Milestones

Milestone – Red sandstone (likely Lyons) with an interesting conglomerate mixed in.

Sometimes, a light flashes on the fact that time is marching on and that you better pay attention, or life will pass you right by and those milestones will be behind you. I suppose some might say that each breath is a milestone and so we better pay attention and make the most of each breath before it’s behind us.

Yesterday, I was hit with just such a realization – well, not hit exactly because I was in the middle of a much-needed massage, but the realization was so strong that I started crying, right in the middle of a massage (another milestone).

This coming Tuesday, my youngest will turn thirty. True, a milestone, but not the realization that struck me. What struck me was the importance of April 15, not because of tax day, but because on Monday, thirty years ago, I was twenty-nine, the same age as my youngest is now and will be on the 15th.

I’ve shared other interesting milestones with my other children, like my daughter and I will always celebrate milestone birthdays because I had her when I was twenty-five. I had my second child when I was twenty-seven, and he and I share reciprocal birthdays every eleven years, which is pretty cool.

Thirty-plus years ago, something was funny. My husband commented that I seemed distracted. “I think I may be pregnant,” I said. I had been on the pill and had taken it religiously, but I picked up a two-pack pregnancy test anyway, just in case. The package said, for best results, to take the test first thing in the morning.

After fishing with friends, we went out to dinner and I ordered a scotch. Those who know me, know that I really dislike scotch. I had never ordered scotch before, nor since. I had two sips and was finished with scotch for a good long time.

The next morning, I took the test – positive. I took the other one – positive. I called the doctor. The receptionist said to come in around noon and they would fit me in.

My first two were born in Denver, delivered by an amazing 65-year-old, never-married, pony-tailed doctor, who called everyone “sweetie”. He knew just what to say, how to say it, and he reassured you that you were doing just fine.

We moved to the mountains shortly after our second turned one. Up in the mountains, there was only one doctor, and it was his first day after taking over the business from the doctor listed in the phonebook. After four hours of waiting, the nurse took me in and asked the usual questions.

“Okay, let’s take you into the exam room,” she said, with fake cheeriness that was probably exhaustion.

“Wait, what about a pregnancy test,” I asked, still not comprehending that I could be pregnant. Our whole family was scheduled to go to Russia the next May, and my mother had been very clear about no one getting pregnant in the meantime.

“Did you take a pregnancy test,” she asked.

“Yes, yes, I took two,” I said, incredulous that I had just wasted four hours waiting for the answer I already knew.

“That’s all we would have done. Let’s go see the doctor,” she said urging me along.

The doctor was young, probably in his thirties. He did not have all the right words to say. He was harried. His timing was off. Where my previous doctor seemed to dance through life, this new doctor was trying to find the rhythm. I was due May 15.

At that time, we were in the midst of building a house on seventy-plus acres in the mountains. My cousin designed the house and asked if we would have any more children, and we both said, “Nope, we have one of each. We are done.”

I guess God had other plans. This child was meant to be in this world – in our world.

After four or five months into the pregnancy, we moved into the house. I probably lifted and moved things more than I should have and shortly after moving in, I noticed some bleeding. I called the doctor and spoke to the receptionist. She said, “You’ll probably continue bleeding and lose the baby. Sorry. I’ll have the doctor give you a call later.”

The bleeding stopped. The doctor called. I told him what the receptionist said. He said not to pay any attention to her and that he would have a word with her.

When pregnant with the other two, especially the second, I could do anything. I painted two bathrooms, hung two light fixtures, and played the best tennis of my life. With the third, every time I played tennis, my hips felt as if they would fall apart, and that the baby would come out right then. I stopped playing tennis.

One day, when I was five or six months pregnant we (my husband and I) went skiing with the general contractor of our house. It was a beautiful day, and we were having a blast, until my husband decided to do a bump run so he could get his heart rate up and make the day a worthwhile workout. I’m not great in the bumps, and these were the size of VW Bugs. The day and I dissolved into tears, and I found another route down, as the contractor yelled at the husband for being such an ass.

At the beginning of April of that year, I was eight months pregnant and I stopped to help another mother hang a swing on a swing set. I stretched up and held the swing while the other mother tightened the gizmo that held it in place. That night, I began having contractions about every twenty minutes.

I didn’t think too much about the contractions. At this point, I felt like a pro. I had an appointment scheduled with the doctor on Friday, April 15, and I had a new babysitter already set up. I kept a mental record of the contractions and the time between them steadily decreased. By the time of the appointment, they were five minutes apart. I asked the babysitter to stay for the day. I went into the doctor’s office, told him about the swing and the contractions, and I went off to the hospital.

“We’re going to do an amino, take fluid out of the sack to see if the baby’s lungs are developed. We’ve got to do it now in order to get the fluid on the next flight down to Denver. So, just sit tight and relax. Right now, this baby is breech, but hopefully, by the time we get the results back, it’ll turn itself around,” the doctor explained, and over the eight months, his timing had improved.

Luckily, I brought a book with me and the baby and I took the day and read.

Around five that evening, the doctor came in and said the baby’s lungs weren’t developed enough to come out, “We’re going to run another, more conclusive test. We should know in the next few hours about the results of that one. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

My baby and I finished the book. The sky darkened, and the doctor showed up around 9 pm. He looked wrecked. He ran his hand through his hair, touched my foot with his other hand, and said, “The results are back, and the baby’s lungs are developed enough to come out. It’s up to you. Do you want to have this baby tonight or tomorrow,” he asked, finally catching up with the rhythm.

I called my husband, and he also sounded wrecked. He said, “Let’s wait until tomorrow. I’ve just put the kids to bed. It’s late. Let’s just do it tomorrow.”

The decision was made, the baby would be born on the 16th. I had the room to myself. There weren’t any other pregnant mothers in the area. The nurse’s station was the closest thing to a nursery because there was no nursery. The nurse came in and told me just to ring if I needed anything because it was pretty quiet out there.

The room had a gentle blue glow. I adjusted the bed and tried to shut my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. My baby and I were suspended in time. My world was right then, in that moment, suspended before the birth and after the birth. There was no husband, no other children, just this miracle and me, waiting. I knew this little miracle had a purpose in this life, and I was its guardian to guide, teach, and mold this child for whatever life was yet to come. As with the other children, I knew my job was only temporary, only until they sprouted wings and soared on their own, to live their own lives, live their own dreams, and be who God created them to be.

I spent hours communicating and connecting with that perfect being within me, as I’ve never connected with anyone else. It was just my baby and me, concentrated time, consecrated time, sacred time.

What struck me during the massage, was that I wanted, needed, to spend April 15th with my son. Just him and me. Him – the same age I was when I had him. He’s not alone, but not married. Me – no husband, no other children around. I recalled how special that time was, how sacred, and how this moment will never come around again. Never again will he be the same age I was when I had him. Never again will he be unattached on a milestone birthday, with me in the same town.

We don’t know what the future holds. The 16th will come, and there will be a celebration of his actual coming into the world, a shared birthday with cousins on both sides of the family. But the 15th – that’s him and me time. That’s sacred time. That’s our time.

Thank you God for all my blessings, the expected and the unexpected. I, too, was an unexpected blessing.

Eclipse

Eclipse, as captured by Kathy Carney

The eclipse that happened a few days ago, which stopped the US and gave us pause to consider the magnitude of the universe and the minuscule-ness of our own lives, had a profound effect on many who witnessed it. Misty-eyed newscasters could barely contain their emotions as they described the event.

Eclipses might be viewed as a reset button. One can’t help but reflect on one’s life, how fleeting it really is, and perhaps ask the question, have I done the things I’ve needed to do?

I remember my first eclipse. We didn’t have cool glasses like the ones available these days. Instead, we had a box with a hole in it, and we looked in the box as the moon moved its way in front of the sun. It was not nearly as awe-inspiring as looking at it through cool glasses, but still impressive.

Have you ever been in an eclipse but didn’t realize it was going on? The sky begins to darken, and the birds and animals stop what they’re doing, and an eerie feeling tugs at the edges of your knowing. It’s hard not to look within and observe our failings, or missteps. A chill can accompany it, as well as a feeling of being alone. Just when we feel we couldn’t be more alone, the moon continues its path, the skies begin to brighten, and the sun begins to warm us once again. Maybe it’s God’s way of saying, “I’m here. Even though you can’t see me, even though there is darkness, I am with you. I see you. Trust in me. I am the light that shines within you. There is nothing to fear.”

After my best friend, who was also my next-door neighbor and cousin, died at age nine, I felt the darkness. The entire community felt the darkness. How could one so young be taken back up to God? She had just gotten to earth. She was joy and brightness rolled up in a beautiful package of a brown-haired, blue-eyed, enormous-hearted girl. Our lives would never be the same when she left, almost fifty years ago.

After her death, her mom (another mother to me) gave me a prayer card. The prayer card has sat on my dresser all these years. The card has yellowed, and the edges are torn, but the words hold firm. Those words have given me hope when it seemed as if despair was the only option. Those words have offered me a sense of peace and faith that everything would be okay. Those words have given me strength and courage when most needed. Even though the card is currently in storage, soon enough it will be unpacked and take its place on my dresser. I don’t need to have the card to know what it says. I memorized it and I carry it in my heart along with the precious memories of my friend.

God make me brave. Help me strengthen after pain as a tree strengthens after rain.

God make me brave. As the blown grass lifts, let me rise with quiet eyes, knowing thy way is wise.

God, life brings such blinding things. Help me to keep my sight, help me to see aright, that out of dark comes light.

I’ve heard it said that we die two deaths. The first is when we physically die, and the second is when our name, our life, is no longer remembered. As we approach the fiftieth anniversary of this very special person, may we remember all those who have passed before us. May we recall the light and brightness they brought to our world, and may we be grateful for the moments we shared with them, no matter how brief.

God, may we also remember that you are the true light in our lives, driving away the darkness and seeing us as bright, sparkling souls who are called to make a difference in the world.

Easter Season

The most miraculous thing happened to me this Easter. I have to step back a bit because, during a Lent of wow, twenty years ago, I prayed for my wasband’s heart to turn from stone into flesh. That entire Lent, that was my prayer. It didn’t happen, though another miracle happened in that I discovered that I would be fine, better than fine. A calm came over me, an intense peace overwhelmed me, and I knew that there was a better life for me without that man. The next day, I filed for divorce.

Since then, I have been trying to put more trust in God and His will for my life.

This Holy Week, the pieces started to fit together. It was especially special because I had reconnected with my friends from Colorado Springs, and they invited me to share their Easter meal with their family. I found them on Holy Thursday at a completely random church that is in the neighborhood of my Airbnb.

There is something special about this church. The priest, though somewhat difficult to understand with his thick accent, speaks off the cuff, sometimes stopping himself before saying something he shouldn’t, and is completely authentic and delightful.

My intention was to go to the Easter Vigil because it had been decades since I had been and the priest said that it was truly the beginning of our faith. If you haven’t been, it’s the really long Mass Saturday night before Easter, where they bring in the new catechumens, light the new Easter candle, and bless the oils. As the priest said, it is the birth of the church in the waiting for the Resurrection. It was scheduled for 8:30 pm, with confession from 5-6:00 pm. It had been a few months, so I went to confession.

I walked in and saw the younger priest with the heavy accent, and the older priest sat in a small room to the left.

“Are you here for confession,” the younger priest asked.

“I was thinking about it,” I stammered, as I didn’t expect to see the priest upon entering the church.

“He’ll be easier on you,” the younger priest said, and I walked into the room and took a seat.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was going to say. Sometimes I made a list, and other times, my sins hung on me so uncomfortably that I had to shed them as quickly as possible. This time, as I reviewed my happenings over the past few months, it was the little sins that nagged at me. They were the hurtful things I experienced from others like judgement and unforgiveness. While talking with this older priest, I realized that I had been judgmental and I needed to offer forgiveness to those who hurt me. Again.

He absolved me of my sins and I said my penance. I looked at the vibrant orchids around the altar and the flowers around the baptismal font and I smiled. Part of me wanted to come back to the Easter Vigil, and the other part wanted to go home.

The Ten Commandments, with Charlton Heston, was on the television (commercials and all) that night, and the pups and I watched it and had dinner. I don’t think I’ve ever truly watched it from beginning to end, and I’ve certainly not watched it since going through the Bible more closely and believing everything in it as truth. The tensions between brothers, the slavery, the unworthiness of Moses, the burning bush and the calling, the plagues, and ultimately leading the Israelites out of Egypt, and the parting of the Red Sea. Bible stories, yes. Truth? Yes. Once you watch that movie with eyes of truth, you glimpse God’s almighty power, as interpreted through technocolor.

Easter morning, I went to morning Mass and we were invited to introduce ourselves to our neighbor because there were many CEOs (Christmas and Easter Only). The young priest with the thick accent said he only got an hour’s sleep because it was like knowing you would receive a billion dollar check the next morning, and there was just no sleeping with all the excitement. He said he used to say “a million dollar check”, but because of inflation, etc, he changed it to billion. Instead of saying the, “I confess” part of the Mass, he decided to douse us with holy water as a way to wake us up, as well as himself. He really got us.

During the Homily, he said that through the Resurrection, Christ conquered death. He said, we are all afraid of death in one way or another and therefore live in fear. When Mary arrived at the tomb, the angel said, “Be not afraid.” There literally is nothing to fear because Jesus took it away for us. Living without fear is one of the many things I’ve been working on since the one Lent and the wasband.

What I physically felt during Mass was that my sins were the stone in front of the tomb, my own heart of stone, and with the Resurrection, my heart was opened, was made flesh. I felt, truly felt, that there as nothing to fear. I felt alive and aware, and felt as if I could conquer the world.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday, I relayed my Easter story to one of my sisters. It started raining and the topic turned to logistical things. The pups and I were in the car, waiting for the rain to stop before getting out. I decided to research one of the logistical things so put the car in gear, and set off. I was still chatting with my sister, when in my periferral vision, I saw a homeless man lying on the sidewalk, on his side like he was sleeping. A big German Shepherd kept watch behind him. Was he dead? Was he napping? Should I stop? For a moment, the German Shepherd and I locked eyes. I glanced around, was there a parking spot? There was not.

It all took place in a second. I was on an errand, but was it essential to do that errand right away? Could it wait? Of course it could. It is amazing how quickly our brains can discern a situation. Perhaps this is life in the big city. I knew someone else would walk by and take care of him, or maybe he was napping and would wake up and continue his journey. I thought of the story of the Good Samaritan, and I was no better than the first two passersby, who didn’t stop. I chose not to be inconvenienced.

When I returned home, I took the dogs on a walk, past the place on the sidewalk, to see if the man and the dog were still there. They were not. It started hailing, and we turned toward home.

I believe that that God dog looked at me in that moment as a test to see if I would stop. To see if I would get my hands dirty, or choose to be inconvenienced, to live in fear. On the other hand, the whole thing could have been a ruse to hurt me, but if I truly believed that there was nothing to fear, then it wouldn’t have mattered and I would have stopped. Though I didn’t stop, I sent up a prayer for that man and his dog. Maybe it was my way of justifying my lack of compassion, and washing my hands of the situation, or maybe it was God’s way of saying that I’ve still got a long way to go.

I will try to go to confession again this coming Sunday, Divine Mercy Sunday, where all sins are forgiven, and begin again.

Thank you Lord, for raising Jesus from the dead and destroying death for us. Thank you for this Easter season where we get to spend these fifty (longer than the forty days of Lent) days reading the Acts of the Apostles, rediscovering Your unconditional love for us, through Your son, and removing all fear from our lives, and trusting You with our whole heart.

Adoration

As a teenager, while everyone was getting their wisdom teeth removed and getting on with their lives, I was having mine filled. All four had come in without an issue so my dentist suggested I just have them filled. Easier said than done. It was an all-day event with a rubber dam to keep my tongue out of the way of the tools, drills, and fingers that filled my mouth. To be fair, for thirty-plus years, they weren’t a problem.

A few months before embarking on my Camino de Santiago (almost ten years ago now), one of the fillings from my wisdom tooth came out. My dentist at the time suggested having the wisdom teeth on that side removed. Both would have to come out because the one will keep growing without the other to knock up against so they both had to be removed. As a forty-nine-year-old woman, I felt like a teenager. I recalled my youngest nearly falling off the chair and the things he said when he was gassed up and having his removed.

On the Camino of nearly ten years ago, after I departed from my priest friend and began my own Camino, I met two lovely women along the way. One was Kathy from Texas, and the other was Denise from Nova Scotia. Denise was very spiritual and talked at length about how her marriage was made stronger by attending Adoration on a regular basis.

All the time growing up Catholic, going to Mass on Sundays, and attending an all-girls Catholic high school, never had I heard of nor taken part in Adoration. For those who don’t know what Adoration is, it’s spending time in God’s presence in front of the Eucharist which is usually held in a monstrance, a holder with beautiful radiating rays of brass or gold. The monstrance is not touched by the priest, and he uses a special cloak with, for lack of a better term, mittens to process the Eucharist before setting it on the altar.

Shortly after returning from the Camino, an adoration popped up, and I tried it. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I sat and meditated. Typically, people sign up to sit with the Eucharist for an hour. I hadn’t signed up. I didn’t last long, maybe fifteen minutes, but it was quiet, peaceful, and memorable. I tried it a couple more times and it wasn’t much better.

Yesterday was Holy Thursday, the lead-in to Easter, the Mass of the Last Supper. After the Last Supper, Christ went into the garden and prayed. After a while, Jesus checked on Peter, who along with James and John, was asleep. Jesus said to them, “So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (NRSVCE Matthew 26:40-41).

Yesterday, I had a dentist appointment in the late afternoon, to take care of a cavity that had been forming for some time between my remaining wisdom tooth and its neighbor. They gave me laughing gas, numbed the area, and drilled the cavity away, filled it with something, and sent me on my way. I had already identified the Mass I wanted to attend at a small, random church a few blocks from my Airbnb, and wanted to have my own supper, so chose an Italian restaurant a few blocks the other way from where I was staying. I ordered the veal piccata because I always test it in different places. This one did not disappoint, but there was a little too much garlic. I chewed slowly and carefully so as not to disrupt my new filling.

I walked into the random church, knelt, and looked around. There, just in front of me were friends from Colorado Springs! Their youngest and my youngest were in the same class in grade school and I hadn’t seen them since. What were the chances? Mass hadn’t started so I went over to them. They hadn’t changed one iota. I, on the other hand, wreaked of garlic, my hair was now the color of snow, straight and pulled back, and my face was beginning to swell as the numbing agent was beginning to wear off. We visited for a bit and they asked me to join them, and I gladly accepted.

After Mass, before dismal, the priest explained that there would be adoration after the procession. I knew I was going to stay. I would touch base with my new-place-old-friends soon enough.

My mouth was really uncomfortable but I really wanted to stay (the spirit is willing). I knelt for a while, some people stayed, and some left. I sat for a longer while. I looked at my watch five minutes had passed. I did my meditation, looked at my watch, and five more minutes had passed. My mouth was really hurting (the flesh is weak). I began to pray for others, family members, family of family members, friends, family members of friends, readers of this blog, and their families. The net kept growing. I thought of my aunt who said she had to go to bed a half hour earlier so she could finish her prayers without falling asleep. I prayed for my dearly departed and all those families, and the net grew some more. I looked at my watch. Fifteen more minutes had passed.

I started thinking about my dogs, prayed for them, and needed to take care of them. They hadn’t eaten, and it was 8:30 pm. I left thirty-five minutes into the adoration though I don’t think God kept time. Four people remained.

I don’t think Jesus was upset with me for not staying longer, I think He was grateful for even that time. We are in such a rush, for what? Why not spend good quality time with God? Even during my meditation, which I like to view as good, quality time with God, it’s not as focused as being in a church with the Eucharist, Christ’s body upon the altar, radiating God’s love for me, for us.

I can see how spending more time in adoration can improve one’s marriage, one’s life. By honoring God with one hour of your time, you’re letting Him know that He is important to you, in your life. By setting aside that time, we are showing that we honor our relationship with Him/Her. Without God’s love, we would not be here.

Thank you, God, for putting me on this path with these wonderful people who have made a difference in my life, in one way or another. Whether it be an encounter at a farmer’s market or a life-long family member, thank you for these people, your people who you loved into existence. Please, Lord, help people make Your will their priority. Please help our leaders lead with Your better good in mind.

As we enter this Good Friday, may we be grateful for Christ’s ultimate sacrifice for us and our sins. This coming Easter, may we see beyond the brunch, the bonnets, and egg hunts to the most miraculous event of Christ’s Resurrection at Easter, and may we become more aware of the miracles that surround us in every moment of every day.

Jesus Take the Wheel

These last ten days have been a bit of a Goldilocks blur. Once I decided to move to Denver, the search for my perfect place began. Initially, I got scammed, but after that I looked at almost everything that took dogs. I looked at one, two and three-bedroom units, two story walk-ups, duplexes, shared yards, dated stuff, moldy water damaged places, dated dark places on busy streets, quiet streets, and shiny new places.

These last eight months (seriously, I can’t believe it’s been that long) have been a lesson in lessening, lessening what I actually need, what I care to carry around with me, and what I can live without. I had to do a mental inventory of what I had in storage. I sold or gave away the beds, dining tables, chairs, and outdoor furniture.

I haven’t given much thought about my stuff in storage, until this current Airbnb, that has great pans for cooking, coffee maker, blender, and knife block filled with sharp knives, and not a smidge of seasoning anywhere. No salt. No pepper. I’m ready to be reunited with my stuff.

I’ll be here until May 6. It seemed like a good date. The places I looked at wanted a move-in date anywhere between March 26 and May 1, and preferably April 1, which is Easter Monday. When I spoke to my potential landlords, I explained that I could either pay for two places for the month of April if it meant I could get into the place, or in a perfect world, I would move in May 1, and not pay double. By the way, rents are far from a deal, and with dogs there’s usually a pet deposit and monthly per pet charge.

I looked at two-bed/one-bath places, two-bed/two-bath, three-bed/one-bath, and three-bed/three-bath places. Some places had no yard, some a shared small yard, some a larger shared yard, and some a yard of my own. My first favorite was a two-bed/one-and-a-half bath with great natural light, a farmstead sink (I love a farmstead sink), a fireplace, and five larger planters in the front with a drip system, a shared yard, and fairly close to my son.

One place, a two-bed/two-bath place on a corner lot had a beautiful kitchen, and though it didn’t have my favorite sink, it was nice enough. The rooms were kind of dark and the yard, though astroturfed, had the most amazing picnic table that was made of steel and wood. They were going to leave the barbeque setup that included a built in grill, a pizza oven, and a griddle. They used the detached two car garage as a man cave, but that was included as well (the garage, not the man cave). It was one block and a half from a great dog park and only three minutes from my son. The outside was phenomenal except the astroturf.

Another place in the running, which at first drive-by, was not ideal. It was a three-bed/two-bath with a nice yard with trees, a dog door (that’s just what the pups need), two parking spaces, and a small storage shed. Upon touring it, it was a nice surprise. They were at the high end of my budget, but they didn’t charge extra for dogs.

One came on the market as I was setting up times to tour other homes. It was two-bed/one-bath home one block from my son. It was a nice place, seemed cute. It had a white porcelain, farmstead sink, and there were chickens with a coop. I’ve always wanted chickens. The price was reasonable. Upon requesting a tour, I noticed there was already an application. Yikes! This place was perfect and I hadn’t even viewed it. I filled out the application. The price went up by two hundred dollars. The owner was going out of town and wouldn’t be able to show it to me until the next Tuesday (yesterday). I surrendered to the timing and looked at more places, a little farther from my son.

One place was perfectly located, was adorable, had been for sale but I couldn’t find any information on it so I called the number on the sign and found out that the owner took it off the market and was going to rent it. I told him I would love to see it and hopefully rent it. On paper, it seemed perfect three bedrooms and two baths, an attached garage, big yard, beautiful kitchen with dark cabinets and brushed brass pulls and fixtures. As the owner showed me around, I noticed that all the doors stuck, the shed in the back was about to fall over, and the paint on the back of the house was splotchy like it was about to peel. The owner had done most, if not all of the work himself and it seemed as if he didn’t pull a permit.

One of the last places I saw was a gem, three-beds/one-bath, big rooms, nice yard with a couple of planters, a detached two car garage, and the kitchen not only had a farmstead sink, it was stainless! That one moved into my number one position, well it was between the one with the dog door and this one. I still had yet to see the one with the chickens, but it was only two beds so it was slipping quickly down my list.

I had a couple of hours before seeing the chicken one so I drove by some of my favorites. The one with the five planters, good light, and shared yard was on a fairly busy street, so that was out. So that left the gem with the stainless farmstead sink and the one with the dog door. I was getting better at negotiating and the one with the stainless sink would be a couple of hundred less than the one with the dog door. Both were unoccupied and were looking for an April 1 move-in date.

I took the dogs to the dog park, drove past the house with the barbeque setup, and that wasn’t it, so I drove to the one a block from my son. The owner showed me the cute living room, bedrooms, bathroom, hall closets for storage, the beautiful wood countertop, the laundry room which was cold in the winter because it used to be part of the garage. The storage in the house was impressive, and the farmstead sink was adorable. She showed me the extra room that was used as a dining office, and told me about the dog door she and her boyfriend put in.

We went outside. I met her pups, a humungous white lab, and a yellow-green eyed, funny looking French bulldog. The chicken coop and chickens and six raised bed planters came with the place when she purchased it in 2021, when interest rates were so low. There was a covered porch with patio lights, a picnic table, and a fire pit.

The big concern was whether my pups would have chased (and killed) the chickens. I brought them to the backyard, on leashes because that would have be horrible if they just ran loose and pushed through the chicken wire. They were much more interested in sniffing the other dog’s smells than those pesky chickens. It also has a view of the mountains.

I told her I noticed the price change and she said she would give me the original price. I negotiated her down a little further, and we had a deal. They plan on moving out around the middle of April, have the place cleaned, and be ready for me to move in May 1, and no discussion of a pet fee.

I guess what I’m saying is that after surrendering the whole house hunting process to God, I can’t believe what appeared. I found the perfect place for me and the pups, with chickens, planters, a dog door, a farmstead sink, room for visitors, and just up the street from my son. It definitely has that “Jesus take the wheel” feel to it. It’s above and beyond what my humanness could have imagined.

Thank you God, for helping me surrender and be awed by what you provide.

Healing

When the children were babies, I’d wake at 3:00 am-ish, and instead of tossing and turning, I got up and wrote. I wrote about my feelings, thoughts, and reflections on being a parent. I considered it my special time with God. Oftentimes, I felt as if I were just a conduit and writing down what was downloaded.

This morning was a bit like that time, only this morning I awoke at 3:47 a.m., tossed and turned until four-something-a.m., and sent a text to my daughter in a group text, careful not to wake the pups. I did not immediately start writing as when they were babies, but who knows, maybe this sacred time is back.

Yesterday, I received a text asking for prayers for my ten-week-old granddaughter who was in an Irish hospital with some sort of infection. I forwarded the text to my extended family for added prayer strength and waited.

I looked at more potential places to live in Denver, was cursed at whilst on my way to a job interview, had the interview, and when I felt I had waited long enough sent a text asking how things were going. I hadn’t realized that she had been unresponsive and that she had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance. How terrifying. She was put through many tests, including a spinal tap to test for meningitis. As a parent, you feel helpless. As a grandparent, across the pond and time zones, all you can do is pray.

“Our God is an awesome God” is how the song goes, and it’s true. Our God can and will take care of everything if we only ask. The one thing we must remember is that we must accept, trust, and surrender to His way of taking care of everything, and sometimes, that can be difficult.

She was given antibiotics and as of this morning, is responding to them and getting back to her smiley self. God is good.

Yesterday, I also drove by a medical center and noticed the serpent wound around a staff that is the medical logo. The logo comes from the time of Moses in the desert when the Jewish people turned away from God, so the Lord sent poisonous serpents that began biting the people and they died. When the people saw the consequences of their actions, they asked Moses to pray to God for them and he did. God told Moses to make a bronze serpent and put it on a pole in the middle of the camp. Anyone who looked upon it was healed.

As we approach Palm Sunday, and Good Friday, we can’t help but see the similaritiy of Jesus on the cross, the ultimate healer, to the serpent on the pole, and the medical logo.

Thank you, Lord for this day, for your healing love extended to all who look upon you.

Beach and Sabbath

Wow, are you ever amazed by how quickly time flies? When last I wrote, I was in Ireland and would return to the states the next week. After a heartbreaking departure from my daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter, I flew back to Denver, picked up my car and pups the next day, and thought, “What am I doing here? My son is too busy to see me, my nieces and nephew are busy with their own lives. Maybe we should hit the road again and see my mom in Florida.”

I talked to my mom, and she said it would be okay. Sign. I texted my friend in Georgia asking if she’d be open to a visit. Just as I hit send, a text from her appeared. Sign. We hadn’t been in touch for a month. At breakfast in the hotel that morning, a server told a man, “You should definitely stop at Patti’s in western Kentucky.” I looked it up. I like western Kentucky. Sign. The weather outside was beginning to change. Snow was coming. I packed up, checked out early, and hit the road.

I decided to take the southern route since the snow would move along the plains. Also, it gave me a chance to see my sister in Dallas. I made it as far as Amarillo that night, because of the last-minute, late start. Dallas was still five and a half hours away, and my sister had an eleven o’clock appointment. I had forgetten how big Texas is, but it is HUGE! Thank goodness for the jet lag because I awoke at three-thirty, roused the pups, packed up, and shipped out. I queued Amarillo By Morning on my playlist, even though it was far from sunrise.

The stop in Dallas turned out to be very short but worth it. My sister looked great, the pups romped in the backyard, and the coffee and bathroom were welcomed.

On the road again, the route took me through Louisiana and Mississippi, two of three states I’ve never traveled to or through. Check, check. From my vantage point, Louisiana left the impression of a giant floodplain. Mississippi was a little better with a few more trees and hills. I got a little off track and found myself wondering in Livingston, MS, and after backtracking for a bit, I entered Alabama, which is a very pretty state (at least on the way to Geogia). I made it to Savannah, Georgia early Sunday morning, had a quick visit and a short walk with my friend, and then back in the car down to Florida.

No matter the time of year or day, I-95 is hell on wheels, but it led me to Vero Beach in time for supper at six (mostly, I was ten minutes late). I booked a hotel for my time there because of the dogs. Mom hasn’t quite warmed up to them yet, and it didn’t help that when we arrived at her house the next morning with a suitcase full of dirty clothes, Rudy started barking at her as if she were the intruder.

Having Rudy and Lucy experience the beach was one of my priorities of the trip, but all the signs at the beach read “No dogs allowed,” so I took them to the dog park instead. I struck up a conversation with a guy who had a golden doodle and an Aussie doodle, who told me to take them to a couple of beaches nearby. The next morning, I did just that. Even though there was a sign, I played dumb and walked right by, and the pups were both thrilled and terrified (first photo).

The next day, my cousin’s wife and their dog showed me how easy it was to walk the dogs on the beach. On February 29, after a beach romp (second photo), we started our trek back. I wanted to avoid I-95 so I tried heading straight west, but it turned out to be a nightmare. What should have taken an hour and a half on I-95, took three hours in heavy traffic, and I found myself tired and cranky just west of Orlando.

A most beautiful man tracked me down after standing in line at a hotel to inquire about a room, only to find out they were sold out. The woman I spoke to said to try next door. By the time I wound my way around the labyrinth to the next hotel, only to find another wait to talk to someone, I decided to leave. That’s when the beautiful man found me and said there was one room left and that he could offer me a deal. It was perfect and just what we needed to commemorate the pup’s first Leap Year.

Florida is an extremely long state, and I think I chose the longest route possible, but we made it through in time for the rain we encountered in Alabama. That whole Crimson Tide is real when the rains come and the soils flow. We didn’t stay long, preferring a stop in Nashville for a short visit with a long-time friend, where Rudy found a manure pile to roll in. Double yuck because I couldn’t find a dog wash. Then onto Patti’s 1880 Settlement at the northern end of the Land Between the Lakes (which apparently has excellent crappie fishing this time of year). We didn’t have time to fish, and Patti’s was fine. We chose to venture on to Columbia, Missouri. To do that, we went through Marion, IL, where we could have stayed, or put a few more miles under our wheels. We opted for Mt. Vernon, IL. Traveling by car, tends to put me more on God’s schedule than my own.

Columbia was nice, eighty degrees F, but there’s a point in traveling when enough is enough, and you just want to get back wherever that may be. Columbia is not too far from Pittsburg, KS where I still had some things to attend to, like more research on the big coal mine. The last time I was in Pittsburg and inquired about the mine outside of Mulberry, KS, the folks suggested it might have been on the Missouri side, so I decided to take that route to Pittsburg. Later, I found out the state line actually goes through the town of Mulberry, and in fact, the mine was likely in MO, not KS. I felt much closer going through the MO side, but I was still a little south, something I hadn’t realized until I was back in Dodge City, KS. I may have another trip in me to Pittsburg.

One might wonder how I do all this driving. Don’t I get bored? I listen to audiobooks and look at the scenery. The C.J. Box series took me through most, if not all of 2022. Louise Penney’s Gamache series took me through 2023 and a little into 2024. Somewhere along this trip to Florida, I finished the Gamache series (the next one won’t come out until October), started and finished Tom Lake, by Ann Pachett, and read by Meryl Streep. That was a great read/listen.

As I searched through the list of books in my audiobook library, I found The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry by John Mark Comer. Someone must have told me about it, and I must have downloaded in 2022 or ’23. I finished it somewhere between Nashville and Pittsburg, and it too, was a good listen/read. In it, he talks about the distractions of today and then he expounds about the Sabbath and how it is part of the Ten Commandments, how God referred to it as Holy, as God’s Holy Day, a day of rest, as God rested on the seventh day. Comer explained about the walks in nature and long naps, but no electronics, no tv, or binge-watching anything, just studying God’s word and resting in His presence.

Another good book, called Flunking Sainthood by Jana Reiss, in which she explained more about the Sabbath, and how absolutely no work is to be done (which it clearly states in the Bible as well). All meals are made on Friday (Shabbat) and Sabbath to rest, literally do nothing, but rest and read God’s word. All this to say, I’ve been completely misusing the Sabbath, and it took Comer’s and Reiss’ books to make it really sink in.

Before electricity, people would sleep shortly after the sun went down and rise with the sun. After electricity, we can stay up all night if we want, filling our minds with whatever we see. In today’s world, we’re likely not getting enough sleep, which ultimately makes us stressed.

I arrived in Pittsburg late Sunday afternoon (Sunday being Christian Sabbath), found a hotel, and went to an evening Mass at the university. I returned to the hotel and I didn’t turn on the television, didn’t check my phone, and decided to intentionally observe what was left of the Sabbath. I went to bed around eight and slept soundly until five-thirty or six. The morning took on a whole new feel of expectancy, with good coffee, a good dog park, and a tour of the photo plant I’ve used for years and forgot it was located in Pittsburg.

Lord, thank you for keeping me and the pups safe through our travels. Thank you for all with whom I was in contact and/or thought of, and all that I learned along the way. May we, like they sing in Godspell “See Thee more clearly, love Thee more dearly, and follow Thee more nearly, day by day.”

Irish Time

My time in Ireland is coming to an end. It has been magical and it will be hard to part from these loved ones.

I’m sitting at the window of a restaurant across from the US embassy watching for said loved ones to emerge as they are meeting the powers that be to get citizenship for my granddaughter. She’s already an Irish citizen but in order to come to the states, she’ll need her US citizenship as well for the important things like Global Entry, passport, social security number, and frequent flyer numbers.

I have both of the parent’s phones so there’s no way of getting a hold of them. So I watch and wait, as in olden times, without access to instant communication, eavesdropping on nearby conversations, and consuming too much caffeine. I should have ordered decaf as the caffeine sweats are moments away.

In Ireland, Fat Tuesday is known as Pancake Tuesday. The stores have been advertising for the past few weeks with jars of pancake mix available at the end caps of aisles. In honor of Pancake Tuesday, I ordered a pancake instead of toast to go along with my avocado eggs. Delicious!

I can’t believe Lent begins tomorrow. Easter will be early this year. It’s definitely feeling like spring here. The days are longer, the birds are louder as they greet the day, and the flowers are springing into life after a long nap.

This time has flown! My granddaughter turns six weeks old tomorrow. She’s learned so much and has taught her parents even more.

I made an observation the other day, it may even be considered a universal observation. Babies can be hard work, exhausting, and even scary when they get overtired, overly hungry, or have an overly full diaper. As a seasoned parent, you go through the check list, diaper, food, nap, or sometimes food, diaper, nap depending on the intensity. Humankind has been raising babies for a millennia of generations so it’s not exactly rocket science, though can sometimes feel that way.

One universal truth is to not over react when babies become overly whatever. If they start screaming for whatever reason, the three step formula works most of the time. Lift them, move them, and offer a change of scenery.

When my children were small, a family friend, the queen of distraction really, taught me the beauty of redirection. Kids, about to spin out, because they were hungry or tired on a hike, would instantly become engaged when a game of “I’m thinking of something that begins with… and you find it in a…” and they completely forget why they were complaining/whining.

The same is true for babies, toddlers, adolescents, and even adults. Lift them or have them stand up, wiggle around, and get a change of scenery. For my granddaughter it has been pick her up, rock and sway her whilst walking down the hallway.

I started choking last night. It was pretty scary, especially because my granddaughter was in a carrier strapped to my back. I had been eating sideways to avoid dropping anything on her head and felt the piece of chicken settle awkwardly in my throat. I coughed, stood up, motioned for my daughter to take the baby. My son-in-law quickly moved behind me and abdominal thrust me as I was clearing the pesky chicken piece.

He said, “All you have to do is lift them up, move them around, and change their perspective. Works all the time.”

Here they come! It looks like we’ve got another citizen of the United States of America. She’ll be baptized on Sunday and I return on Tuesday. Every time I think of it, my eyes start welling up. This has been such an incredible gift to be able to spend this time. My heart is filled with gratitude and love.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Since I Last Wrote…

The last day I wrote was January 3, of this year, twenty-eight days (four weeks) ago. I never would have expected the things that came to pass the rest of that day. I never would have expected that my daughter would have gone into the hospital two and a half weeks before her due date because she suspected her baby wasn’t as active as usual. I never would have expected my own baby to be wheeled into surgery for an emergency cesarean section, nor that there would have been a knot in the baby’s umbilical cord. I never would have expected my granddaughter to be born at 11:10 pm, at just over six pounds, and share the same birthday as my God-daughter.

God is good! I am so grateful for all the answered prayers from those who prayed and continue to pray for my baby and her baby, especially when her baby spent two nights in ICU with hypothermia. The good Lord surrounded the new family with love, comfort, and healing. The prayers have continued as my granddaughter has surpassed her birthweight, slept occasionally in four-hour stints, and is a healthy, strong, fierce miracle who has a solid purpose in this life. Her lungs are strong and she is determined in everything she does. For the moment, the determination is reserved for feeding and pooping, with much cuddling and some sleeping.

They’ve been through a lot with the move to a larger apartment within five days after Mama and baby were released from the hospital. There’s been packing and unpacking, Ikea orders and assembly, organization, donations, laundry, cooking, grocery shopping, more laundry, more clothes drying, my son-in-law’s birthday, and walks. I did make an out-of-this-world corned beef, twice now with a homemade pickling spice, Epiphany Spice, and Warsteiner beer.

My granddaughter is doing a great job training her parents in all her ways, and I’ve been trying to lend a little baby wisdom. Once we got past the initial poop (“Should we just throw out the poopy clothes?) stage, the initial burping (“Oh my God, she’s thrown up”) stage, and the initial sleep (“I’ll just check on her one more time.”) stage, everyone has settled in. They’ve gotten the hang of things and my work here is almost done.

My son-in-law asked once if my daughter had been a fussy baby. She was my firstborn, so yes. I think all firstborn babies are fussy simply because first-time parents know nothing about anything once that newborn enters the world. By the time the second and third ones come around, they’re pros, at least with their own children.

One thing for certain is babies keep us in the present moment. With all of the technological advances, delivery services (grocery and meals), and fancy equipment these babies have, there is nothing that replaces baby human contact, nor that feeling of a baby falling asleep in your arms. Even as I type, my grandbaby is sleeping on my chest, after a good walk. I’m fairly certain she has a poopy diaper so if I put her down, she’ll start fussing, so a chest nap it is, while her Mama naps and her Dad works. In other words, it’s Cha Cha time.

Thank you, Lord, for this miracle of life with all its bumpy bits, poopy diapers, sleepless nights, and the sheer joy of it all.

The Quotidian Sacred

When I was in the midst of the divorce, I recall a dear friend saying that everyone needs an extra wife, or mother, another set of hands. The other set of hands empties the garbage, cleans the fridge, the bathroom, the freezer, the hallway, makes the bed, does the laundry, makes the meals, washes the dishes, and wipes down the counters. As mothers, we learn to adapt, to do things ourselves, to do it all, sometimes running ourselves ragged.

I’ve been in Dublin for almost two solid weeks and my daughter and her husband are expecting their first child within days/weeks. They live and work (sometimes) in a one-bedroom apartment with oversized furniture that no one sits on, but it works for them. The kitchen is tiny, everything is tiny. I recalled when my brother lived in Denmark for five years, thinking that everything was so small (a large refrigerator by European standards was only slightly larger than a fridge you might find in a dorm room in the US). They have the same fridge freezer set up.

When I first arrived in Dublin (at 5 am on the 21st), we had an Airbnb arranged until December 27 and then I would move into another Airbnb until January 4. The thinking at the time was that my daughter and her husband would move into a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in another building within the same complex. Because of the Christmas holiday, we are still waiting to hear. Neither Airbnb worked out so I’ve been sleeping on their blow-up mattress in the living room, so now we’re all living in a one-bedroom, one-bath apartment with a baby on the way. Somehow, it’s all working out, and we’re settling into a routine.

My son-in-law is a barrister (lawyer) and is trying to ease his workload in January to be present when the baby comes, so he’s cramming as much work as he can. He’s been working so hard that he came down with the flu on New Years Eve (he’s better now).

My daughter and I have been cleaning out cabinets, setting up storage solutions, shopping, chopping, cooking, doing dishes, and cleaning. We’ve made incredible dishes, like a roasted chicken with potatoes and carrots which we then turned into chicken soup, and later into chicken pot pie. Last night we made cacio e pepe which was slightly difficult to make, even though it was only four ingredients (peppercorns, cheese, pasta, water), and amazingly delicious.

The quotidian sacred comes into play, especially with the laundry and the dishes. For dishes, one starts with turning on the hot water. The switch, being a bit finicky sometimes sticks on and sometimes not. The hot water is used for showers, dishes, and turning on the radiator heat. The dishwasher is broken, so dishes are done by hand. It’s not a big deal, you just need to slow down and plan and scrub a bit more.

Laundry takes a bit more, mostly because it’s winter in Dublin which equates to rainy and wet almost everyday. You do want to make sure the hot water is out of the system otherwise the hot water gets used and things bleed. The drying is what takes the longest. Three days on a drying rack, rotating, and positioning the rack just so if the sun shines. Then there is the nightly movement of the rack into the kitchen so the bed can take the place of the rack and become my bedroom.

I am not complaining by any means, because within every movement, there is sacredness. I am getting into the groove of the Irish way. It’s more laid back and back to basics, not the rush, rush, rush of the US way of life, but the sacred routine of daily life.

What is more sacred than the birth of a baby? The way they do it here is through a midwife. It’s typically the midwife who delivers the baby, with the mother doing the labor at home, and moving to the hospital only when in absolute labor.

My daughter purchased a book called, The First Forty Days, The Essential Art of Nourishing the New Mother, by Heng Ou with Amely Greeven and Marisa Belger. It’s all about as the title suggests, nourishing the new mother with healthy bone broths and healing, nourishing dishes.

As a pregnant woman, it’s so hard to get everything done, and rest, and grow a baby. Sometimes we think we are superhuman and can do it all, but what a gift to be spending this time with my daughter who is about to move (hopefully) and assist with her nesting, and recovery. Not many people are given this opportunity, but I am so honored to be a part of this and doing all I can to be the extra set of hands to make this easier. Of course, I am over the moon about meeting my granddaughter, but to be able to take care of the quotidian sacred whilst she takes care of her own sacred being is such an amazing experience.

Thank you God, for this time, and this natural, sacred birth. Today and every day, may we see and experience the sacredness in the quotidian.

Thank you God, for the apartment coming through, with a lease starting January 10.