggling to find a comfortable position, opened her eyes again.  Her big blue eyes began to fill with tears and they started spilling down her cheeks and wetting her gray hair.  I was about to let loose my own fragile emotions when she gathered up the energy to speak between struggling breaths.  "Thank you for being here with me," she said.  Whoa.  I realized how scared she was.  How comforting it must have been to have another human being lay witness to your death, a stranger though she may be.  I relaxed.  There would be no words necessary.  No poem would suffice.  All that was needed was a presence and a touch.  And, even at the young age of seventeen, I was able to give that.  

    She closed her eyes once again and lay back peacefully.  I recall that moment, as ironic as it might be, as a moment when I felt mind-blowingly powerful for perhaps the first time.  That, for the first time I could remember, I felt like my life had incredible meaning.  Apart from the grades, apart from the sports, apart from the social stresses of teenage life, I felt a strong purpose in there being a Molly Meredith on earth.  It was a "George Bailey" kind of moment.  What if I had never been born?  That lady would have been all alone.  I smiled at that.  Not in a weird way, but in a way that felt strong and empowering.    

     I'm forever trying to cultivate a realistic expectation of who I can be in this life.  A great mother- I hope.  An amazing wife- it's my dream.  A voice for the voiceless- yes.  Having the honor of being the voice of Hopper has filled my heart in so many ways.  Seeing people respond to his little picture makes my heart go deep, deeper than it's been in a while.  Down into the trenches of the human experience.  Into the sufferings of the silent.  Into the pain of the neglected.  I have crazy dreams for these kids on Reece's Rainbow.  And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God can do powerful things in me.  And not only that He can, but that He must.  I will not stand by and let these kids waste away in an institution.  I am no Brad Pitt.  I am no Pope Benedict.  But I am me.  And you are you.  There are small missions and big missions for all of us.  Things that no one else can do.  And if we fail to let God take our lives as His own, those things will not be accomplished.  Never doubt that you were put on this earth for amazing things.  Amazingly small.  Amazingly big.  It really is all the same.

P.S.

It's Heath's eleventh birthday today.  Won't you say a small prayer that somebody will look at him and see their future?  A lady that visited the institution where Heath lives said he was small, dirty and alone.  A raw sob almost bursts out of me when I read that.  But I won't despair.  I'll go on believing the small people of the world will see him one day.  And in his smallness, they'll recognize him as their own.