This blog is for parents, especially for mothers, but also for the many fathers who are raising children today.
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Do you remember when a child was first placed in your arms? Your child.
Do you remember what a miracle you thought it was that you were holding another human being that you helped to create? You began to see all the good things that would occur in his or her life because you couldn’t imagine that your child would have anything but good.
And then life happened. Maybe things didn’t go as well for your child as you anticipated.
So, what did you do?
I know what I did. I drew on the memories of my own childhood. I did as my own mother did, and I’m sure I made some of the same mistakes. But always, my mother was there for me. And in the end, I believe I was there for her.
The manner of parenting in a family is almost like a carousel that continues going round and round. The passengers who ride in each generation are different, but they bring passed-down ideas with them. These can be good and positive ideas or ways of doing things, but they can also be negative and destructive. This is why the job of a parent is so crucial to our very civilization.
Recently, I’ve been going through old 8mm film taken by my grandmother. I see my mother as a beautiful, young woman, laughing and chasing after her daughters. I see myself from babyhood to teenager, with a hand in the hand of my mother, or in the middle of a hug. And always, we’re happily moving in these pictures–always we had to be moving, a requirement of my grandmother who was filming.
Of course, there were times my mother and I did not see eye to eye, but one thing I knew: whatever I did, or she did, our arms would re-open to each other in love.
Because life, and relationships, are full of surprises. Things won’t always go as we expect them to. And plans we have for our children may not materialize.
The way of a good parent is the way of forgiving–the way of love.
Being a loving parent does not mean over-indulgence, but neither does it mean selfish disregard of one’s child. A parent ought to be a shoulder to lean on, a shelter in sad, and bad, times. A parent ought to be there. My mother and father were there for me, and I pray I’ll always be there for my children as well.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
If any of you read to the end of this beautiful poem, which is not only about age and a lack of joy, but also about our hesitancy to act–then take heart with the example in this video.
There are many aspects of life that we don’t understand, yet accept. Those things we can’t see, those extraordinary and inexplicable things that sometimes happen to us. Amazing things, because life itself is a miracle.
Always, I accepted the presence of miracles–that water flowed, that air moved and fire burned, that seeds grew in the earth, and babies formed within women. But I had paid little heed to other phenomenon, that part of our nature that draws from the divine. A man can love, beyond hating. He can hope, beyond despair.
All life–the seen and the unseen–is truly amazing. But do we act as if it is?
Do we notice the goodness in others, or only their pettiness? A person can be both, of course, and that in itself is amazing. It’s called ‘free will,’ that gift God gave us because He loves us so.
God wants us to love Him back, wants us to seek Him out in every aspect of our lives. How amazing is that?
The fact is that God is with us every minute of our lives. His hands reach out for us continuously. Sadly, we often don’t care enough to notice. We turn in an opposite direction, a direction that is superficial and plays only to our temporary life on this Earth.
Smugness- – — exhibiting or feeling great or offensive satisfaction with oneself or with one’s situation; self-righteously complacent
How do each of us personally stand up beside this definition? Aren’t we all, at one time or another, smug? I know I have been, and I’m not proud of it.
More important, in what ways do we bring our gavel of smugness on others?
Well, when we consistently and pompously think we’re right and they’re wrong–we’re bringing down the gavel of smugness.
When we look at another person as being below us in intelligence, talent, beauty, etc.–we’re bringing down the gavel of smugness.
When we don’t understand why others don’t do things our way, and don’t bother to understand their way—we’re bringing down the gavel of smugness.
When we are overly critical, pig-headed, stubborn, and complacent. (And we might be hypocrites, too, because as individuals, we are often critical, pig-headed, stubborn, and complacent, as well)—yet still, we bring down that old gavel of smugness.
Smugness can be found in religion, too.
“The operation of the church is entirely set up for the sake of the sinner, which creates much misunderstanding among the smug.”– Flannery O’Connor
For the sake of the sinner, Jesus Christ died, rose, and offers eternal life. Yet we often point to sin in others (the sinners) and are too arrogant to see it in ourselves–because we are–what? The sin-less?
No, we are all sinners. How can we think that we are so far above others that we can judge them? Only God can weigh an individual’s sin. Because only God knows the absolute truth about any of us.
So, let’s strip away our smugness. Let’s not be so serious about ourselves, loosen up, and laugh a little.
Let’s remember that we are created in the image and likeness of God. But we are not God. And God, alone, knows what’s beneath that coat of smugness we sometimes wear, and if we’re open to Him, He’ll let us know how to change it.
Every day we have the capability to be different—fresh opportunities to improve ourselves, and maybe, even become holy. Alternately, we also have the opportunity not to better ourselves by sinking into the bleakest parts of human life.
God’s Grace is ever-present, always here for us to take. It’s around us like the air we breathe. But, there are times when our own bodies obstruct our breathing. For example, when we are sick with some ailment, some disease, respiratory problems often occur. That’s what happens with sin. Sin is the disease that keeps us from taking advantage of Grace, and breathing in the daily presence of God.
If we want to better ourselves, God will show us the way to do it. Be still and listen. Be observant and watch. He will give us the car, the vehicle to use that will take us to a better place in our lives. He will provide the gas. He will show us a map for the trip. But……
From then on, it’s up to us. We must be courageous.
Because unless we get into the driver’s seat and behind the wheel. Unless we turn on the ignition and step on the accelerator, we will go nowhere.
Sadly, many of us never turn on the ignition, never step on the gas.
We may hesitate out of laziness, or fear, or an intense desire to keep hold to something we know isn’t in our best interest.
How can we find our way out of those shadowy situations?
Luckily, every day also signifies a new beginning for us–no matter the shadows of the day before.
When the dawn comes and the sun begins to rise, let’s be courageous enough to look at our new day in a new way. Let’s honestly try to see in the slant of fresh sunlight, the possibility something different, something better. Let’s take notice of the highlights in its colors, the intensity of its brightness, and then put ourselves within it and let its light–the light of God’s grace–shine upon us.
We are all hurt as we travel through life. We often hold on to those hurts. The betrayal of a friend, the infidelity of a spouse, the abuse of a parent, and on and on–things that stay with us for years after they occurred.
Some of us go through life aching and sweating, beneath a heavy backpack of grievances that weigh us down. Oddly, we keep adding to the weight of that backpack with fistful after fistful of “what he/she did to me,” and thoughts like, “I’ll never forget it. In fact, I won’t let them get away with it. I will pay them back!”
When we’re hauling around a backpack like that, we’re usually grumpy, or at the very least, difficult to be around. We’re certainly not smiling, or happy, because grudges make us inherently anxious.
How can we get over our grudges? How can we empty our backpack of all that disturbs us, and re-fill it with things that are worthwhile, things that do make us happy.
Matthew 6:25-27“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life?
Don’t Worry. Be Happy. Is that all it takes?
What Jesus is really talking about is Concentration on Him. Allegiance to Him. Love of Him.
We may not forget our hurts, but we can be sure that God will heal us of them by bringing good out of the evil they caused.
Backpacks of grievances harm us more than the person who is the object of our negative feelings. When we realize this, we can forgive that person. And isn’t forgiveness the key to our real happiness? Just think how it could lighten our load!
“St. Cyril of Jerusalem, in instructing catechumens, wrote: The dragon sits by the side of the road, watching those who pass. Beware lest he devour you. We go to the Father of Souls, but it is necessary to pass by the dragon. No matter what form the dragon may take, it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away from the storyteller.” (Flannery O’Connor, Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose)
Our personal dragons never really leave us. They hover very close to the things we desire, waiting to turn us in harmful directions. So often, and in various ways–through people, or events– we are warned to beware of them, but just as often, we set the warnings aside.
Here is the beginning of “Dragon,” the second of ten stories in Birds of a Feather. Click the cover to order the book on Amazon.
DRAGON
I keep my head down when I sign for a Gulf front room, not wanting to face the night clerk. She directs me to the fifth floor: shell-shaped pillows on a king-sized bed, gauzy drapery mimicking crystal green water, and double-paned windows, framing a fire-breathing, dragon-like sunset.
At home, in Highlow, they’d quoted St. Cyril. “Beware of the dragon,” they’d said about Richard.
I stretch out on the king-sized bed and turn on the massage. The pulsing reminds me of his fingers and the expensive bottle of sun block he bought, all of which he used on me. Richard liked manipulation, the slip-sliding feel of possession. Maybe he was born that way and couldn’t help it. Maybe I could have changed him. Then maybe he wouldn’t have died.
For months, I was Richard’s only nurse; the one he’d been having an affair with was afraid to touch him after she learned he had AIDS. He didn’t cheat anymore, and he didn’t lie, except in the bed he’d made for himself.
At home I was taught compassion, so I timed out medication every four hours, kept watch that the oxygen hose stayed in his nostrils, that the battery worked in case of a storm surge; but I resented the stench of his bed pan, the ooze of his lesions, the diapers wrapped around hips so thin that bones showed through tissue paper skin. The man betrayed me after all.
“Don’t trust him,” they’d said.
Before I left Mobile, I telephoned Anthony, Richard’s best friend, to say I was leaving. Again, Anthony said, “I love you.” He wanted to know if I loved him. I gave no answer.
An empty pause and then, “Richard’s death was an accident, Liz. You didn’t create the storm. I’ll call your cell tomorrow.”
At some time or another, each of us will lose our focus and be mean to another person. And often it’s intentional. Why do we do this?
Are we mean to people because our own needs have not been met and so we lash out, “getting back at the world” for having treated us badly?
This is silly, because the world gives back to us the same as we put out. Meanness will always rebound on us.
I think one of the reasons we are sometimes mean is because we see something in the other person that reminds us of what we don’t like in ourselves. If we find ourselves bullying someone else, or insulting them, or plotting against them, we need to take a good look inside our own hearts. What is bothering us? And then, try to be honest enough with ourselves to change it.
Another reason for meanness is jealously of another person. We may feel the world has treated them better than us, given them more friends, or provided them with a better lifestyle.
To get over it, we should first think about exactly what it is that they have that we want. Secondly, will that thing make us happy? If we believe that it will, then we can actually learn from the person we are jealous of. We can compliment them to their face on an accomplishment, rather than spitefully tearing them down behind their backs. And then in the nicest way we can, simply ask them how they developed in themselves the thing that we want.
Meanness can also come from fear–maybe even the fear of abandonment by someone we love. To guard against it we put that person down as often as we can. We denigrate them in an attempt to devalue them in the off-balanced thinking that this will keep them dependent on us…i.e. “Who else would have you anyway?”
When meanness gets this out of hand, we need spiritual help, because we’re destroying our selves as well as the one we pretend to love.
We should remember that meanness cannot make us happy, only more unhappy.
Malice drinks one half of its own poison.
—-Seneca
Everyone likes to have a second chance. And most of the time a second chance is there to be had. Except in the case of death. If we have things we know we should say to someone, yet we haven’t said them—because of pride, because we’re just so busy, or because there’s friction in the relationship—we need to wake up. We need to act. No one knows the day of death.
But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven,]but My Father only. –Matthew 24:36
We may never get a second chance to tell someone we’re sorry, or that we love them and always have. We may never get a second chance to say thank you to someone who changed our lives.
We have only today. The past is over, and tomorrow may never come. Let’s not waste time with unimportant things. Let’s run to those we love. And let’s do it today.
When Great Trees Fall
by Maya Angelou
When great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker down in tall grasses, and even elephants lumber after safety.
When great trees fall in forests, small things recoil into silence, their senses eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die, the air around us becomes light, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see with a hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind words unsaid, promised walks never taken.
Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon their nurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formed and informed by their radiance, fall away. We are not so much maddened as reduced to the unutterable ignorance of dark, cold caves.
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms, slowly and always irregularly. Spaces fill with a kind of soothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, never to be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and be better. For they existed.
Young children have no problem believing in miracles. They are new, innocent, and without the constraints living in this world can produce. But despite our age, many of us are still open to miracles.
A miracle is a happening that no natural power can bring to pass in any manner or form whatsoever. Have you experienced one?
Of course you have:
If you have seen a baby growing in the body of a woman.
If you have held in your hand the seed of a flower, planted it, and watched it take root and bloom.
If you have seen the light and felt the burn of a sun you could never touch.
If you have forgiven an enemy when you never thought you would.
If you have risked your life for another’s. Or another has risked his for yours.
If you have lived another day in suffering, yet also lived that day with hope.
If you have heard the voice of God through another person, or media outlet, or in the frustrations of a difficult personal situation.
If you have experienced any of these things, you have experienced the miracle of Grace in the world–right here where you are. And there are many more opportunities than these.
But caution. Though it is always being offered, Grace must be noticed affirmatively to be taken advantage of.
If we don’t take the time to notice and affirm them, the miracles of Grace will not affect us–not even if they are all around us.
God’s Grace is as much a part of our earthly lives as our own breathing. But just as with our own breath, we must take it in and make it part of us.
This blog is for parents, especially for mothers, but also for the many fathers who are raising children today.
Translating a World on the Edge 