Confirmation

Stevie and his sponsor, Aunt Teresa

“This is not a graduation,” the Bishop said to the congregation of Confirmation students and their family and friends, “but rather a beginning.”  Bishop Lawrence Persico was referring to the role of the Sacrament of Confirmation in the lives of these students, most of whom are Juniors in high school. 

  The typical method of religious education within Catholic American parishes is to gather weekly for an hour or two to discuss Faith and the teachings of the Church which have been inspired by the Holy Spirit and passed down from centuries of tradition.  The original educators learned from Jesus, Himself, and used word of mouth and writing to share matters of faith that ultimately changed the trajectory of their own lives and the world itself. 

All in God's time

  I was in eighth grade when I received this Sacrament which brings the fullness of the Holy Spirit’s power.  What’s interesting, is that power is not always fully expressed at that very moment of reception.  This is what the Bishop was referring to when he spoke to the assembled group which included my son, Stephen Jr., telling them this moment was just the beginning.  After all, the Apostle Paul is the rare person who was knocked off his horse by a flash of Light, and was instantaneously converted.  Most of us are invited to faith by the planting of seeds that will sprout over time.  Different people drop seeds of inspired words, thoughts, ideas, and encouragement over the years of our formation.  We are learning, growing, and cultivating these seeds over our lifetime.  

  So, even as some of these students may be internally celebrating with thoughts of “Yes!, No more religious ed. classes!”  It’s time for us as parents to rely on what has actually taken place. They did in fact receive the gift of the Holy Spirit and He can guide them on this journey more perfectly than our human efforts.  While it can be scary to let them grow and make decisions, this moment brought comfort.  The second of our seven children to reach this milestone.  As a parent- I am still sprouting, called to a new phase in my faith: learning to trust that God's call and timing are perfect.

Bishop Persico, Fr. Larry Richards and the St. Joseph's Bread of Life Confirmation Class of 2017

              Congratulations Stevie and all the newly Confirmed, on this new phase in YOUR life!

Holidays bring Strength...without attending gym

  A beautiful Merry Christmas Season to you all!  We are in the phase of this holiday that brings a reminiscent picture to the mind of all that we had thought the festivity of this time of year might bring and are rounding the corner into a look forward at the New Year...

  This year I am reveling in the fact that we are rounding the corner...  Not gonna lie, the home run stretch of this calendar year has been grueling for my family.  My husband, Steve, hurt his back right around the time the scent of sharpened pencils filled the air and big yellow school buses were making a re-appearance after a long summer.  We went through a terrible crisis of not knowing if this injury was THE injury that would not only be the straw that broke the camel's back but might disable my husband's as well.  Time would reveal that his injury was acute and not permanent but his doctor would dictate it was time to find something less stressful on Steve's frame than construction company he spent thirteen years building.  Now, I don't want to focus on the fact that this was supposed to be MY year.  After seventeen years of rearing seven children my youngest was making her scholastic debut by beginning pre-school.  My family and friends had all asked, "Suz, what will you do with your time?" often enough that I had filled my mind with trips to the beach with easel and watercolors in tote, envisioned the toned physique that a free four-hour block five times a week could bring... if I hit the gym.  The possibilities were endless. 

  However, my life-experience should have prepared me for the tough road being paved over my field of dreams.  Don't get nervous-- I'm not going to have a pity party or throw a rant...I've already done that in private...buried under my covers...with a box of tissues....many times.  Yes, while my poor aching hubby's back rested on the couch while healing and his work truck was laid to rest until our eldest could devote his teen angst-driven energy to making it road-worthy I was chauffeur to all, nurse to hubby, and had become the go-to gal for whatever needed answered, mended, cooked, fixed, etc.  I have profound respect for the duties done by single parents.  In the meantime, our faithful Big Blue Chariot decided to pitch a fit and resign from it's duty of carting up to 15 passengers.  As a matter of fact, it flat out resigned without a moments notice and refused to carry even one passenger- which I felt was rude and insensitive.

  With the healing and career change research underway the pressure was mounting and I began to borrow some of the worry that had plagued my husband with sleepless nights.  Decisions needed to be made...life-changing, course-altering choices.  Perhaps that didn't appear to bring us to our knees so our beautiful children thought they could help with that and decided to act their ages...in this profoundly entitled culture.  Honestly, I can't even begin to share some of the "discussions" that I was subjected to...not necessarily involved in.  They did not get the "no rant memo."  I am pleasantly surprised I still have hair and the wrinkles that have been added to my face this year are deepened by loss of elasticity when one loses weight...that is a good thing right?  Lie to me.

  Anyway, interestingly enough...time does have a way of passing and bringing changes- like it or not.  You can be grateful I didn't drag you through the painful details on a daily basis but can announce that Steve did get a job with the City.  He's a few weeks into it so the awkward pangs of change are beginning to subside and he is chipper on most days when I pick him up in my NEW (to me) five passenger car!  I know right?  Dropping 10 passenger seats makes me feel like I'm slimming down in many areas of life. 

  I've learned first-hand and through real-life practicality that the season of Advent, which is the four weeks leading up to Christmas are a time of preparation and not a time to leap headfirst into the Christmas carols, and store ads.  An income-halting injury followed by a jobs lag in pay tends to "help" one focus on patience and preparation.  In retrospect, I can acknowledge these were GIFTS.  Admittedly- these dips and valleys in our journey are not phases we would CHOOSE... yet, as a wise priest said, "I think when you are elderly- you will look back on this time and be grateful for all that came out of these difficulties...it will take some time- probably when you are old and gray."  I appreciated that he acknowledged these WERE difficult times... as well as his assumption I would still have hair when I am old.  The adage seems to prove true: That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger. With all this "resistance training" that has naturally occurred, perhaps having free time to spend in a gym is overrated after all ;)

Mindful Monday

Mindfulness...the word calls to me.  The meaning sings to my soul.  I'm not even sure what it means....fully.  But, I'm on the path to discovering how it will set me free yet keep me grounded at the same time.  I picture it to mean living in the moment, breathing in the possibilities that exist if you can just SEE them right before your clouded eyes.


  Funny how in my mind I frequent the question of "What would I get if I were to ever get a tattoo?"  Interesting...yet not so funny, is that I've considered the word MINDFUL on several occasions.  I think it'd be a great reminder to not let life pass by without marinating in the moment.  To really look at the little people calling, "Mom..Mama... Mommy... Mother... Moooom..." whilst tapping me on the arm as I'm trying to get dinner ready...ok- fine, checking my phone would be more accurate.  I've had the best days when I actually get down on my knees and look in those eyes.  Sometimes it takes them so much by surprise they forget what they were tapping me for in the first place.  I think they just like to say Mommommommommommommom til it's a rhythm in their head and doesn't even sound like a name- when they add the poke or tap that is their contribution to the world of interpretive dance.  It could mean, "I want a cookie, can I color my face with a marker, will you help me with my homework, where is my squirrel trap, can I go to Emma's, why are you laughing, can Brett come over, are you crying, did you know the dog is eating my cookie...can I have another one?"

  I believe being mindful is also about staying in communication with the gentle guiding that leads us throughout our day.  If we can do this we will have accomplished a greater purpose- perhaps followed an intuition that told us to compliment the woman in the gym who wears the Wonder Woman tank and has been completing her laps in record time.  (Yes, I pay attention.) Or maybe it's listening to that soft urging to call my sister and ask how she's been.  Maybe it's to throw the concept of being Mindful out to you- so that you won't miss out on what this day has to offer with all it's surprises and wistful dreams.  We can be mindful together...as long as it's with the understanding I called the tattoo first!

  I'd love to hear what being Mindful means to you- feel free to leave a comment.  You can even picture that you're tracing a note with your finger on my wintry salt-crusted van...if it's longer than the average "wash me" you may want to pretend I've left a scroll of paper  with a pencil dangling from a twine cord for you to leave me a note...  if you have any desire to write on your face with marker- I'll even loan you the word Mindful--though just for today- however, if you should choose to do this...please post a picture as well.

Happy Birth-ing Day Mom!

It's my birthday...Yay to the past 43 years I've been on this Earth! 

It's my BIRTH day... an ode to the mother who pushed through the contractions, pain, and terrific storm that blew into the Cleveland area during the hours of my arrival to greet, kiss, and welcome her fifth born child.

  Mom...Mommy...Mother...Mama... you have the gift of Joy that enables you to see Faith when others see failure.  You are the mother of twelve children and you cherished us as greater than any physical wealth that could have lined your pockets, adorned your neck, ears, or fingers with costly jewels.  You valued LIFE above all the stress that could come with adding another to your table, home, or already packed station wagon... For this,  I thank you. You offered me my breath in order that I may fill my lungs with the hope of eternal life.  You fashioned my legs, hands, and feet that I may travel through this life bringing a bit of joy, sustenance, and comfort to others that I will interact with throughout my own existence.  You could have easily stopped being open to life after the first, second, third, or fourth child...and even after my own birth...yet you allowed twelve children to grow within your heart and home always knowing there was a greater plan than the thought of your own comfort.  You even gifted us with three more souls in Heaven that would pray for us to be able to one day meet them since they were to only see your womb before being called home.  How does one give thanks for something so grand as the opportunity to gaze upon stars, learn from the hardships and hilarities of a huge family, swim in oceans, lakes, and ponds, meet thousands of people from around the globe, drink in glorious sunsets, marvel at the moonlight, slink through misty gardens, dance across a flower-laden field...revel in life-changing relationships, and ultimately offer new life to this world through my own gift of motherhood.

Mom, I don't know that I can ever properly fashion the correct words to let you know I am so very grateful for your willingness to generously offer the gift of life to your fifth-born child. As your fourth daughter I know that there has always been a press on you for your time- I am in awe of your talents to bring fun to every day as I face my day-to-day mothering of my own seven children.  Thank you for the gift of my life.  Thank you for the gift of Faith.  Thank you for loving me into my adult life.  I love you Mom.  Happy Birth-ing day!    

When God Closes a Door ... (by Diane Gallagher)

Guest Blogger Wednesday :)  When I picked the kids up from school yesterday, one of my children entered the car with a heavy heart because he had not been chosen for something he had applied for.  I, as any dutiful mother, began to share with him about the times I ran for offices in high school and lost or applied for jobs that I did not get.  Looking back on these disappointments, I can see God’s hand at work with such clarity.  When I first moved to Chicago after college, I was frustrated and tired of the job search… I could just not seem to attain employment in an area that matched my qualifications, interests and talents.  I had a great time in the Windy City that year, but I certainly was not making any noble contribution to mankind other than financially supporting the local pubs.  Finally, I realized that I wanted to go into education which meant returning to the world of academia since I did not have a degree in this field.  I came back to my home town and received my teaching certificate and Masters in Education.    It was such a great feeling to finally be doing what I loved … And to be compensated for it!  In hindsight I can see that I had to go through that year of rejection and frustration to help me realize what I really wanted to do.  Again, when my husband and I were first engaged, we thought we wanted to move to Steubenville so he could finish his education.  I was willing to take any stinking job I could get that would put some money on the table, but I was rejected time and again.  This was humbling for me as I felt like a fairly qualified individual with good grades and a decent interview style.  After a third failed attempt at what I thought was a sure thing, I remember looking out of my parents’ kitchen window and seeing a mouse at the bottom of their empty pool (it was spring and they were preparing to fill it).  The mouse was trying to climb up the side to no avail.  I thought to myself…”the poor thing should just turn around and go up the steps that are behind him.  He’s going in the wrong direction!”  Silly as this may sound, God used this moment to open my eyes.  It was like a light bulb went off.  I realized at that very moment that maybe Jim and I were going in the wrong direction … maybe we were not meant to be in Steubenville at all.  I shared my thoughts with Jim and we decided to try a different route.  Within a week, I was sitting at a job interview in Akron and was offered the position soon after.  God had to allow these challenging situations so that we would get on the right path.  It is very hard to see this when we are in the midst of the struggle.  And it does not necessarily make the sting of rejection any easier to take.  I still get teary eyed for my “babies” when they are sad or disappointed even though I know that there is a purpose for everything.  I would rather go through the pain myself than watch my loved ones suffer.  But if we truly believe that heaven is the only goal that really matters, and that our road to heaven is laden with struggles, than we should be comforted on the journey when we encounter obstacles.  I am sure you have all heard the saying “when God closes a door,  He always opens a window” (any Sound of Music lovers out there?)  These closed doors can seem like monumental hurdles to get through if we just stay focused on one direction.  There might be an open window just waiting for us to climb through it, but we can only find that open window if we stop trying to break the door down and start looking in other directions.  

LIVE IT: Let’s take some time to think about our lives and if there is any redirecting we might need to do.

Holy Week Reflection (by Diane Gallagher)

Guest Blogger Wednesday :)  

 Though fearful of seeming over dramatic, I must admit that my initial thoughts as I prayed about Holy Week were that, as a mother of seven children, I could relate to the suffering, abandonment and humility that Jesus underwent in the passion.  I almost feel blasphemous even putting those words on paper, as I do not mean to say my pain equals Christ's; however, as I am lying here in my bed, my husband having been out of town these past four days, a fly on the wall could certainly have heard me muttering such words as "slave", "beaten," "shame," and "abandoned" at various moments throughout my day. While I may have good reason to feel this way, if I allow myself to stay focused on these negative and ultimately depressing thoughts, my daily existence will become stuck in the passion. 

The challenge is to not just imitate Christ by accepting my crosses, but moving forward with them so I can reach the Resurrection. Yes, heaven is where we will experience our final resurrection, but there are many resurrection moments here on earth IF we allow ourselves to see them.

 A friend of mine once shared how he was walking across campus on a  frigid winter morn, and he began to feel as though icicles were forming on his fingertips. Instead of dwelling on this developing case of frostbite, he started thanking God for giving him a nose, fingers, and toes.  That's turning a crucifixion moment into a resurrection one.  This is not one of my strengths.  I have a much easier time being annoyed and angry than finding joy in the little things.  But I refuse to be content with my vices.  The next time my 10 yr. old son shoots his 9 yr old brother in the face with his Nerf gun because "we made a bet and I won", I need to thank the Lord that I have boys who love to play with each other and have lots of energy.  I need to remind myself over and over that all these little daily crosses will lead me closer to Jesus.... if I allow them to do so.

A couple Gallagher family traditions from Holy Week:

We love watching the end of "Jesus of Nazareth" (actually, the whole movie is fantastic.. brings the story of Jesus to life in a very real and effective way) on Good Friday.  It's not as violent as "The Passion" so it is appropriate to watch with the family, but it is still powerful.

 My husband takes the older kids to Church on Holy Saturday morning to help decorate and have some food blessed (love that polish sausage). They prepare the candles, etc. for the Easter Vigil which allows them to take some ownership for the special liturgy.  After the Vigil on Saturday night, we come home and enjoy a sundae bar... a tasty way to celebrate the Resurrection.

And one of our cheesier traditions:  on Easter morning before we look for baskets and eggs, we listen to Keith Green's "The Easter Song"... an uplifting, albeit dated, start to a joyful day:)

Tell us about your favorite Holy Week and Easter traditions!

Fresh Start!!

Monday...some people think bleah...  Today, I am thinking~ fresh start to implementing all those brilliant ideas that I thought I might put into practice days, weeks, months ago.  I am digging out my to do lists of days gone by and crossing off the things I HAVE DONE (yahoo...congrats to me) and not giving up on those items left undone: Thank you letters, prayers to offer up, making my bed-perhaps this one is debatable, pictures to paint...  just a few itemized priorites to have slipped through the cracks. 
  My main objective is not to beat myself up over lost time, but to remember these things were important enough to make special note of and perhaps give them a second look. 
  For starters: it is never too late to say, "Thank you."  It may be too late to send the card you have already addressed and set aside unstamped for three years.  But "presto-change-o!," wave of the magic wand, and placement of original card in a bigger card or folded letter stating, "I came across this "thank you," and remembered how special that meal/party/kind word made me feel and thought the orignal sentiments were worth sending."- and you have a valid piece of mail STILL worth sending; simply magic.  I suppose the same is true of a memory we come across.  A kind gesture that went without a thank you... pull out a paper write down our memory and a thank you.  I suppose it would help to actually put the stamp on the addressed envelope and walk it to the mailbox before the next three years go by.  POINT IS...I always love getting sweet or kind notes in the mail (heck, anything that isn't a bill- even a shampoo sample can brighten my day :),) and perhaps others would too.  A shared memory of someone's kindness is always a good thing, and is not a bill.
  As for prayers to offer up...hmmm..."Dear Father of us all, as each moment presents itself, may we grasp the opportunity to spread Your Love and Kindness.  May we also remember to thank You for each ray of hope You send, article of clothing we own, morsel we eat which are, in and of themselves, a sign of Your Love for us.  Thank You, God,  for the fresh start that comes with every day...well, every minute.  We love You.  Help us to know You as You really are- not who we think You are.  Help us to love ourselves as You love us...not the broken way we try and love ourselves... Amen."
  Next on the list...I think I will go paint a picture of me making my bed.

"Pace Yourself"

  Recently, I thanked a friend for her support during my painfully slow progress with posting~ I'm working on getting more regular (just don't go back and review post dates...).  She responded with more encouragement.  She reminded me that we are all busy during this holiday season.  "Sus,"  she said, "celebrate what you have accomplished and pace yourself- you'll get there."  It was nice to have a voice of reason soothing my temptation to beat myself up and offering encouragement to keep plodding along.

 I began to apply this logic to where I was in this very holy season.  I had launched myself and household into garlands and twinkle lights at supersonic warp speed.  It proved to be a "warped" speed because I had led a frenzied pace to decorate the entire house, familiarize myself with most Christmas tunes, and urge the kids toward being on the "NICE" list all before December 1st.  Indeed, this was a first for me.  I grew up in a home where the Church's Advent calendar led the season.  We lit the advent candles and did a daily spiritual reflection at dinner time.  My Mom was adamant in having us wait until the very eve of Christmas to decorate the tree.  I'm sure there is a happy medium in all of this timing.  But I will say that my childhood tradition of "waiting" certainly built the anticipation to a near fevered pitch for us kids.  We were also building a true understanding of Christmas and the Reason we were celebrating. I began to realize the wisdom in the advice to Pace Myself.  True, Christ had already been born 2011 years ago.  This wasn't a true birthday celebration.  Advent is technically about helping us ready ourselves in preparation for the second coming of Christ.  It was not a bad thing to place baby Jesus in the manger early in the season~ it was a nice reminder of how He came as a vulnerable child.  Yet, my preoccupation with "festivities" had felt a little hollow without remembering to work "on the inside" alongside decorating the outward appearances.  In doing so, I had nearly reached burnout prematurely and allowed the secular jingling bells to drown out the Silent Night. 

  I found healing and restoration in remembering the importance on pacing oneself...this season is a journey...Mary and Joseph certainly didn't reach Bethlehem on the donkey overnight.  It was with one step at a time. 

  Perhaps cliche, but always true, life is often about what happens while journeying that makes the destination hold significance.  Perhaps, this was true for St. Joseph.  Maybe it was in the quiet unseen parts of the journey on foot that he gave his greatest sacrifices- sharing his portion of food with the donkey so it could have the strength to continue carrying it's precious cargo.  Walking on foot so Mary could ride with a little more comfort.  Either way, it wasn't the speed with which they reached Bethlehem, that impresses us in stories to this day...it was the tremendous distance they traveled burdened as they were.  They reached Bethlehem and still found hardship in "No room at the Inn."  It was essential then as it is now... this concept of pacing oneself... we will get there...this life is not our home forever. 

Testing is back...

  I wrote about my last pregnancy in Tiny Love... 

The genetic testing on our baby is back...  Our son's name is Lawrence Ignatius (named after Fr. Larry Richards, the amazing evangelist Priest who married us and continues to administer the Sacraments to us and our children) and St. Ignatius~ prolific writer.  Our son did have Trisomy 18.  This was the same genetic disorder which affects the 18th chromosome (three genes instead of two...hence the Tri)...which as they say in the medical world, "makes this child incompatible with life". 

  This is very rare to have two children with Trisomy 18.  They suspect my husband or I have a fragmented 18th chromosome.  Doctors reccomend we have genetic testing/counseling. 

Simply amazing that we have seven healthy, chromosomally sound children! 

Tiny Love

What an incredible time this has been. I have lost another baby to the sting of death…this time from within my womb. The pain was still very real. We are waiting on the D.N.A. results to learn if this child was a boy or girl and what the genetic defect was. Based on the 12 week sonogram, our midwife felt confident enough to tell Steve and I that our baby appeared to have a chromosomal defect. One that would make it incompatible with life. We were hearing this news for the second time and we were crushed. I immediately began to cry.

We were to come back within the week to repeat the sonogram and look for any changes. Those next few days seemed to drag until we were back in the doctor’s office hearing that not much had changed and actually the edema (swelling) of the baby was quite severe and perhaps even more pronounced around the head and abdomen. As the doctor conferred with the sonographer and set up an appt. in Pittsburgh we heard the whispers telling us our baby had severe edema throughout all of it’s tissue from head to rump.
We would have to wait until I was 16 weeks along to have the amniocentesis test in Pittsburgh which would confirm the actual condition our baby had.

Two weeks later I was concerned over a little bleeding and knew that I wanted to make sure our baby’s heart was beating before we made the two hour trip to Pittsburgh. Although I thought it, I wasn’t actually prepared to see my tiny one curled in my womb without a flutter in it’s chest. The sonographer gently let us know our baby was no longer living. I was surprised by the depth of emotion that sprang from somewhere deep in my heart. I was mourning this little child I had walked with for those last 16 weeks. Perhaps it was the combination of looking at the monitor screen and actually seeing such a tiny, well formed baby with it’s hands curled up by it’s head and it’s legs crossed while hearing that it no longer lived ~that cracked me somewhere deep in my core.

We were given three options. First, we could allow my body to spontaneously deliver the baby. This could take up to six weeks depending on how long ago our baby died. Second, we could go for and D and C in Pittsburgh because it was too large for our doctors here in Erie. However, it would be done in their abortion department. Thirdly, I could go into the local hospital and be given a medicine that would induce labor and I would deliver there.

I chose option three…and I wanted to do it that very afternoon. My midwife was calm as she let me know it is important to grieve the loss of this baby emotionally before letting go physically. She also let me know that once a mother knows her baby is no longer alive it can signal to her body it’s time to let the pregnancy go. I was scheduled to go to the hospital the next afternoon to be prepped for the delivery the following day. I then left to go home and grieve.

After the kids were tucked in for the night I curled up on the couch with a book. I couldn’t really get comfortable due to some mild cramping in my back. After a while I gave up and went to bed. I held my belly in the dark that night and knew this was my time to physically be with my child. I was literally wrapped around this baby. Yes, I knew I no longer communed with my child…but still it was present as I said goodbye.

I woke the next morning to the sound of my husband trying to get our eldest out the door in time for his bus and welcome our second to his day. All of a sudden there was a warm gush as I tried to move out of bed. I was so startled I hopped out and felt a second gush. I called Steve’s name several times and tried to keep my legs pressed tightly together to staunch what I believed to be a flow of blood. I thought I was hemorrhaging. The next few minutes were a whir. Steve came rushing in and closed the door. I was afraid and was crying as I told him I was bleeding. I gently tried to get changed to get to the hospital when there was another sudden gush and we both knew I had just delivered our baby. Steve called out “there’s the baby!” I just kept repeating, “Oh God, Oh God,” as he went to pick our little one off the towel on the floor. He was adamant about me not looking since we didn’t know how long our baby had been decomposing. I was crying and trying to get to him as my placenta was delivered and I heard him whisper, “it’s not gruesome at all.” There was genuine awe in his voice. I moved to look at the miniature baby he held cupped in his one palm with it’s umbilical chord still attached. We marveled at the sweet little fingers and the perfect heels on the other end of the ten tiny toes. I could see eyes and tiny ear buds…we were witnessing a beautiful revelation of one interrupted in the midst of it’s formation.

It was all so crazy and fast and the children (all seven were now awake) were huddled outside our bedroom door. Concern in their voice and impatience in their questions brought Steve out of our room while I tried to get ready to leave for the hospital without losing too much blood. The reality of this awkward unknown experience meant the baby was placed in a plastic container and wrapped in a special towel our son had sewn onto to memorialize his brother who had died two years earlier. Steve kept poking his head in the room to ask if he should show the baby to the kids. Stevie Jr. our second was adamant about wanting to see. I was torn between distraction of my physical condition and fear of scarring our children. Ultimately I figured if they want to see so badly, let them.

I was curious about their reaction…but a little afraid too. I had determined this latest child was beautiful no matter what. I also knew that children can be blunt and uncensored. I peeked around the corner of the door ready to dive back in the room to protect my vulnerable heart. I saw Steve in the midst of all but our eldest who was the only one who did not want to see this sibling. Gently he uncovered the baby and there was a collective gasp followed by a unanimous “aaaawwww.” The children began to blurt out their observances. “I can see a leg!” “Look! There are his fingers!” Our four year old peeked over Daddy’s hands and exclaimed, “he’s soooo cute!” They peppered Steve with “is it a boy or a girl?” And Steve was honest in telling them it was too early for us to know. He then said to the clustered group, “this is why we don’t believe abortion is right. This is a baby…not just a bunch of tissue in your Mommy.”

I can confidently say I think that’s a lesson they will never forget.

Though I chose not to hold the baby at that time I was given an opportunity to hold him or her later that afternoon in the quiet calm of my hospital room. The nurse had done her best to take photographs that would honor our child and there was even the tiniest bit of ink on the edge of an even tinier foot from attempted footprints at my request. We marveled at the intricacy of a 16 week formed human being cupped in the palm of my hand. Yes, we were saddened by the telltale sign of abnormality shown by the distended abdominal wall. And we trusted that this child’s Creator called him or her home when He knew it was the right time. But we also knew we were experiencing some part of wonderment that accompanies any great creation. We were viewing a miraculous sight that very few will ever have the privilege to see in the flesh.

Little one, how honored I am to have been chosen to house you as your fingers, toes, arms, and nose began to take shape. You are of my flesh and blood and that tie is no less real in death as it would be in life. I love you and long for the day when, perhaps unexpectedly, you rush up and lift me off my feet that were walking the golden streets of Heaven. The alarm of being grabbed by a stranger melts into pure delight as my heart is filled with the recognition of you. I imagine my tears will burst forth as you wrap your arms around me with the vigor of a ruddy youth. Tears of gratitude and inexpressible mirth slide down the curve of your cheek as we both begin to understand that your short life on earth has been rewarded with an eternity of joyful discovery within each others company. Lord, Your ways are far above our own!

Just Write!!!

I don't know about anyone else... but I definitely have a hard time staying on task when I feel the heavy panting of perfectionism breathing down my neck. Take this blog for instance... could I write every day? Yes, without a doubt I could fill at least three notebook pages with the ramblings that rattle through my mind. And yet, balance that ability against the thought of sending those words out into the wide unknown and I lose my nerve and begin cleaning my desk. Why is that?

I freeze when I get overwhelmed. This is such an annoyance! I suppose I ought to look at the root cause of why I feel overwhelmed to understand why it locks me into a straight jacket of non-productiveness... My thought is that I as the writer I begin to put words on the page. Then I immediately begin to assume the readers thought process. This immediately propels me into the editors chair. Soon I am hacking at each sentence. Mercilessly, I slash words that might offend, reveal too much of my own weakness, not make sense to another... basically, words that make me look "less than".

This certainly isn't helpful to my writing process. I think of other's phrases that have drawn my attention. I am most often inspired and intrigued by artists who are not afraid to be themselves. I will always remember the advice offered from a friend just before going in front of a news camera, "just be as real as you can be."

Authentic. Easy to relate to. Yep, that resonates with me. That's all I want to be... in that way I can simply say, "Here I am Lord, I come to do Your will." Besides, God uses the weak to confound the strong... who would I be fooling anyway if I were to appear as "more than?" I am weak...yet, I still come to do Your will, Lord. Please help me achieve the fullness of all You've created me to be...strengths, cracks, humor, faith...all of it as You've intended for Your purpose.

Beloved...

[Years ago Christ reminded me of His UNCONDITIONAL LOVE as I sat in front of Him in Adoration...May these words that flowed from His grace to my pen be a comfort and reminder if you should ever find yourself tempted to think you've strayed too far to seek His face...]
You have brushed my hair and anointed me with Your oils. You have groomed me with Your most experienced talents. You have called me forth and called me beloved...

At one time fires raged around me and I was drowning in stupidity, blindness, and drudgery from Your enemy's hand. It only took a moment of "guard down" and he was upon me. Delighting in the destruction of Your precious, prized possessions, he mutilated them until they fear they are too ugly to return to You in such disarray.

Slowly, with great pain, I heard You still calling out for me. Urgency and longing in Your voice. Desperate for sign of life You searched the darkness with Your lantern in hand. Daily, You set out food and signs of welcome on the chance would be alive and return to You. Your messengers hunted and did Your Will. You NEVER stopped calling. Finding me... You waited until I was ready.

Bedraggled, I have come forth. Disgusting in appearance I have shamefacedly approached Your courts. Summoning a last ounce of abused strength I raise my hand to the door.

You sense that I am near...
Rushing the remaining span of distance You throw open the heavy doors that are separating us.

I am in Your arms and You are cherishing the beauty of my cracked and disheveled face. You are smoothing my knotted, filthy hair that used to shine gloriously and crown Your creation. You are crooning LOVE and I am HOME. I am ashamed to cause You hurt and You are happy I am back. Tears are brushed from Your eyes to wipe the filth surrounding mine.

Beloved...

All Will Be Well

“All will be well. All will be well” … the song plays to me from memory…

This past Good Friday we celebrated the second birthday of our seventh child. This child, our son John Michael, was born with a genetic disorder affecting the 18th chromosome (Trisomy 18). Though this condition proved fatal, we were so very blessed to be able to cuddle and sing to our sweet baby boy for two miraculous days of life . I’ve been in the process of writing a book about this experience. I try to quiet my mind so that I can go back in time and write from memory. Sometimes this process is excruciatingly painful… always, it is healing.

Shortly after my son’s death, a friend gave me a CD with various meditative songs. These songs were composed to help people experience Christ as they sit in adoration of Him. I clearly recall those days of heavy sadness as I lay there with empty arms so hungry for my baby. I was heartbroken without his soft fuzzy hair to bury my nose in. My tears would flow without ceasing as I would listen to this music over and over. The one song that I clung to repeated the words, “All will be well…all will be well”. Those words stirred my faith to believe that I would one day have the strength to smile again. Those words enabled me to pull through the darkness that I’m sure would be similar to the loss and immense grief the apostles must have felt during that second day Christ lay in the tomb.

On Good Friday. My husband, sister, and I stood by our little boy’s grave singing Happy Birthday as our tears mingled with the pouring rain. It seemed the whole world was crying. Next came Holy Saturday… I still missed my son. Jesus still would have been in the grave. And then came Resurrection Sunday. This year we celebrated the second anniversary of John Michael’s death on Easter.

I had originally felt the timing was backwards. Good Friday seemed a better fit for the sadness of John Michael’s death. And the Joy of Easter seemed a better time to remember the elation of his being born alive as we relished his every breath. Yet, God revealed His perfect timing to me as I sat in the solemn church on Good Friday and thought of the sadness Blessed Mother must have felt at her Son’s death. I realized that both she and I knew our sons were born to die. I had learned that Trisomy 18 is a condition that occurs during conception. John Michael was conceived with this disorder that doctors had termed “incompatible with life”…(more on that another day!) We knew he would not have long with us yet we were certain he was here to share God’s love with all who learned of him. And though the connection of our son’s death with Easter may have been very clear to others it was slow to dawn on me. I now know that this Easter Sunday, we not only can remember the sadness of John Michael’s tiny body falling prey to the sting of death but we can also celebrate his soul’s rising to God’s presence.

Thank You Father for the gift of my son. Thank You Father for the gift of YOUR Son. Because of Your Son’s death and resurrection, John Michael can rest in Your arms and I can rest assured, knowing that “ALL WILL BE WELL”.