Miles of Milestones

May is the month for milestones: graduations, baby showers, band concerts and baptisms currently dot my calendar. Additionally, there is the list of milestones as I go through the “lasts” of everything at my job. The last report cards, last talent show, and last class of eighth graders will be gone faster than I realize.

But with my head and calendar spinning, May is also the time I choose to focus on my re-birth.  Five years ago last week, I left my house in a funk, just as a howling thunderstorm approached. As with most moments that end up changing our lives, I’m not quite sure why I started running down the street. I made it a short distance that evening; the pain in my chest and my legs was new and as fierce as the storm.

That night changed my life. As I wrote five years ago.  “I keep running. The wind chases me now. I turn the corner and head for home. I’m not in it for the distance tonight. It is too new and too raw. But now I see. There is more to me than I already know. Some strange strength is gathering like the roiling clouds blowing in from the west.”

The power I found that night, when I landed on my porch breathless and dodging rain, was the beginning of this five-year journey. I had never exercised, and truly felt running was abhorrent. But in the past five years I have experienced hours of training,  nasty shin splints, a few half marathons, and the hottest and longest run ever: 26.2 miles on an 86 degree day. I have dodged ice and heat but somehow, inexplicably, I cannot dodge my dream of running a half marathon in every state. Believe me, I have tried. But what happens to a dream deferred? It keeps popping back up.  And so I run.

Five years later, and I’m pounding out a five-miler in the woods last night. (No small feat between my workday and the band concert.) Thoreau went to the woods to live deliberately. So do I. I want to move and breathe and focus. I want to do the impossible. I want to be someone I didn’t know I could be.

The process has been slow. It is so much easier to change my body and my breath than to BELIEVE that I am a runner. Last night I passed a woman walking her dog on the trail. Since that part of the trail is a loop, I quickly passed her again. She smiled and said, “You’re moving fast.” Immediately I responded, “Not really.” I spent the next mile frustrated with myself. Why is it so hard for me to feel like a “real runner”? Why is my speed at all indicative of my heart and my purpose and the pride I should feel at re-inventing myself?

But the moments of beauty help. I think I smiled the whole five miles last night. Deer, chipmunks, blooming trees, red-headed woodpeckers, a killer soundtrack, the “good sore” of my muscles. My daughter helps too. She did in one word what I haven’t been able to do in five years. Brought home her school project where she had to use three words to describe me, and one of them was “running.” She’ll never realize how her observations have helped change the way I look at myself.

Running is such a great metaphor for life. I’m always running, though I’m not always sure where the path is headed. The work is harder than I think, but the pay-out is more powerful than I can imagine. It’s the same in my home and my classroom.

A friend reminded me of this quote by Christopher McDougall: “Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up, it knows it must outrun the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning in Africa, a lion wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the slowest gazelle, or it will starve. It doesn't matter whether you're the lion or a gazelle-when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.”

I do hit the ground running each day, each moment. And in many ways, my running career really is this life-and-death for me. Fear, fatigue, doubt, the feeling of being unworthy: they are always chomping at my heels. Running gives me the power to keep the problems at bay, and to become more than I know.  Some days I’m the lion, and some days I’m the gazelle. But each day and each mile brings me closer to the heart of who I want to become.

Setting Sail

The blue sky is the perfect replica of the lake this morning, the horizon line lost from my view.  The birds are loud, and the little kids on the playground even more so. This is the kind of spring day I was made for.   The chirping warmth of the blue sky, the promise of blossoms turning to full-fledged beauty, and the tiny voice inside my heart that says anything is possible.

And so it goes. Anything is about to be possible. For the past 11 years, I have breathed in this lake view, these junior high students, these countless essays and lessons and moments. And now it is time to go. Albert Einstein said, “A ship is always safe at the shore – but that is NOT what it is built for.” I understand this sentiment, and I am ready to put his theory to the test.  This week I signed a contract to teach AP Literature and junior American Literature at Elyria Catholic High School.  This morning I am watching a freighter filled with rocks float by on the lake, and it helps me to cement the decision to move, to sail away from the comfort of the shore.

Some people think I’m nuts for leaving the safety of a job I know so well, these dear people that I call my friends, and the routine that is ingrained in my muscle memory.  But I am ready.  I’m not always the most adventurous, but this decision seems rock solid wonderful to me.

Only slightly masochistic, I know my new job will be harder. There are nine novels lined up on my bookshelf for the first quarter alone.  And the high school students come with their own set of angst and technology and neediness. They can also drive away! A lot has changed in the time I have been gone.

I will also miss my friends. You don’t have the all-in personality I have and work somewhere for 11 years without getting attached. These people have seen me through births and deaths and everything in between. They have saved my life and my soul and my sanity. I will not take that parting easily.  

And there is something about this lake view that has buoyed me as well. The Panther football field outside my new window will not quite suffice.

I am leaving my kids behind. I know they will be well-loved, and I am happy for them to spread their wings without my shadow at the end of the hall. (It is hard to be a free range parent when you work twenty yards away.) And every seventh grade girl deserves to navigate the rough seas of junior high without her mother at the front of the class. For that I am most grateful.

As I sit here on the brink, I appreciate the freedom of my choice. I am thankful for the lessons learned here, the pieces of these students I will carry with me. I wonder at the blurred horizon; but I’m content with knowing that 20/20 vision of the future is impossible.

The day I got offered the job, still reeling and amazed by the new fork in my path, I left EC and turned on the car radio to hear the song “Say Geronimo.” Such a perfect moment of clarity and expectancy that afternoon, and I feel even more certain of my decision today. I CAN make this leap, and anything is truly possible.

On Breathing and Balancing

Why do I feel like crying at yoga class?! Under normal circumstances, crying and I are actually quite well-acquainted, including but not limited to baseball game brawls, school masses, moments with my lawnmower, and the general beauty of the natural world.  But what is this strange intensity that makes me feel as though tears will well at any second once I come to the top of my mat?

Let’s be straight. I know just enough yoga to be dangerous. But I do feel a strange calling to investigate this art of breathing and strengthening my muscles. I am assuming it will make me a calmer mother, too. (It really shouldn’t take much to improve on the lady yelling “I am not Cinderella” the other night. But really, you should see the ways these clients load the dishwasher!)

So lately I have been taking my talents to a local yoga studio. Last night I showed up with the awkward grace I am known for, and OHMed my way to the top of the mat.  I love the idea of the static stretch, the quiet, the focus. But the breathing sends me over the edge. I always feel like I am teetering between hyperventilating and breaking out into tears.

And there is the metaphor. I AM always teetering.

It’s been a big week of preparation for my children. The middle guy has his first Gallery Opening this evening at BayArts. His drawing class met every Tuesday all year, and I am amazed by the creativity that lives in his brain. Tomorrow, my baby makes his First Communion.  The importance of that moment is not lost on me, despite the chaos of fried chicken and baked beans and chalice cookies. Not to be left out, my girl is competing in the county-wide spelling bee on Sunday. Yes, I know I am blessed.

But I have been spinning lately. And running, both literally and figurately. And I guess it makes sense that when I stop for a second, emotions that I didn’t know I had will appear.   And it is somewhere in this chaos of mothering that the breathing beckons me. I read an article a few weeks ago about how kids grow up too fast. I can attest to that myself. But the article also contemplated what WE mothers are doing WHILE the kids are growing up. Am I growing too, and who will I be when they leave the nest?

Last night I scared myself. Went too far too fast in a halasana position, and felt like I couldn’t breathe.  But you know what? Just last week I couldn't do it at all. Progress.  I felt this same kind of amazement when I ran my marathon: 26.2 miles of me pounding asphalt.  And it made me wonder, what ELSE is there that I think I cannot do?!?

Yoga is a great way to see that my mind and body are connected, and I CAN do more than I realize. I can learn that on the yoga mat. I can practice that patience in my house. I can feel the fear in my career and challenge myself in new ways. I can relish those moments when breathing deeply is my best and only choice.

So what am I doing as my children are drawing and growing and spelling? I am breathing. And reaching. And balancing. No professional yogi for sure, but a woman in the midst of becoming. And the art of becoming is the perfect pose for me.

Chasing Grace

Topic of the week? Sacraments. Webster says that a sacrament is a “visible sign of God’s grace.”  Fair enough, and I am sure that I should be ruminating on the upcoming First Communion in my house, or the beautiful Anointing of the Sick that our pastor offered to a first grader needing a liver transplant and his donor cousin last week. I also totally appreciate the sacrament of Reconciliation, which my second grader was not too happy about recently when he had to come clean on all the cash he spent buying gems on his video game, Clash of Clans. (Thank you, Apple, for knowing that I really didn’t WANT to spend 1, 109 dollars to give my son super-powers in a video game, and graciously refunding my money.)

As sacraments go, I am one hundred percent able to spout off the rites, the sacramentals, and the minister for each sacrament.  Not surprising, really, since I have been standing or sitting in a Catholic school for most of my 43 years. I can even define words like transubstantiation and chrism and eucharist.  

But to me, sacraments go beyond the veil of the church and the priest and little boys with slicked back hair and clip-on ties. Visible signs of God’s grace? I see them every day.

Grace: “seemingly effortless beauty or charm; a disposition to be generous or helpful; divine love and protection bestowed freely on the people.”   Oh my, this world is full of grace-filled moments. Ever see a girl go up to someone sitting alone on the playground and make her smile? Grace. Ever see an elderly man help his walker-using wife into a grocery store? Grace. How about some generally quiet girls standing up to a bully in class? Grace.  Ever see a student who struggles in writing finally write a beautiful metaphor? I have. Grace all around. Or how about a spontaneous hug for a brother who has skinned his knee or my daughter taking out the garbage AND recycling without being asked? There is even grace in my happy little home!

Nature creates grace too. Daffodils, planted by my father, bloom in my back yard. Now my sons pick them for me in grubby–handed bouquets. Grace. Or the streaks of sun reflected through the clouds or lake or trees? Grace. Heck, even my boys dancing in the hail yesterday (really April?) remind me that opening my eyes to see the pebbly white beauty is tasting eternity.

So yes, I am preparing excitedly for my kid’s First Communion, as he has been singing church songs at full volume for weeks. I appreciate the tradition and sacraments of my faith. But living with intention and looking for “effortless beauty and charm” in the people I meet? That is a game I am willing to play in all moments, big and small. And being a minister of grace for others? To help a struggling student or throw the ball to my boy in the yard or buy a tired grocery clerk a candy bar? Those are occasions when I know I am kissing the divine.

Hiding in Plain Sight

I’m obsessed with spring. Year after year, large piles of snow give way to an awakening earth underneath, and I am still no closer to understanding how it happens. What is the trigger? How do these crocuses know that even under two feet of snow, it is time to rise and shine?  How do trees bud and the birds come North? Must be magic, like my favorite illusionist David Anthony sawing a woman into pieces before my very own eyes. Illusions. Magic. The unfurling of new life from the darkened earth. I just can’t figure any of it out.

My rake and I do know a few things. We need to rid the lawn of the many acorns that the hapless squirrels have thrown around all winter. And eradicating the dead grass will make room for a lush new lawn when the April rains decide to cease.   We even intuit that it is time to clean the beds and spruce them up.

Today was the day to order the tools of the trade for beautifying the beds. Don’t ask what I will do tomorrow when I come home from work and see four yards of mulch and 2.5 tons of river rock in my driveway. (That’s a magic trick for another day.) But a stop at the Rock Pile led to a chance encounter that put a smile on my face.

I saw him near the bananas. No working mother of three can ever leave the house on just one errand, so after ordering the mulch, I headed to the grocery. Halfway through the produce section, I stopped dead. The gentleman with the twinkle in his eyes looked very familiar.

“Excuse me,” I said. (I live big, and have no qualms about making a fool out of myself near the mangoes.) “Is your name Tommy Burns?”

“Yes,” he replied. There was that twinkle again.

“My name is Katie Kraven. Do you happen to remember my dad?”

He was as shocked as I was, and broke into a huge grin.

I have vague memories of this man who I know played a huge role in my father’s life. He helped to paint the house I lived in as a little girl. He is my sister’s godfather. And he was a role model, mentor and friend to my dad for years.

But time has gotten away from us and it’s been a lifetime since I’ve seen him. He hugged me and grabbed my hand. He told a few funny stories about his great-grandkids, their antics, and his removable teeth. He explained that although his kids have moved around the country, he lives in the same house where he’s been for decades. A few moments to catch up, and then he was gone, with his bag of lettuce and one yellow banana.

I love the magic of these freeze-frame moments, these chance encounters that come seemingly out of the blue. I know who he was to my father. And I know the positive impact he had on my dad’s life. But how do you reconcile that between the Vitamin Water and the organic chips? I don’t know all the details, and it is too much history to relive at this point, but I know Tommy’s impact somehow must ring in me still.

Magic, I tell you. How else to explain that the people we need, the reminders that can heal us, are like daffodils popping through the earth or rabbits pulled from black hats? They have all been hiding in plain sight all along. I’m pretty convinced that this is the way with most miracles.  With random grocery moments. With bulbs that blossom into beauty.  With new eyes on old realities, and new hope in the darkest moments.

So many blessing are hiding in plain sight. And it just takes a little raking and a little wonder to uncover them.

Faith in Chocolate

Another Christian holiday is upon us, and I’m again amused by the juxtaposition of faith and tradition. Grandma suggested the other day that the kids were too old for the outside Easter egg hunt she does for them, and she was met with great resistance. I’m waiting for their un-belief in the Easter Bunny schtick as well, but we are still going strong.

I thought Santa would have been on his way out by now, but I haven’t heard a peep of unbelief.  At ages 12, 10.5 and practically 8, these three still believe, wholeheartedly. Caveat: They’re a little lukewarm on the tooth fairy, but then again, the tooth fairy is a total flake around here. And these kids often lose their teeth AFTER they lose their teeth!!—One is still in the crack in the driveway sidewalk. We can see it but not reach it. But, I digress.

I suppose it is possible that my cherubs are just playing us to get more loot, but I think it is deeper than that. Think about it. These three believe wholeheartedly in Jesus rising from the dead after three days in a tomb. Why wouldn’t they believe that a special bunny could hop through the world delivering eggs all night?!

These kids have FAITH with a capital F. When their beloved Pa died, they consoled US. “Mom, why are you crying? He is in HEAVEN!!” Of course they were sad, but their belief in Pa’s eternal life was rock solid. Thank you Catholic School Education! (And I only get a LITTLE miffed when Sean tells me that I am not his favorite mother,…Mary is!)

It’s a good question. Why do I expect them to run out of faith in Santa or the Bunny, but hold ON to their faith in a benevolent, resurrection God. These children of mine are all or nothing.  I think that is a good thing. I know their faith will grow and change and be challenged as they age. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think I get where they are right now, though. If they believe in a personal Jesus that died for their sins on the cross and paved the way for eternal life, which they do, then why give up their faith in a chocolate wielding bunny?

Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s coming soon: testing their faith, and testing their believe in gift-bearing creatures. I’ve been taking precautions of course. Our bunny always makes a (poorly) rhymed scavenger hunt to lead them to a gift. These kids are no dummies; I typed it this year so they didn’t recognize any handwriting.  And the peanut butter chicks and giant chocolate bunny ears are well hidden from wandering eyes.

Most of all, I appreciate the way they teach ME about faith. They insisted on the Good Friday service yesterday, and want to experience the beauty of the Easter Vigil tonight, even with its length. Along with belief, they like to live their faith too.

So it’s a good thing the bunny learned how to type, and I’d say Grandma better keep hiding the eggs!

Moments of Victory

They say that parenting is the hardest job in the world. Frankly, I think that working on power lines in sub zero temperatures or herding wild boar might be more arduous, but parenting sure has its moments. Or you could be like me and choose  teaching as a second career, and then your whole waking life will be composed of moments when you are explaining and instructing, and your clients are either daydreaming, writhing on the floor, or trying to squirm their way out the door! (I will leave it to your imagination as to whether these scenarios take place in my classroom or my living room.)

At any rate, life is a game of moments. There is ALWAYS beauty in the chaos. I tend to keep my eyes wide open to experience these moments, both in my classroom and my house. But the experts ARE right. Parenting is nearly impossible. To teach, love, cajole, empower, motivate, remediate, activate these three very different creatures on a daily basis is a privilege and a chore.

The Zac Brown Band says “Soak it all in. It’s a game you can’t win. Enjoy the ride!!” He’s right, but I’m the kind of girl who likes to have some W’s for the win column. The following recent moments stand out as victories for this haggard mama.

1.Parenting Win: Nature Category: The other day my 12.5 year old daughter got in the car, looked at the sunrise and declared “That is so beautiful!! Look at those colors!!” She quickly turned to me and said, “And I’m not even making fun of you, Mom!” Hilarious.

2. Parenting Win: Getting the Job Done Category: I got stuck at work recently for several unplanned after school meetings. Unfortunately, the girl who runs my house when I am working was also staying late for her writing club. We arrived home late, wondering if the house would be on fire and the boys playing Minecraft amidst the flames. Proud mama moment to see both boys had changed out of their uniforms, completed their homework, and eaten their after school snacks.

3. Parenting Win: No Means No (But Often No Leads to Better): Cue first warm day. Yeah, it was only about 49 degrees, but the boys were playing baseball in shirtsleeves and clamoring for Speedway slushies. No I said, over and over again. Finally satisfied that no really DID mean no (seriously, do these children not KNOW me?!?!), the elder boy decided that they should make smoothies. A few ounces of frozen berries and mango juice later, all parties were delighted.  And the kids had a much healthier treat!

4. Parenting Win: Grocery Store Edition: The FIRST miracle occurred when the eldest willingly went to the store with her mother to stock up for the week. And of course, the mother found a former student to talk to. Mid conversation, I turned to find that not only did my daughter empty ALL  of the groceries on the belt, but they were already loaded in bags in the cart. Love that helper!!

Obviously there are a myriad of moments, big and small, that constitute parenting wins. And equally obvious, there are moments when these same key players are dissolved in tears over a math problem or a runny nose. But win or lose, Zac Brown is right: “It's a near-perfect day. Wishin' I wouldn't get any older. They say that it's gone 'fore you know it…So soak it all in. It’s a game you can’t win. Enjoy the ride.”

Sorry, Wrong Number

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

“Sorry, you have the wrong number.”

Again and again and again. The constancy of the wrong numbers astounds me.

I have had this phone number for six years, ever since I looked around my eighth grade one day and realized I was basically the only one who didn’t own a cell phone.

That started the cycle of wrong numbers that continues to this day.  At first it was random.

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

“No. Sorry.”

Then came the messages. I’d check my machine and hear “Yeah, uh, Chuck? Where do you want the crew of guys today?”

I figured Chuck was a contractor.

The calls continued. Six years later, and I’m still getting calls. I don’t understand why they don’t have his new number.

I guess it wouldn’t be such a big deal if my dad’s name weren’t Chuck. Well, Charles D. Kraven to be exact, but he always went by Chuck. I can still picture him holding out his hand to shake when he met someone new: “Chuck Kraven, glad to know you.”

He’s been gone almost fourteen years, and it’s the little things I remember and miss the most. Believe me, I just had a run-in with his favorite chocolate coconut bars in the bakery the other day. Sometimes time does NOT heal all wounds.

Lately, the calls are coming more frequently, and during times of turmoil.  I was crying in my reading chair the other day, when the phone rang.

“Hi. Is Chuck there?”

And then last week at school I was waiting for an important call during my planning period.

“Hi is Chuck there?” I answered, and before the guy hung up, I finally decided to ask him who Chuck was.

“Is he some kind of a contractor?

“No, he works at the steel mill.”

Insert chills and spooky music. My dad spent the better part of my childhood working swing shifts at U.S. Steel.

And there are other Chuck messages.  Last summer I was on vacation at the pool with my kids, having a really bad time of things. I was in a lousy mood with some difficult circumstances and generally feeling bereft.  I spied a guy with several tattoos, and Phillipians 4:13 stood out. After a quick Google, I had it:  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I approached the man to thank him for the message and tell him the verse helped one weary traveler.

“I did it for my son Chuck. He died of cystic fibrosis at age 19.” The tears rolled from my eyes. And his. We hugged, and cried some more. His name was Chuck too, of course. I promised to pray for his teenage daughter who was still battling the disease.

I don’t know that I ever understood what it would be like to live without my dad on this earth. I mean, how could I? I didn’t know that I would still be able to get wiffs of his cologne or hear his voice in my head. I didn’t realize that the lessons he taught would grow louder and clearer with time.

And I certainly don’t know why my phone keeps ringing for Chuck, or what kind of message he is trying to send me.  But I know for sure that love lives on.

Sometimes I wonder if I make too much of things, or if I find connections that are just coincidence.  I feel my dad in moments big and small, but is he really here? I almost wish I was kidding in sharing that as I was writing this today, I missed a phone call. No message was left, but curious, I hit redial to hear these words: “Thank you for calling United States Steel. “ More chills. More love. Okay dad, I get it. 

Goldilocks and Sports: Searching for "Just Right"

Kids and their sports have been spinning out of control. And like the three little bears, some sports brackets are TOO intense, while other athletes are being rewarded heroically for nothing. It’s a phenomenon I have watched with growing unease, and I’m left wondering where the “just right” of my sporting childhood could have possibly gone.

As I always say, no child of mine will ever go to the Olympics in any sport.  Speed, height and agility notwithstanding, I just don’t have it in me as a mother. Sports and kids have become a full time business, and I am not that kind of entrepreneur.

It seems that each sport comes with multiple teams throughout the year, eclipsing other sports seasons so that a kid ends up with no choice but to specialize at a young age. Or worse: play a few full-intensity sports at once!

Not that I don’t love my 2006 Honda, but I just have no desire to spend that much time in the car, schlepping mini athletes hither and yon. Plus, Marty recently broke a second cup holder, which caused his sister to demand an entirely new vehicle. No way would I run a sports practice car-pool in a brand-new vehicle!

I joke that I’m lazy, and that my kids are a bit uncoordinated. (Heck, I even have a kid who decries sports entirely, although he does admit he would be willing to take up fencing, with a little pole vaulting on the side!) I might feel differently if my children showed some stellar skill from an early age, or if there was some sort of legacy I was pushing for them to uphold.

Beyond these reasons, I just refuse to let the almighty sports machine take control of my family. I don’t mind extra time at home to play Monopoly, (if you define playing as a few passes around GO for each player, until all heck breaks loose and the top hat goes flying.) But without a ton of practices and games, we have time to sing, (loudly), dance in the picture window (which embarrasses them--a true bonus) and play Spot-It, (which I always, always lose.)

There is a flip side to the high-intensity sports that I find just as disconcerting: the model where everybody just gets a trophy for showing up.  Call it a trophy for breathing. Kids know what’s going on. Take me for instance. You don’t think that life-sized second place trophy I won for baton when I was seven was ridiculous? There were only TWO people in the entire competition! I can still remember being appalled, even at such a young age.

Kids know the score. They understand who is good and who deserves the trophy. Life is not fair, and I’m okay with my little guys learning that in increments along the way, instead of just being sheltered from every imperfect moment. (My opinions on snacks and drinks for halftime are equally vigorous. Really, they can last an hour without caloric intake.)

I believe in seasonal sports, that hard work should be applauded, and kids should also have time for free play and fun at home . I believe there are winners and losers, and that teamwork is an essential skill built on sports teams. And at the end of the day, I appreciate teams that don’t steal my family life or patronize my children. I am certain that there is, like Goldilocks thought, a "just right" that can be achieved in this realm through a combination of parental restraint and refocusing goals..

On Failing Lent. And What to Do About It.

Lent and I have never gotten along. Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of bettering myself, of breathing deeply. And I can even live without Pepsi for 6+ weeks. Frankly, I like to think I’m a pretty good apple during the green robes of ordinary time. But as soon as those purple robes appear, and you tell me I need to eat two small meals with one regular, I start freaking out.

I’ve certainly experienced success at “doing Lent” before; its not like I’m a total Forty Day Failure. In my junior year of college, for instance, I went to mass every single day at the Cathedral, and did a ton of social justice work.  More recently, I have lasted a whole forty days with no sweets, or gossip, or eating after dinner. But at this time of year, when people greet each other with “Are you having a good Lent,” I get a little twitchy. What is it with me that I can’t jump into the idea of “doing Lent”? Everyone around me has had a master plan for weeks, whether Matthew Kelly or the Jesuits or some self-created almsgiving plan. But I showed up Ash Wednesday with a purple striped dress and a blank stare.

So I wake on this snow day, already three days behind the curve, and amid my feelings of inadequacy, I open my inbox to find the following question from a far-off friend.  “What does ‘practice resurrection’ mean to you?” (Now that I think of it, this friend came along just when I broke off my engagement many years ago.  Talk about a time in my life when I needed some resurrection!)

The line ”Practice resurrection” is from Wendell Berry’s poem entitled “Manifesto: The Mad Farmer’s Liberation Front. ” Makes sense for ME to find my  “Lenten plan” in a poem. Berry says it this way: “So, friends, every day do something /that won't compute. Love the Lord. /Love the world. Work for nothing. /Take all that you have and be poor. /Love someone who does not deserve it.”  It’s a mantra I can live with.

I think I have trouble with the grandiose notion of Lent, the “ashes on the forehead”,  “ look at what I can give up” program, the big push for forty days. I’d like a quieter, gentler Lent, something to sustain me through the whole calendar of seasons. Its how I think about weight loss.  I want to make small changes that I can integrate into my daily life. The cabbage soup diet or fad diets will not last.  I guess I just want my Lent to be DOABLE every day.

Lent is a good reminder, a baseline, a check-up. But we don’t have to go big or go home.  I learned this watching baseball with my dad: little ball. I ALWAYS play little ball with life. To me, life is truly a game of moments. Katie says it this way: “Lean in. Look with your heart. Say yes. Find the magic. Breathe. Create. Re-create.  Give thanks. Find joy. Laugh with a student. Buy a candy bar for a tired clerk. Make a sandwich for a tired kid.  Plant a garden. Walk on a frozen lake. Be thankful. Pray. Go out on a limb. Invite someone in. Get off the couch. Turn someone on to their talents. Believe. Take the challenge.

Little ball is a good way to do Lent. Each moment matters, and don’t worry about hitting it out of the park.  The very last line of Berry’s poem puts it all in perspective for me: “Practice resurrection.” I’m not as cocky as I sound, and I don’t think I’m already perfect. But showing up is always the most important part. Practice makes progress, and forward motion is a great way to build the Kindgom of God.

Gold Medal Valentine

It’s the kind of Valentine’s Day Hollywood films are built around, and each year around this time, the scenes start to spin through my memory. I was student teaching abroad, a project that did not quite work out as planned, but definitely sounds romantic enough to start with.  And he (hmm…still not really sure why HE was there at all) was standing in the Rock Hall of Fame in Paris when we met. Yes, Paris France. And yes, the day set aside for candy hearts and romance.

Nineteen years have blurred his pick-up line, or more probably I was running my mouth about some nonsense and he decided to jump right in. Maybe it was the fact that he spoke English, and his native New York was close enough to Cleveland to make me feel comfortable after the turmoil of my overseas trip to date. And he was also easy on the eyes. I’m sure that didn’t hurt!  All I know is, by the time we left the Rock Hall, we had the name of a great French restaurant from the clerk, and a plan to torment the city that is not known for its love of American tourists. 

What followed was a whirlwind day on the streets of Paris. Like any good Hollywood flick, we only had a day, and the insistent ticking of the clock fueled the excitement of our exploration.  The sights and sounds have grown fuzzy with time, but there are certain moments that can never be erased! The Eiffel Tower was a must-see, and we raced to the top for a breathtaking view of the city. Pretty sure I made it to the top first, but who would quibble about such little details now?  I remember a rude cab driver, how we marveled at the architecture of the city, and a last minute decision to visit the Louvre. We literally RAN up the Metro steps, hit the doors of the Museum and ran to the Mona Lisa. I think we had 18 minutes to visit altogether. Plenty of time for one of the greatest paintings of all time, whose ghostly eyes really DO stare at you no matter where you are!

The day finally slowed when we made it to the recommended restaurant where, if my memory serves, I do believe I ate an entire chicken. What I do know for sure is that the meal was divine, in a tiny dark restaurant, with atmosphere just dripping from the walls. After the world’s best dinner, the boy from New York bought me a red rose from a woman on the street, and there was some strolling hand-in-hand through the dark Paris alleys.  Sometimes I still think it was all a dream. (A good one, I might add.) You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried!!

This was certainly a once in a lifetime day. Great timing. Great city. Great guy.  The memories are fantastic, but the whirlwind day in Paris also serves another purpose as the calendar spins each year to Valentine’s Day: The pressure’s off for me. Who could beat an Eiffel-Tower –climbing- French- restaurant- eating- Louvre- visiting- day? Just not possible! I don’t even have to worry or wonder.

There is something so comforting about knowing this. The boy and the rose and the Mona Lisa win the Gold. And the memories are as good as the reality. So this year?! I’ll “settle” for what has always been the Silver Medal for my Valentine’s Day fun, and what continues to melt my heart when I think about the importance of love in my life: the love of my kids. We will eat together and giggle. There will be much chocolate and many other sugar products consumed. I will marvel at the way they’ve grown and the ways they teach and challenge me. And I’ll enjoy their homemade cards and drawings, and their squeezer tight hugs, with just a teensy backward glance to the day I starred in my own Hollywood romance.

The One Who Got Away.....

The boy has some gorgeous brown eyes, with the kind of long lashes others spend hundreds of dollars to recreate. He is staring at me across his chicken nuggets and fries, the joviality of the local watering hole a contrast to his quiet words. “Mom, I’m sad I don’t have a grandpa to teach me how to fish.” It’s the kind of punch that can stop your breath. And the kind of loss only a ten year old could feel.

We’d been talking about his grandpa earlier that day, on what would have been his eightieth birthday. Mass and donuts, and a couple of basketball games with the extended family began the day. And then Marty was off to his friend’s for a play date. He and his buddy are the comic book types, and spent their afternoon creating good guys to slay the villians. I reconvened with two of my brood at dinner. Apparently his thoughts of grandpa had been smoldering all day.

I think about it too, this loss that is immeasurable. My dad died before any of these three were born, and I can’t imagine the way things would be different with him in their lives. I have a picture of my dad holding my cousin Angela when she was a baby, and I fantasize about MY babies looking up into his red flannel shirt and smiling blue eyes. How many lost moments from there to here? How many lessons unlearned for my kiddos?

Grandma is fantastic, don’t get me wrong. She fills my boy with brownies and Bible stories. She sends him home with giant balls of twine and wooden figures for painting and creating. And where else would my kids watch the rosary on television in the afternoon or clamor for a front row Jeopardy seat? Just last week, this same boy called Grandma to beg a visit in order to avoid yet another of his sister’s basketball games. Grandma has been a constant in my children’s growth. She watched all of my kids at least one day a week from the day they were born. That’s a lot of Grandma-isms and snuggles and quality time.

But what if Grandpa was here? I can just picture the nature walks, my dad patiently pointing out a crocus poking through the soil or the tracks of a deer.  He really would teach them how to fish, and to spit on the worm for good luck. I can totally hear the stories he would tell, and the voices he would create, my children’s eyes lit up in anticipation. I’m not sure who would enjoy celebrating Christmas more, or breaking mom’s rules when she wasn’t looking, but I have the sense that there would be a LOT of giggling, a lot of sneaking around, and a whole heap of fun.

Unfortunately, we cannot re-write history, and even a comic book aficionado like Martin can’t create a super hero strong enough to wipe out death, or the myriad of illnesses my dad succumbed to.  Missing my dad is one thing, but I hate the sucker punch for my children of life without their Grandpa.  Certainly my father’s daughter, I have taught them to plant tomatoes and appreciate the water and listen to the call of the robins in the yard. I have passed on his love of writing and storytelling, as well as his faith. But at the end of the day, on the edge of the lake, we are all still at a loss as to how to get the worm on the hook.

Ode to Catholic School's Week (On the Importance of Macaroni Art Evangelizing)

Catholic Schools Week is as good a time as any to step back and ponder the meaning of life. Or in my case, the meaning of spending basically an extra mortgage payment every month to send my three children to a Catholic school, when the public schools in my town are perfectly lovely. (After all, I’d love that little trailer by the Sandusky Bay. I’m just sayin’.) 

And my head is also swirling this week as a Catholic School teacher, amid high school application due dates and Crazy Hair Day and getting the report cards and little beige book completed just in the nick of time. I do think it goes without saying that Catholic school teachers do more with less, and create a whole lot of miracles along the way.

So why shell out all this hard-earned money, and make it a point to EARN the money in a Catholic School?!?! A great question. I suppose that since history repeats itself, one could argue that I am simply sticking with the tradition of the Irish Catholics that have gone before me. There is something to be said for my Grandpa James Kelly, who worked without ceasing to send four girls, including my mom, through Catholic schools. Or maybe it is the influence of his oldest daughter, my aunt and godmother Sister Ann Kelly. Auntie was recently honored for SIXTY plus years of service to the community of Ursulines. This is an accomplishment I cannot fathom, but her razor-sharp philosophical mind, humble prayer life, and greeting card ministry have certainly changed me for the better. It might even be my time at Gannon University that cemented my love of Catholic education. Within that Catholic University I was able to attend retreats at a monastery, view poverty up close on the streets of Erie, and be challenged in my faith by very loving (and ironically not always Catholic!) mentors. Or maybe it is because on September 11, 2001, when the Twin Towers and our nation’s innocence were falling, I was teaching in a public high school and simply could not share my true feelings and beliefs about prayer during a crisis.

There are countless other reasons, big and small, for why I choose Catholic education for my children. Maybe I have a soft spot for blue plaid and little boys in trousers and belts, or want my offspring to know that the rosary is not actually a necklace. Maybe its because my brother-in-law can never quite believe that I know ALL the lyrics to ALL the church songs by rote, and I want my kids to possess that same party skill. (“Bloom Where You’re Planted,” anyone?) Perhaps I just want my loves to realize that faith is more all-encompassing than Sunday morning, and that when life hands them lemons, that God is waiting at the ready with the sugar and ice. Whether it is a hard math test or a forgotten gym bag, or any number of things that can ruin a perfectly good school day.

Although my only public school learning experiences were in kindergarten, where the O for Octopus book is all that stands out in my mind, and at the University of Pittsburgh, where I was playing with power tools and hanging theatre lights all day, I don’t subscribe to the view that public schools are inferior or wild or heathen. In fact, I truly loved teaching at Firelands High School, a very public school filled with hard-working families. And I certainly don’t judge other Catholics that make a public school choice for their children.

But I do know, at the end of the day, that I want my children at St. Joseph School. Even when I joke that our school family is a categorically dysfunctional one. Or when I have a problem with a parent or student. Or when someone treats my daughter in a decidedly un-Christlike way. We are all human, after all. But I know above all else, that like the Spanish proverb says, God writes straight with crooked lines.

And these crooked lines are the reason I am giving up the beach house to send my kids to a Catholic school. Beyond my aunt and the blue plaid and the high academic expectations and the rosary each day, it is my father that influences my choice. Not raised in the faith like my mother, he nevertheless insisted on Catholic schools for his three girls. I have always wondered what made him write that check each month, and work so hard to share the Catholic faith he did not yet have. And THAT, I think, is the miracle of this Catholic school. That God can work from the inside out and the outside in.  That my father could make his own Communion and Confirmation during the spring of my eighth grade year, a few months before I was Confirmed myself.  That he learned his faith from his DAUGHTERS, instead of the other way around. Evangelization, as I just taught my eighth graders this week, is spreading the good news of God, and you don’t have to be a grown up to do it. Catholic schools broadcast this through macaroni crosses and painted hand prints  and learning to use the gifts that God Himself has bestowed…..even if you don’t even WANT the gift of mathematics one bit!!!  We learn to dream big and act meek and always genuflect on our right knee.

I know there are other ways to achieve a lasting faith and a belief in one’s own abilities, but my money’s on SJS for my kids, and the faith and resilience I know they will need as they grow in this ever-changing world.