Ash Wednesday 2021-Does anyone get it?

This was the year I learned that Ash Wednesday is the Church's Santa Claus. I remember sitting under a tree in a park in early summer with friends as we all puzzled over the closures of our various churches. 

To be fair, the Baptist church didn't close down. In fact it amazes me--the sprinkling of churches I know that don't commemorate Lent, have no idea what Ash Wednesday is, and still kept meeting, unmasked. Clearly they get it.

But with a few defiant exceptions, the Catholics, the Lutherans, the Anglicans all shut down and huddled in their homes, determined not to die. 

"...for dust you are and to dust you will return.” (Gen. 3:19 NIV)

Ha! Apparently, in the 21st century we don't actually mean that. 

I've always thought I would die. I'm always certain my loved ones will die. Many have been concerned about this, identified it as abnormal and unhealthy, and thought maybe I should take something. And to be fair, it has at times been unhealthy, and I have at times taken something. 

Perhaps the reason that it was Ash Wednesday that began my whole journey into liturgical worship in the first place is because it was the first time that I heard acknowledged out loud what beat in my heart all the time: "You're going to die."

But every year as I go forward and have ashes smeared on my forehead and hear: "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return" I get a little less anxious about it, and a little more accepting, and believe a little more that resurrection, not death, is the end of all things. 

The past year has been hard, frustrating, painful. I've come to realize not many people believe the holy water is holy. Turns out it is scary and we mustn't touch it. Years of hearing that no one has gotten ill from the receiving the common cup ("not evening during The Plague!") was tossed out the window in a couple of minutes of the covid-19 scare. We should call the elders and anoint the sick with oil became, "We should mask up, social distance and no way get close enough to anoint anyone." 

I am grateful to find I actually believe in all these things. I'm not really afraid. But finding the church believes these things like it believes in the Easter bunny has been painful. The hardest thing to believe in right now is the Church.

Always Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday is that odd day between Good Friday and Easter Sunday during which Jesus Christ—life himself!—lay dead in a tomb.-Travis Ryan Pickell, Before Christ Rose, He Was Dead

I heard Doris Kearns Goodwin, a noted historian, saying that this moment in our history (this pandemic), while unique, most reminds her of the World War II era.  She made a number of comparisons, but what most struck me is that she reminded us, "Remember, no one knew we were going to win the War." Right. I forget that.

Just like I have forgotten that on Holy Saturday, the disciples, friends and followers of Jesus didn't know that Easter Sunday was just one sleep away, and that the tomb would be empty and God would rise and the world would never be the same.

For them, he was dead. They were enemies of the regime, rejects of their own religious system; the leader they had given everything up for, was dead. They were sequestered in their homes, exhausted, devastated, confused.

Lent has faded into the Triduum and we stand on the brink of celebration. Tomorrow we will shout He is Risen!! Most of us will do it in our own homes, and I suspect it will lack a little bit of punch. But in another sense, we all have the opportunity to ponder the reality of an Easter to come: the end of sickness, fear, economic devastation, alienation from each other. I think it will be a very Holy Saturday Easter.

Most of us have lowered quite a few loved ones into the ground. We carry the weight of knowing there will be more separations, and eventually our own. We believe in resurrection, and we rejoice because Easter's Resurrection of God changes everything. We know it.

And yet, our lives are lived out like one long Holy Saturday. We believe death is gasping its final breaths, but it still does wound us. We believe in eternal life, but our bodies are not transformed yet. He is risen. We await our own resurrection.

All You Taught Me

Michigan, Sept 2016

A couple of years ago I went to visit my grandma. We had so many good conversations in her little room at my aunt and uncle's house in Walla Walla. In this one, she told me, "One day my heart is going to give out and I'll be gone just like that. And you will be fine."  And while at other times she was more anxious and afraid she would have a long painful death, this ended up being prophetic. And I keep reminding myself that all is well with my soul. I am fine. But I will miss her so.

My Grandma Bigger was not a playing grandma. My cousins and I can't remember her playing a game, and certainly not dolls. She had apparently been quite the athlete in her youth, playing basketball among other things, but by the time we came on the scene, she preferred reading, crocheting, embroidery, and watching television. She loved the quiet. She was an avid sports fan, climbing the stands to watch the Seahawks in her 90s, following the Seattle Mariners.

Mackinac Island Ferry, Sept 2016

She didn't force anything on anyone. So you had to ask her questions about her life, you had to ask her what she thought. And oh, then the gems that she produced.

When I called to her just a month ago, she thanked me so much for calling. I told her it always made me feel better to talk with her, that she helped me with life. She sounded like she had a catch in her throat. "It DOES?" She was incredulous. And it did. Every time. She gave me courage and perspective.

When I was feeling overwhelmed by potty-training my child, I shared that it was not going well. She encouraged me by saying she wished she hadn't been so hard on one of her children. Oh, she had so many regrets about how she had pushed him. "But I had to break the ice in the creek to wash his diapers," she added. Wow! That changed my perspective ENTIRELY. I also haven't complained about laundry ever since.

Mackinac Island with my dad, Sept 2016

She took the time to counsel me to "punish" less, telling me she wished she hadn't been so hard on her kids. She saw in me the need to have "control" and told me when she looked back, she didn't think she would have done any harm if she had punished less, and just loved them. (She wasn't at all opposed to discipline in the right frame of mind and for the right reasons.)

Once when I was hating my life in a gray, rainy, depressing climate and complained about it, she told me she had lived there too. And hated it just as much. It was there the Red Cross came to her door and told her they thought my grandpa was dying. She was a young mother and he was on a military base, in training to go fight World War II and had contracted pneumonia. She remembered they told her to find a neighbor to watch her child so she could go say "good-bye." My grandpa pulled through. I decided that my life was really NOT that bad. It was just weather.

I asked her about what it was like to live through the Depression and she told me how her family spent one winter of the Depression living in a tent in the snow in Yakima, Washington. She only remembered eating the wild plums that grew at the edge of the field and said she didn't like plums to that day. That story helped me appreciate what I have never had to do without.

Once when I was preparing for a trip to Los Cabos, Mexico, I called her and asked her if she had been there. I knew she had been to Mexico, having seen pictures of boating trips off Mazatlan. She chuckled when I asked. "Oh yes, I was there twice." And then, what she would say to me often, "I really have had such an amazing life." And she did. And so do I. Getting to see the world, and even better, seeing it with someone you love, is amazing.

Cruising through the Panama Canal

As she grew older, I became more and more aware of her anxious nature and the courage it took for her to do many things. Every trip she took over the last ten years, she wasn't sure she could go on.  She was worried about so many things and yet, she bravely got on planes to Washington D.C., to Michigan, to Ireland. Over and over, she kept going. Even at the end, she got in the car and left "safe" to see something new. As my battles with anxiety escalated over the last few years, I have claimed her spirit time and time again. I have set foot on the plane, stood in the line, and boarded the train. When my nerves kick in, I have often had to remind myself, "If your 90-something grandmother can do this, you certainly can."

But the most important thing Grandma taught me was LOVE. When you married into the Bigger family, you became a Bigger. In-laws weren't outsiders; they were loved and cherished as beloved children, and grandchildren. All of their in-laws called them "Mom" and "Dad" and it wasn't forced. They were loved. 

She was a strong wife to my grandfather. She gave him structure and strength; he made her life fun and adventurous. She loved rules; he loved to bend those rules. But they loved and respected each other and created a legacy together. They modeled and promoted what they believed it. So no, they didn't push me on the swings or go down the slide. But I will never forget the time they took me to ice cream after observing me do something unselfish for others. I won't forget that they came to my baptism, my graduations, and applauded my hard work. I treasure a letter my grandmother penned to me on September 11, as soon as she learned I was far from my Virginia home and safe. And just a few weeks ago, she dialed my number to say thank you for her birthday flowers. It was our last call. She was grateful then. I will be grateful forever.

Garnet Clarice McCoy Bigger, March 4, 1921-March 22, 2017

Stepping Out

I love New Year's resolutions. Or at least, I use to. At some point, I hit that realization that I made the same resolutions every single year and I was still carrying extra weight, still impatient, and still couldn't seem to focus in prayer.

When I was younger I used to think that midlife crises were the result of people realizing they weren't "young" anymore, and despairing at extra weight, the loss of hair, or some physical attribute that reminded them that their bodies were in decline heading toward that surety-death.

And while my aching back and neck, and my declining eyesight certainly are not things I'm celebrating, I'm realizing that midlife despair is more about realizing that all the things we were going to change about ourselves, those pesky bad habits, our "sins of personality" are still with us. This process of sanctification is slow going; is it even happening at all?

Even worse, some of the things that were more contained when younger, are not so easily contained. Anxiety, for instance, that I've struggled with since I was a child, has only become more evident to the outside world as I have aged and witnessed more of life to be anxious about.

So I started the year of our Lord 2017 with a kind of discouragement that I was still short-tempered and impatient, and I was still prone to second helpings and a secret stash of chocolate and thus carrying extra pounds, and that I still can't seem to focus well when I need to pray.

Only self-defeat is not really helpful. I'm always ruminating on life, always have an internal conversation happening about my short-comings and the lamentable situation of the entire fallen world and what would make a difference if it changed. Oh, and my husband and my dearest friends know these musings often go external when given a chance. (Sorry!)

Now we are into February and I have realized a couple of happy things. One is that while I've always approached exercise as this thing I should do to be thin (and it has NEVER made me thin, even when I was disciplined), I recently realized (because I'm getting old) that the goal of exercise is to help me be strong, and to keep the instrument I live in, running. Sadly, it also makes me really sore now, and I wish I had realized this when I was younger when it didn't hurt so much, but it is something. So in the last year I have finally made regular exercise, part of my life.

But more importantly, I tackled a psychological hurdle I have faced for 20 years. I started walking, alone, in my neighborhood, again. Something so simple has given me joy and a breathing space, and the capacity to pray in a new way.

Twenty years ago I was living in a part of Portland with a sketchy reputation. My cousin had just been murdered and I was dealing with all kinds of grief and anxiety there. I have always loved walking and exploring and that hadn't changed. But one day I went for a walk in my neighborhood just as the police swooped in on a drug-ring in a nearby apartment complex. It was somehow too much for me, and as much as I tried walking over the next 20 years, I always imagined predators behind the curtains of houses and couldn't do it without a racing heart and a quickened pace. Eventually I quit trying to take walks.

Two summers ago, I borrowed my mom's bike a few times and went riding in my neighborhood. It was something. I also went out walking on summer evenings with Mike.

Consciously, I wasn't really thinking about this thing I didn't do, and the reasons for it. But it started coming back to me, that I had once loved to take a walk, and that it was healing balm for me in the stress of a normal day.

This last August, I set out one morning. I took a short walk on a route I had been taking with Mike in the evening. And I just kept going. Nearly every day, except when I tried to go out one morning when it was 28 degrees and decided to set a personal limit of 32 degrees as my threshold.

I have found walking helps me with my anxiety-prone thoughts. It helps me with prayer. It helps me physically, mentally, spiritually to face life with joy and confidence.

And finally, it is something I didn't let beat me down. I tackled my fear, and won.

...to be continued...

Here I Come to Worship

This Advent was full of anticipation for me. I haven't had a Christmas with my grandmother in years. And this Christmas, we all worked together to make it happen. My parents and brother donated frequent flier miles; my grandma at 93 mustered up her courage to fly all the way in holiday frenzy. My brother flew up from southern California to meet her in Seattle and fly with her.

So while Kyrie and Mike decorated and wrapped gifts, I made Christmas cookies and planned pies and meals, cleaned and Christmas shopped.

And last night we drove to southern Michigan and met at a Greek restaurant for our first glimpse of Mark and Grandma. The only thing missing was snow. Because bizarrely, western Washington and its hated weather, followed me to Michigan and entrenched itself the last couple of months. And the rain has been beating down.

After our family dinner, we parted ways, my grandma with my parents back home to rest up for today. Mark with us to tour Detroit and look at lights in Grosse Pointe.

A few minutes before 10pm, we arrived at our little church and packed in with a crowd dressed in Christmas finery. A dimly lit church, Christmas carols, music, prayers.

We were singing when the wonderful Argentinian grandfatherly man in the pew behind me said "Is that snow?" Sure enough, as I gazed out, swirls of snow were coming down. We haven't seen snow in a month but as Christmas was descending, there was the swirl of snow. It is too wet and too warm so it didn't stick, but looking up into the night and seeing that as I sang about my Savior's birth was pure joy for me. A personal gift to the little girl in me who wanted snow for Christmas, surrounded by hardened Michiganders who are delighted that there is NOT snow this Christmas.

In a year of bad news, and more bad news, swirling into the night was a reminder that Christmas is for worship. Surrounded by fellow worshipers I was grateful that for me Christmas begins in Church. Every week I come to be reminded of Good News in a midst of bad news; Love in the midst of hate; Hope in the midst of despair. But at no time is that more poignant than at Christmas, when God left heaven and embarked on a fabulous, mysterious, project to enter our suffering, to come among us and truly LOVE us. 

Christmas is full of wonderful family memories and presents to each other. But it begins for me with God's gift. Any joy I derive flows from that gift and in Church, Advent twinkled into Christmas and joy came from waiting, expectation, and preparation.

The night was divine and its beauty is with me through presents, and food, and games. And a nap, I hope.

"Truly He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease."-O Holy Night

The Faith of a Child

December 14, 2014 Holy Redeemer by Lorelei Powell

The old-fashioned Christmas pageant writes itself with the simple story of the Nativity. Bathrobes, garland halos, and old sheet music for “The First Noel” simplify and economize, gently reproaching the Christmas machine. Our kids—reenacting the simple narrative of the second chapter of Luke year after year (like we did)—help bring home the wonder of the Incarnation that came so plainly and quietly in Bethlehem. -Larry Eskridge


Yesterday, the kids led church. Ben read announcements, other children read the Scripture readings and led the prayers. And they reenacted the Nativity in their own particular styles, not feeling the need to solemnize what to them is a purely joyous occasion. Gabriel had jazz hands, Baby Jesus had a smudge on his face, and the sheep were a little askew.

It is on these occasions that I most reject the idea that children shouldn't be baptized, and shouldn't receive communion. All the words of Scripture come home to remind me that Jesus welcomes children into the body of faith as our equals. They are not underlings, they bear the richness of the faith. They are not the future of the Church, they are the Church. When my children go forward to receive the Eucharist, they are no less than I am when I go forward.

As a smug little child, I use to argue that I wasn't yet old enough to understand the mysteries of the faith, therefore I should not take communion. Now that I'm an adult, I realize that my childlike faith was alive with mystery, and that I had everything I needed to receive in faith. I had grace. I had faith that one day I would be complete. Nothing I did made me worthy to be a participant. And that has never changed. I still stumble, fall, and question. I most definitely have not yet "arrived" at perfection.

Yes, I lead my children in the faith. Yes, I teach them where to turn with questions and where to place their hope. But they teach me too. Just like members of the body of Christ, they have different gifts and use them to edify the church.

As I watched our congregation's children lead the service yesterday I did not think "One day they will lead us." I smiled that they are leading us now.


The leopard shall lie down with the young goat, The calf and the young lion and the fatling together; And a little child shall lead them.-Isaiah 11:6 (emphasis mine)

But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. -Matthew 19:14 (emphasis mine)

When I Am Not in Control

After a long stretch of good health, we had a round of sick kids this past month. I started things off with a flu thing and passed it to them.

The signs were there for Ben and I was in denial a little bit. He always has trouble with his windpipe when he gets sick; it inflames and causes croup. Which exacerbates his asthma. But the medical books tell you that should be over by age 7. Not so for him.

So we were watching "Fellowship of the Ring" with him. He had a box of tissues, but seemed fine.

And then in 10 minutes, he went in to a slide. One minute we were watching a movie, the next he flicked off the TV and said he had to stop and took his first croupy cough. The nebulizer treatment didn't work; the steamy shower didn't work. We tried each twice. Vomiting.

I checked on him just after midnight and there was terror in his eyes. He can't really talk when he can't breathe so he had written us a few notes early on. I asked: "Do you want to go to the hospital?" Yes, he nodded.

I despise hospitals, I get asked questions, I wash my hands and use hand sanitizer constantly. But we went. He was terrified. I was terrified.

In these moments, I pray and wonder if....

We went. The night air helped, even though it was warm and humid air. We got to the ER and I asked: "Are you better? Do you want to go in?" In response, he vomited again. We went in.

And it feels dirty and diseased and the surroundings are uncomfortable and the staff never displays much urgency. I hate hospitals. But the doctor is wonderful; tells me his 9-year old just did this and Ben will eventually outgrow it. His pulse oxygen is good; he isn't wheezing. The worst has passed. He gets a dose of steroids. We can talk. He tells me, "Mom, I wasn't sure I was going to make it this time." Yeah. We wait. We are finally handed discharge papers only to have him throw up all his medicine as we left the room and have to stay, take anti-nausea medication, wait for that to take effect, take more steroids, wait. And finally go home to rest and recover.

In these times, I reflect on friends whose children are fighting deadly diseases, some who have lifelong challenges that they will not outgrow. I pray for them. I long to help ease their burdens.

In the first world, it is so easy to believe we are in control. That our destiny is ours. In these times with Ben, I am confronted with the lie of control. I can't save him. I can't save myself. I am at the mercy of God. My friends with ill children know this, they know they cannot fix their kids and their problems. They have stared it in the face and come out with the truth that eludes so many. They are better for it. But tired. And so I pray that they will find rest. And that I will find rest in the reality that I'm not in control. And that is okay.

One Hour to Sit Still

For the past month, I have been the T.A. in an algebra class at a homeschool co-op. There are five students, a teacher, and me. Doing nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Ok, every once in a while I am the subject of a story problem. And amusingly, the teacher (maybe a decade older than me) thought I was a student the first day, stoking my ego, a little bit. But I am there not to assist, really, but for liability reasons.

So I sit. In the back. Doing nothing.

I have my phone and yes, I have submitted to the temptation of checking Facebook on it. Ben is concurrently in a computer coding class so he has my laptop. And I am trying to not be a distraction so try to behave myself on the phone and wouldn't have my laptop anyway.

All of which has led me to this. I am not really sure how to sit for an hour and do nothing.

The last two weeks have been full of suffering and death and this hour gives me time to pray. Sit-still prayer not really being my specialty. I'm a prayer tosser. I fling prayers toward the sky and rarely sit back to listen these days.

This week I snuck a journal into the class disguised in a notebook. I did journal two pages, the second entry in the journal; the first page written over a year ago.

Until this experience I didn't realize how little time I spend in quiet reflection. I do spend time every day and I knew I wasn't giving the contemplative mystics any competition but I thought I could do it, "if only I had time." This hour has shown me a huge deficit in my ability to sit still, devoid of all distractions save five silly, math-challenged adolescents. I am brought back to my lack of concentrated time in prayer.

I could blame our fast-paced, electronic-ridden, distracted society. But the truth is....It's just me.

How Long....How Long?

He is Risen. Oh, what a reality I am trying to grasp.

I love this: The Church fathers taught that the door to Paradise had been locked up with Adam and Eve's sin. A few (Enoch, Moses, Elijah) slipped through by grace but death had the victory. And then this when Jesus said "It is finished": The tombs were opened, and many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised;…(Matthew 27:52). And then 1 Peter 3 which the disciples taught meant that He descended to hell and preached to the dead and they were given the chance to receive grace. I'm counting on grace.

I'm counting on it for the little things. The hard week of schooling my children who will not pick up anything in their rooms despite threats. Frayed nerves led me to check out tuition costs this year and then they melted my heart with their excitement at the curricula coming in for next year. Spring fever...we can make it through. We can smile.

I'm banking on it for the big things. The friend who died this week of a heart attack and left behind a little girl and an elderly mother. For 6-year old Noah diagnosed this week with bone cancer and his three siblings, parents and extended family trying to balance life with the unknown. For people far away mourning the loss of loved ones' whose lives were taken in one reckless moment in Afghanistan by a crazed gunman. By a world saying, "How Long?" How long until our hope is visible? How long until the suffering ends? How long until the reality I believe in is made visible?

It is this kind of night. How long?

Control Freaks Anonymous

Recently I took in a Tigers game with my family and friends visiting from Washington. I was taking Kyrie to the bathroom when we encountered women in various stages of drunkenness. She handled it fine; my reaction was to feel sadness, disgust, and also to realize that I am too much of a control freak to ever be a drunk.

Applaud me for natural childbirth. Yes, I'm tough. But no, actually, I hate losing control.

I've repeatedly dismissed having someone clean my house because I couldn't bear to have a stranger come in to my mess and do it their way.

I'm a piece of work.

And Lent is always a time when I get smacked upside-the-head with my issues. If I try to give something up or do something different, I falter. I like my routines. I like my way.

So this year, I've spent the better part of Lent sick or in pain. I've had two bouts of some kind of virus, the most recent being a debilitating sinus infection that requires medication to function. (Oh, I hate medication...did I mention that?) Throw in some bizarre shoulder injury that feels like I threw one too many fastpitch balls; only I did absolutely nothing of the sort. I cannot lift with my left side, I can barely dress, and I shriek in pain if I'm touched. This is not the preferred form of me.

This morning, my husband gently asked if I was any better. I didn't want to answer...No, not really. He left and I faced the morning. I wanted to cry. And then this thought came to me (probably, a God-thing): "At least you don't have to lift your babies today." Thank you God that my children are old enough to not be carried today.

I looked at all that needed to be done. Breakfast. Kyrie made sure Everleigh was fed. Laundry. Ben picked up the piles and put a load in the washer, taking great delight in pushing the buttons and adding the soap. Lunch. I guided but they did the heavy lifting.

I'm not cured. I'm still in control of this operation. I hope I get to be a functioning human being again. But today, perhaps, it was time to remember that I'm not really in control. And I need a little help. Or a lot.

Don't Condemn Anyone

John 3:17 For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. (KJV)

Luke 6:37 Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. (NIV)

I walked out of church last week to the steady gaze of my pastor looking me in the eye, giving me a hug and saying "Don't condemn anyone."  He's nice that way. He is a great guy to have lunch with, but when I walk out of church I usually feel really overwhelmed with God's love and my lack of it.  

I was struck by it then and thought I knew what that message was to me (and to every parishioner...I'm not that special).  But it set off a firestorm of a week that left me exhausted and  humbled. 

First of all, I found myself making some pretty condemning statements about a few people. Worse, as I said them I realized they were a mild version of what I was thinking.  But that was minor compared to the realization that I had some buried animosity towards a group of people of people that condemned me (unjustly) long ago. And turns out that the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my judgement of people today was based on their similarities to those who judged me so long ago. And that I eschew relationships with anyone who bears a resemblance to anyone who has hurt me in the past. 

This dust I uncovered was not fun. Behind it was the lie I live behind that I am both tough and forgiving. For years, I have believed that since I knew the condemnation was a lie at the time that it couldn't have hurt me.  And I'm really not excited to find myself so vulnerable. This is the kind of thing that terrifies me about Lent, an intentional time of spiritual Spring Cleaning. And why it is absolutely vital that I participate in it in a church community that shines the light on some places where I am inclined not to look.

 

The Dust

We've had a few days of brilliant sunshine recently. The one this weekend turned up what a terrible housekeeper I am. Dust everywhere, cobwebs, floors that don't shine, and stuff where it shouldn't be. I got a little loopy, feeling overwhelmed and blaming a little too much, my lovely but unconcerned children.

Lent is like sunshine to my soul. Every Lent, late in week 2 or early in week 3, I start to see a lot of cobwebs and dust. A lot of disorder and a lot that doesn't shine. It is never pretty and I usually respond by wanting to crawl under the covers.

I'm thankful that God doesn't let me lie there under the covers and pout. I'm thankful I have children who keep getting me up. And while I can never completely get rid of the dust and disorder this side of heaven, that I can take up dusting with confidence, knowing that He already completed what is still being worked out in me.

Black Ashes

My youngest child is all lightness and gaiety.  She is full of goofy faces and her goal is to spread the joy. Ash Wednesday is not her speed. She was doing fine until we went forward to receive the ashes. Then she did a little freaking out. I could see her letting both her dad and then the priest know "not on me."

She made it through with gentle coaxing but several times during the service she would stare at my head and then say, "Get it off me."

At one point, I asked her why it was bothering her so much. "It's black," she said. "Does black make you sad?" I asked. "YES!"

I told Mike on the way home that now was the time to obtain a promise she would never get a tattoo. But in all seriousness, she grasped a truth in her childish way. It is BLACK. The reality of those ashes is darkness all over. And Ash Wednesday is a reminder that this is our destiny. Without Christ.

She faded into sleepiness on the way home and all was forgotten until the next morning. Then at breakfast she pointed at my head and said startled, "It's gone."

"Did you think it was forever?"

"Yes," her little head nodded. Pure, relief as I told her that hers too was nearly gone and we could wash it the rest of the way.

Yes, we can wash it. Yes, we are washed.

40 Days

I am reading about the journey of the Israelites from Egypt to Canaan  with my children. This morning's lesson was about the spies going into Canaan and the reports they brought back. And the subsequent banishment to the wilderness for 40 years. A nice segue way into Lent.

We started talking about the 40s (days and years) in Scripture and resumed it at dinner.

Kyrie always asks "Why?" She has to wrestle with anything and then she holds tightly to anything she has done battle with and come out believing. It is pure exhaustion as a parent but also exactly what we want.

She is still trying to figure out Lent. She has her fists up, unlike years past, giving me the feeling that this is the year she will begin to care about it.

Ash Wednesday will kick off for Ben with a lesson about the Holocaust. It just worked out that way. We've been leading up to it with his study of this time period and he has been reading ahead and asking questions, so he is somewhat prepared. But it seems apt that we will discuss the ashes of a race of people on a day when we will have ashes crossed on our heads. Could there be any more important reason to humbly to accept the imposition of ashes than to be reminded that it could have been us in the gas chamber? More importantly, it could have been me tending the chamber?

In the bleakness of this winter, surrounded by Great Lakes setting records for freezing more than they have in decades (and possibly, centuries), I'm a little numb. Lent comes at a time when the thaw can begin, the slow slow drip of my icy soul preparing itself anew for the joy at the end.

Time to look inward with new intensity for 40 days.

Favorite Advent Character

The angel said to him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time.”-Luke 1:19-20

If I could be anyone in the Christmas story, it would be Gabriel. Mary? Oh, I love her, but wouldn't want to be her. Not that tough. Not that humble. My tear ducts couldn't handle the job. And a trip on a donkey at 9 months pregnant? No, thank you. Delivering in a stable? Yeah, definitely happy to give her that honor.

But Gabriel! He made some stunning announcements, got to take some shocking, crazy news to people. I love delivering news!

And I love the idea of being able to say, "Didn't believe my Boss??? Quiet time. For 9 months, dude." I would so love to issue that proclamation to a number of people this Christmas.

So I need to work on a few things. I want to be able to say with Mary: “I am the Lord’s servant.... May your word to me be fulfilled” (Luke 1:38). Give me misunderstanding, persecution, hardship, pain. I want to be part of His plan. However, you choose. 

But I would also to love to tell someone God was striking them dumb. Just saying.

A Visited Planet

"...[B]ehind all our fun and games at Christmastime, we should not try to escape a sense of awe, almost a sense of fright, at what God has done. We must never allow anything to blind us to the true significance of what happened at Bethlehem....Nothing can alter the fact that we live on a visited planet."   -J.B. Phillips

  
I am a little kid when it comes to snow. It was in the forecast yesterday and never showed up and I was vastly disappointed. My reasons have changed over the years; I'm definitely less interested in being out in it but I still love to see it falling and love it to come when I'm prepared to stay home. But when it changes my plans...when I have to go out, well, then, it does give me pause.

To hear and read various thoughts on snow is not all that different than people's emotions about Advent (the second one, but also the first). There is excitement and longing and also, the other side: dread, fear, even terror.

Snow changes life for a short time. It changes the landscape, our priorities, and the risk.

Advent should change our perspective in the same way. It should reshape priorities, change the path we are on, and make us aware of the stakes.

This is a season for turning our attention to what it means to live on "a visited planet." He came once; He will return. Let every heart prepare Him room.

Advent

Advent is not four weeks of preparing for a birthday celebration. It comes to wake us up and realize our daily work is to see the coming of Jesus now....[T]he message of Jesus is that when our life is in ruins he is there. When sorrow breaks our hearts, he is there. The challenge of Advent is this--for us to live in such a way that others will believe they do not have to wait for Christmas. He is already here.

- Msgr. Gregory E.S. Malovetz

Giving Thanks

A lot of my friends and coworkers lost someone dear to them this year. Our church family has been through some horrific losses. One good thing that Facebook and social media does is to extend connections and help us be more aware, and if willing, to share in the suffering of others.

I've sent up some prayers today, for those who have lost parents, spouses, and children especially. Those losses make me grateful for those in the room and in rooms in Washington, California, Oregon, Tennessee, British Columbia, Costa Rica and many other places eating and drinking, sharing life.

The kids and I read a book about Sarah Hale tonight. Her idea for Thanksgiving was born after the death of her husband as she taught her children to be grateful for his life and for having known him instead of being bitter and angry. She went on to petition president after president to make it a national holiday. Her wish met success when Abraham Lincoln also saw the need in the midst of a horrific Civil War to be grateful even in the midst of loss. He thought that our nation needed to give thanks even as they mourned losses.

So for those who suffer, for those who mourn, I pray that you can cling to gratefulness.

For those of us who believe, who are preparing to enter the season of Advent and a season of giving, there is no greater way to begin it. Giving Thanks.

Bye-Bye Superwoman

This post by my wonderful friend Lindsay triggered many thoughts. I loved what she said and how she said it.

And it made me think of the difference between picking up a cross or putting on a cape. I far prefer capes to crosses and this often results in me attempting the difficult thing that gets noticed vs. the humble thing that I need to do. Or giving an easy answer rather than listening. This season is one for sorting out what is what, but even in attempting to do that, I easily gravitate toward the cape.

There are things in this life we are called to do. We are called to be His hands, His feet, and His tear-ducts at times. But some of us, uh-hum, have trouble sticking to the cross and want to solve the problems of this world.

As a parent, I'm faced with this dilemma time and time again. I want my children to have the best childhood possible and yet, in attempting to bring that about I have to wonder if I'm doing everyone a disservice. There are times when we do fun things, yes. But I can never protect them from all evil, can never be the answer to all their problems, never know exactly what they need in the moment or what they need to be learning to be prepared for in their futures. I can only hope to keep turning them toward the cross, reminding them of their hope, redirecting them outside of themselves and teaching them to love God and not seek my approval. Which sounds far easier than it actually is. Because I want to be SuperMom.

Kyrie told me last week that I was the "Perfect Mom." I think I actually laughed that such a statement would come from her. But I set about correcting her that no one is perfect and I most certainly am NOT. Later, tucking my wise 9-year old into bed, I said, "Well, you certainly know I'm not perfect." And with his wise little eyes that hide nearly everything he's thinking (which scares the caped woman to no end), he responded, "No, but you are a good mom." (Pretty diplomatic really.)

Being a mom is a cross in one sense, not because it is oppressively burdensome, but because when done well it does require the laying down of one's self.  A new mom said to me recently, "I just didn't know you are never off; you never have time that is just yours." And while I'm thankful for more time to myself these days, I sometimes have to stop the important thing I think I'm doing and give 100% to my family.

At the same time, my children are learning that I have other roles, and that I don't have all the answers. They will be better neighbors, friends, spouses, people for knowing that the world doesn't revolve around them and for learning early that I can't solve all of their problems. They have to learn to pray, and to seek God.

And so I try to start my day looking to the One Who Knows and remember not to get irritated when the day doesn't follow the plan. And not get tired and give up in the face of difficulties either. Capes vs. crosses.  One seems light but is utterly impossible. One is heavy but leads to life.

And When and How Do We Tell the Kids?

I jumped on the internet this afternoon to check work email and became aware of the tragic events happening in Boston. I didn't click on any news clips, just read a few online reports. I didn't turn on the TV. Little ears and eyes were about and instead I asked myself "how do you, when do you tell the kids?"

I may avoid talking about this for a little while longer, but not much longer. Ben found out about Newtown and he knows about September 11. The girls do not. Yet.

But evil is unavoidable, tragedy, a product of the Fall, and we can't hide from it.

About a month ago, Kyrie asked innocently, "What was the name of your friend who died?" I had no idea what she was talking about so I displayed genuine confusion. "It was something like 'Sharon,'" she pushed. My heart sank at what come next, but she didn't ask the questions I dread to answer. The questions about Shannon, my cousin whose murder when we were 25 forever altered the way I look at the world. I'm constantly formulating in my head how I will tell my children that awful story. How I will say "Do not be afraid" when I still will not walk through my neighborhood alone, when I still get up if I hear anything in the night.

I realized today how different 9/11 was for the mothers of young children, the parents who caught glimpses of coverage here and there, but who realized for a certain time and place, they needed to shelter their kids from those images, the fumbling of reporters, bystanders and pundits to make sense of the horror they were encountering.

I will not lie. Today is not an anomaly in the character of man; it is the norm. It is not surprising that these things happen, it is shocking that they aren't visible to us more often. The heart of man bears horrific darkness. The truth is finding the Light.

But I still don't know how to tell them.