Unused Creativity Becomes Toxic

So, my friend Rikki set me up with this lady by a few piercing quotes and I've been hooked ever since. This is a long interview, and far-reaching, but even if you have just ten minutes or so I say she's worth a gander. Groudbreaking points --- and not just one chick blathering, but the result of extensive research. It makes me thankful for the music teachers, hippies and counselors who cross(ed) my path.

for Amber, our own Auntie Leila --- who brings domesticity everywhere she goes

"... to be fair, some cocktails contain fruit."

and Alaska in the news!

Tonight we're joining the viewers of Yukon Men and having friends over for pizza.

This morning eighty pounds of school supplies arrived with the mailman, Ray, who kept apologizing that his bum knee meant he couldn't lug the boxes up our steps. The 1982 song 'Gloria' was blasting from his USPS jeep. I still want to write a book about the history of mail delivery in our great state, but if there's one barometer of my mania, it's the planning! of all the projects! Fall is the perfect time to settle in to the real (sometimes stifling) challenge of home's own rhythms.

thank you, Allison Grace

Vivaldi says get to work, kids.

and each of the friends who tread with joy along this path. Teresa, Tana, Joy, Michele, Anne and your 45 (!) children, plus all the happy faces we continue to meet through your acquaintance.

wildflowers and marbles ~ she says it like you would, and *with lists*

for everyone who's drawn to this, not just homeschoolers : )

A Mother Lifts Her Son, Slowly, from Heroin Overdose

Please meet Alex and pray for their needs tonight.

Any Mother Worth Her Salt

has at some point made the following discoveries (I'm in list-making mode!):



No Time for Politics, Charles Dana Gibson

10     an abandoned egg or diaper, rotting away in her motorcar.
9           Most existential worries are helped by raucous play and a pot of coffee.
              Laughing with friends is a great clarifier.
8            Real men are necessary, mysterious and easy to please. Ditto little boys.
7            This!
6            Speech impediments are (extremely) cute and (mostly) temporary.
5            We don't need to recreate the wheel. (or is it re-invent? I am so bad at the idioms.)
4            The Divine will be protected in our midst as it first was in human form ~ by a Mother.
3             Serenity comes at a price, but is always a bargain.
                'be joyful because it is humanly possible" -Wendell Berry
2            There remain five steps to laundry: sort, wash, dry, fold, put away.
               And stuck on the fourth step, I remain.
1            The seasons of life are fleeting, even when they don't eat their oatmeal.

Be Where Your Hands Are

A mantra for summer ~ free from expectations or anxiety.
Guide my hands to align my intellect with God's will. Focus. 
I will be where my hands are.

Today marks five years since my Grandma Ruby's death. Next month will mean ten years without my Grandma Katherine. Along with my cousins and our parents, I still miss the comfort and dignity of their love. Living a life they could approve of is one of my stronger desires.

Veronica Suzanne, our first November baby

We recently had a pet laid to rest, a milestone I can't quite face on the poetic plane yet --- but a quick depiction of my Grandmas' differences is their approach to precious kitties. Grandma Katherine would've termed them exactly that, with the regal Peaches and Plummy reigning in her Minnesota home for nearly twenty years. Just as tender is Grandma Ruby's response to seeing Stella, our cross-eyed , wiry little Red Point Siamese.  Although she was thoroughly Californian by the time I was born, Grandma Ruby's voice always hinted at wry Texan debutante:
"what -- is that?"
"That's Stella, Gramma."
"Weyhll, you need to get rid of it."

That was at least twelve years ago, and I still laugh when I tell the story. Last night my husband said to my giggling recount, "...She was right."

But Stella's at my side this very moment, so my hands will guide the rest of me today --- every gesture increasing the distance from life with Oscar.

What the Mahoneys Mean to Me

It's Father's Day. The guys are a few paces ahead of me on the homestead, as the languid sunshine propels us toward another family's story. I'm following an informal pilgrimage at the speed of happy toddlers and aging dogs, having momentarily left behind the annual Mahoney Grotto picnic. Our kids moseyed up to the barbeque buffet a few hours before, adding bananas, cookies and tea to the homemade sausage, roasted chickens, varied casual food and salads.

In front of the picturesque log home, I watch a guy whose name I'm unsure of pet a horse and smile shyly towards the camera. Another newly sober friend takes his picture with an iPhone. My heart is pierced by the simplicity of what's going on and the profundity I know it to be --- peace of mind, freedom of movement. Walking down a road among friends, without heroin or its effects as part of today's journey. I may not know his name, but I've heard this young guy impart Christian mercy towards his still-drunk mother on a candlelit Mother's Day. He has memorably intimated a Bush Alaska childhood with every abject sadness that can entail --- followed by the despair of aging out of foster care and directly into the dope house. The loneliness of belonging nowhere.

But not today. Today he's with the Mahoney family. And what a fold to be welcomed into, under the crisp blue mantle of Our Blessed Mother and the Alaskan sky, in a space built to honor their earthly mother.

Car after car parks across the outer reaches of Wasilla's Schrock Road, depositing more smiling faces, absorbed into still more giddy embraces.

Two and a half generations of men play football through rain and shine, with a mix of manhood and gentility that comes from staying close to the earth and each other. At one point, there were haphazard games of Frisbee being played through the middle of the football scramble, and our three-year-old son became fixated on possession of the yellow Frisbee. They humor him for awhile, but then a big boy crouches to explain the rules. "You have to throw the yellow circle, you can't keep it for yourself. You can play with us, but you gotta do the game." The shock of being asked to uphold any standards is immediate. He wails for his mother, allows me to hug him and cluck over the injustice. Then he grows quiet and rips straight back into the action. My role fulfilled, I return to the assembled brothers, sisters and cousins who have invited us for the day.

Back at the towering pod of birch splashed near the grotto, lighthearted Jungian psychology ensues, followed by a dissection of comedian Chris Rock's brilliance, then trading of recent travel stories, updates on work and worship, and an absolute fireside contentment with the human condition. Siblings and nephews check in on family business and health affairs, with tears and triumphs quietly exchanged. Babies wander to greet their grandfathers from perches against tree trunks, low-slung chairs and truck tailgates.

Throughout the afternoon, at least seven pots of coffee are brewed and shared. During this particular party I'd come without diapers for my toddlers, not a mishap new to me, and apparently not one they've never seen before either. In fact, I've never met so many grown men with Pull-ups and baby wipes stashed in the cabs of their beefy pickups. Ten-year-old boys stand stick straight and acknowledge children who are new to the fold with uncanny verve --- grilled hot dog in one hand, the other extended to greet friends with a handshake. Children ride past on the golden bare backs of horses, and a four wheeler crawls by with a dozen bouncing faces laughing from its trailer. My kids are in there somewhere. I overhear James, a local cabbie, asking what a grotto is, and Barney explaining it's Latin for crypt and means a place to pray. James asks permission to add his own rosary beads, from an ACTS retreat in Juneau years before, to the offerings inside. A few times I usher my kids away from the votives and statues, but I eventually give in to the friendly, insistent tones of Mahoney mothers young and old: they are perfectly welcome in there. Please.

I can now include myself in the tender rank of moms-in-need for whom Barney Mahoney has been known to produce dry clothing, diapers and a hot meal. A guy who knows the ropes once confided that it's Mahoney policy to stop for all hitchhikers, regardless of circumstances or disruption to his own schedule. Barney accepts no money for rides, often towing and fixing the stranded vehicles himself. Sometimes a tank of gas is the solution. Sometimes, single mothers are given the bad news that their cars are broken beyond repair, followed by the gift of a used car that runs just fine. I knew a lady who said his treatment of her was the first noble exchange from any man she'd known in forty years.

The Mahoneys don't fit into any prescribed camp: they're at once sincerely humble and born orators. A five-minute chat reveals them to be philosophically airtight, but with cowboy swagger and grammar to match. They are both wild-eyed and utterly serene. Their devotion, workmanship and credentials make heads swivel. I've seen them diffuse borderline psychotic, volatile characters with a reprimand and a hug. There would seem to be little place for saccharine piety among them -- considering the unflinching duty to truth and mercy they personify -- yet their poetry rings 100% sentimental Irishman. They are trappers, miners, steel workers, storytellers, musicians, entrepreneurs, hunters, fishermen, blacksmiths, woodworkers, bikers, builders, and farmers. (And those are just the six or seven of them that I know...) They are here to honor their mother and their father. They all know how to cook. On this day, they're willing to roast marshmallows for a continual stream of children, provided each one have dinner first and mom's permission.

Photo by Bill Hess

The two brothers I'm closest to share the story of their father's final days, including over six years spent building the grotto by hand, with random stones and statues being deposited by unknown people from all over the world, in hopes of helping the project. The mysterious Canadian squatter who came out of the woods long enough to roll a hulking, man-sized boulder (which became the grotto's roof, after being split lengthwise a few times) down their mountainside in order to contribute. The force of their father's passion for the Eucharist. The quiet heroism of their mother's twenty years of successive pregnancies in the wildnerness. Her fidelity to the establishment of a Catholic church in Wasilla --- a dream dismissed by many, considering there were parishes already built in Palmer and Eagle River. The patronage of Saint Jude.

I spend a lot of time with a lot of people who talk a lot of shit about faith, hope and charity. If the greatest of these virtues is love, why does this day look so different from most stuff I read or hear? The Mahoneys make it look easy. Joyous. Immediately possible. Their sacrifice and toil on each others' behalf is borne without calculation, shrill preaching, or pecking order. They just love. This family overflows with love, heaped on with human frailty, God's strength, and more love. Even though this isn't my first visit to the grotto, and I've logged hundreds of hours with Patrick, Paulie, and Barney, I'm thrown off kilter by the whole experience. Their rough-hewn setting and elegant hearts are healing people, through the grace of God. This is the grit that social workers, municipal food banks, SWAT teams and prisons cannot touch. I feel silly for ever wanting to buy a tapestry with the corporal works of mercy woven into it.

Since becoming a wife and mother, I've been increasingly drawn in by chatter about the Benedict Option, and set out with a hunger for it, visited often by the idea as life unfolds ~ for a fleeting sunny day in June, we were immersed in the fruits of precisely what Alisdair McIntyre describes in the final paragraph of After Virtue. My favorite depiction is contained in John T. Goerke's recent analysis: "The Benedict Option then is not a retreat into a cave, but an advance down the barrel of a shotgun."

Paul and Iona's descendants are indeed preserving their traditional culture, yet standing at the ready to receive the walking dead of modern culture, with a greased wrench in one hand and a rosary in the other. Their good-natured, fearless proclamation of God's Kingdom is magnetic. I felt like a fellow traveler, even among the dozen-plus Mahoneys previously unmet. Supernatural forces were unmistakably present. Part of me wanted to stay forever.

Another part of me knows that I witnessed nothing more than a hardworking bunch of people, hard at play on their family ranch. Let their welcome not be wasted on me, I pray. The good life is within reach --- of anyone who's willing to reach out to the guy next to him.

Surely I'm flattering myself, but I'd like to think the Mahoneys are my kind of people.

Photo by Bill Hess, 2012

"The most extraordinary thing in the world

is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman

and their ordinary children." ~ G.K. Chesterton

my Blessed Mother Ship

"I know your Mom --- she's da awesomest." Those were the recent words of our four-year-old, and I might add to them today, in the spirit of parental odes and the month of May, which is special to my family in many ways.

Who can be objective about their own mother? Maybe that's a futile goal anyway --- since the unique status of mother and child means a tenderness that defies general description. My brother and I have felt the ferocity of our mother's protection in a hundred ways, giving us a timeless oasis of security. It was memorably expressed when he sought to deploy her talents on some high school official who had smited him: "Give them your Cruella Deville, Mom, I know you can do it." (She declined, as I recall --- and he got to sit in detention.)

Anyone who knows my mom sucks air if I mention that she's a twin ~ their disbelief is suspended when the clarification comes. A twin brother. Fraternal twins. We all know there's only one Margaret.

If Gilda Radner and Jacqueline Onassis commingled into one being, my mom would still be cooler. She favors Elle, Vogue and Vanity Fair: I'll be in the corner with Strunk & White. In hindsight, I realize she knew all about Dylan Thomas --- but she let me breathlessly share my discovery of his work and the companionship I found there. Ditto Marlo Thomas, St. Jude himself, Janis Joplin, romanticizing tragedy, Indian food, and the open road. She'd seen it all before.

From her I inherited my terrible driving, patience with weirdos, unflinching optimism, hunger for a storyline, and social groove. She never limited my interests or dictated morals, meaning there was no sting of judgment when heartbreak or disaster visited. I got to own it. Similarly, achievements and joy have been mine to savor, with her constant encouragement but never co-opting. My mom let me become the person I was meant to be. She seemed unthreatened by the emotional risks of raising children --- which I now know to be impossible --- today, I appreciate her allowances as trust, that God and goodness will prevail.

Even recognizing that freedom, each time over the past ten years I've thought I'd lost one of my children (in a water park, at a gas station, the bluegrass festival, and so on) my dominant fear has been disappointing my mother. Some things aren't real until you have to explain it to Mom, right? In every such brief, grave episode my brain seemed to illogically skip straight to remnants of my misspent youth: "My mom is going to be so pissed, you guys. She really liked that baby."

Parking lot derelictions aside, I've had to work diligently to shock her over the years. She did seem pretty mad when I worked in that Nevada brothel for a few months.

Moms imbue so many traits before we realize they're unique. If I am a little iceberg bobbing around the universe, my mom is the piece of Earth from which I calved ~ at once adaptable, immovable, and regal. If I've ever been fearless, dignified, unconventional, it's because I'm her daughter. My favorite compliments are when she compares me favorably to her own mother. I expect my daughters feel the same.

Happy 36 years of motherhood, Mom. Veronica is right --- you da awesomest. I praise God for the multitudes you contain, and for your continual willingness to sail me home.

* * *

(so Tori Amos is probably a little ponderous for my mom's tastes. She's more of a Chaka Khan lady.)

But, here we go -- nobody vamps at a piano with quite the same depth ...   

"Well I can't believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying
So I will cry 1000 more
If that's what it takes
To sail you home
Sail you home
Sail you home
Sail
Sail you home"

Dear Larry

On Thursday a friendship of twenty-plus years came to an end when my mom called with the difficult news of death. My first pen pal (besides Lil and the foreign kids from the back of Archie comics), my first professional boss, and the first gift sobriety gave me: Larry King.

Do you ever picture a certain friend or relative, and just sense they'll never be an ailing 97 year old in a nursing home? This friend was like that, and I'm relieved he is no longer constrained by his earthly body. Larry was somehow ageless: eternally 55 or so, but in many ways a carefree 17-year old guy. He personified the gratitude a recovering addict carries with them --- to be aware of a generous universe, our rightful place in it, and the immutable hand of a loving Creator. And he was a good counselor. Maybe that's why he stayed in the chemical dependency field when he could've chosen a half dozen careers with relative ease and acclaim: music, activism, educational guru, and so on. But he remained a counselor, walking with lost souls trudging towards clarity --- witnessing all the pain and madness without being swallowed by it. He was a real shit disturber where it mattered, and a voice of perfect trust in God when life seemed too much.

Among the things he illuminated for me was an absolute riddance of self-pity and fear. As a clinical director he was patient, meticulous, and funny. As a friend he was endlessly comforting without losing his own serenity. He let me bring my dog to the office every day, wryly declaring her a therapeutic presence. He spoke highly of both of my parents, and had great stories from the 1970s and 80s about many people in our town. I think now about his monk-like existence, the confidences he took to his grave ~ he instilled in me the sacred trust (not to mention a near-holy fear of federal privacy mandates) of receiving another's pain or joy, which is especially vital in an isolated community.

Larry intentionally lived by the ocean, nesting and creating stability wherever he roamed. He was somewhat itinerant in his mission -- knowing when to move on, but fully immersed while he lived in a place. He really was the kind of personality that helps knit a small town together. His physical presence was fixed, immovable: keys jangling, quips exchanged, tie dye and denim blazing through. Spiritually, things settled a bit when he asked questions. The world slowed to a pace of wonder and hope.

He was alternately known as Easy Eddie and the Frog King, both nods to personas and passions. On any topic, he had a joke you saw coming but didn't hurry along to its conclusion, since conversation was an art in which he delighted and excelled. The currency he traded in was profound, sincere, and exacting of truth in himself and others. There was no pretension in Larry. To say he "looked for the best" in people would be trite, since I think his skill was a deliberate routing of the best in a person, inviting them to live better and do better in a most unselfish way.

While I reflect on the magnitude of his service, the tenderness of our bond, and the role he played in so many lives, I trust that my grief will subside while his impact will remain. My life has been fortified by a thousand tiny points of light that Larry delivered, always allowing me to claim the discovery as my own. It's sobering to learn of the hundreds of people who felt precisely the same way about him. May God grant eternal peace and majesty to his soul.

Gingerbread Recipe calling for (c)old coffee

Even before I cared much about cooking (y'know, like ten minutes ago), I've long appreciated people who can ramble tidily in narrative form about recipes. It makes it all seem very do-able for those of us who prefer to eat like 7th grade boys at a SuperBowl party. I like Greek salads & Mexican food. That's it. why mess with success? Children eat yogurt and steak with guacamole quite happily... Okay, but in real life I must feed this growing brood, do it frugally if it's going to be any fun, and get a general game face going about long-term meal planning.

Anyway. Internet, anyway.

Eagle River, Alaska

So encouraging, so joyful, just Ask Auntie Leila. As I say, she's FlyLady without the hysterics. : ) Speaking of Like Mother, Like Daughter --- I had a Pretty, Happy, Funny, Real sequence in my mind as we drove to a picturesque spot yesterday, and on arrival it was just as I'd hope it'd look: hues of gold, frigid blue set against pink mountains... then I realized I'd left my camera at home. Next time! I have to go for now. The neighbor's dog is here to visit. Joys of Alaskan winter.

enslaved by design

Kate Endle original

Our kids have been hooked on the Dr. Dobson AM radio magic that is Adventures in Odyssey, with the older two asking each time we're in the car during late afternoon if "those stories" are coming on the radio and if we have sufficient time to listen. I often rely on audiobooks in the car, since the sedative effect seems to linger even after a half-dozen renditions of the same chapters. Audiobooks get expensive! So, I'm happy to have the backup entertainment. Being a massive radio devotee anyway, this has been a nice diversion for the past few months. I often take the long way to our engagements for the sake of not cutting out the story's climax, just as habit dictates with my own worthy FM companions. Sometimes that makes us late.

Last week, the kids' show was preceded by this guy. And he was good. Personable without being phony, light and engaging without being predictable. He used this quotation rather unceremoniously: "He who is enslaved to the compass has the freedom of the seas." I looked around online and saw it variously fleshed out (some added "...all the rest must stick close to the shore", which adds another element altogether; how does my refusal to submit to authority actually limit me?) but attributed to no one. I'd love to learn the source if anyone reading is familiar with it.

It took root in my psyche, and I've thought about it quite a bit since. It's a great question ~ presuming physical freedom, just who or what are we enslaved by? My reflexive mental response is juvenile: "a compass, ick!" Do I live as if each moment is ruled by the pursuit of virtue? No, not naturally. I sometimes have to pose this very direct question to myself over the most mundane tasks or choices: Will this help me grow in virtue? The answer is usually immediately clear, thank you God. Self-will run riot is no way to live, as a certain Ohioan once penned.

I do know that plotting a rough course and keeping to it pays dividends. The kind of dividends I long to reap, in all honesty. I try to align my inspiration with real goals, and merging the two comes only from focused effort. (ICK!) Once plainly enslaved by my passions, I guess it's safe to say that adulthood has allowed me to transfer my servitude into much more polite masters. (triple iiiick...)

The imagery of Davis' borrowed quote is clear enough in my own life without getting too fanciful: I don't like to be led around by GPS  --- I prefer to scribble directions onto looseleaf, stuff it into my organizer, and set off cloaked in mystery and overconfidence. And it works for me --- although more than once I've commandeered skateboarding children for their phones, to plea for aid from my husband, or Google map (that's a verb now, right?) some elusive destination. Not always efficient.

My happiest travel moments, barring none, have involved being geographically lost. ...Wondering what's around the corner, adapting to the unexpected, embracing novelty and feeling very free. I won't even try to be circumspect and proclaim it an illusion of freedom. Again, not the most efficient way to handle everyday life. (Although, I once missed a gymnastics exhibition with Big Names because I couldn't find Seattle's Key Arena. On foot. From my apartment on Third Avenue. Almost 20 years later and I'm still a little sad about that. I was pretty drunk + missing a contact lens, so I guess I wouldn't have seen or remembered the whole shebang too well anyway! Thank you for buying the tickets from afar and being kind about all of it, Dad.)

Plus, family produces so many moving parts that one can't exactly swing along various continents tripping the light fantastic and wrest any degree of satisfaction from this life.

I guess this is my way of saying I'm going back to the wiles of FlyLady, even if she did somehow give my laptop a terrible virus with that Cozi nonsense. Jen Fulwiler is hosting this upcoming link party. I'll use her prompt to shower you with my navel-gazing catharsis about how mopping the floor daily and being meticulously punctual sanctifies my otherwise grubby desires. There's a teaser for ya.

work hard and be kind: goodbye to the GOP

Remember when Conan O'Brien was ousted from the Tonight Show, in a bizarre move, the fruits of which are still playing out? I do. This is one I ocassionally flash on mentally, even four years later. Beautiful, heartfelt advice, borne of pain and redeemed by kindness. (Plus, it was followed by a gyrating Will Ferrell belting out Freebird, his enormously pregnant wife and a huge American flag! Top notch.)




I find myself resenting the arrogance and the cynicism of the GOP. You know what they are, the lot of my local conservative representatives? They suffer from the very malady they like to toss casually towards constituents who don't feed their narrative. They're entitled.

Please let the record reflect that U.S. Senator Mark Begich and Alaskan Sen. Bill Wielechowski have answered my friend Allison. They both appear to see a moral imperative for healthcare to be provided. Medicine to be dispensed. As for Pruitt, Parnell, Keller, Dunleavy ~ I can only assume it doesn't fit their schedule or their schtick. An Alaskan family with oodles of military service, graduate degrees, professional work, and bootstraps integrity who needs expensive preventative care for a genetic disease? Republicans don't appear to have a pat answer for that --- and what's worse, they're ignoring the question.

Question: How is a college student living at home whose family falls under the eligibility guidelines for Denali Kidcare supposed to buy $12,000 worth of drugs each month?

Question: Can college kids, within certain age, income, and courseload boundaries, remain on Medicaid?

Every tea party tagline I've previously found solace in falls short: work hard, play fair, pay your own way. None of it applies in this case. Unless I come into money on a Romney scale, this is a healthcare expense I couldn't fudge into my budget. You probably couldn't either.

And ~ a disclosure. I truly believe the endgame of Leftist American public policy means my family is rounded up for our indiscriminate breeding habits, our religious gun-clingin', and our allegiance to anything higher than a labor union. The nerve. But are these just fear-mongering tactics, employed by hapless asshats to keep the peasants in line? One wonders. As for this day and this cause, our representatives in the Democratic party are showing professional, warm and courageous behavior. The Republicans have been silent. As if the principles (anti-abortion, small gub'mint, big liberty) of their base voting bloc gives them hostages. I owe you nothing.

Both practically and philosophically, the kicker is that a clear resolution may not come --- there may not be some dramatic shift in the Affordable Care Act, and the tragedies might continue to wander in and out of daily life under the Marketplace. The Republicans weren't expected to have superhuman powers, just humane ones. Do your job. Hardships endured by American families under the top-down insanity of the ACA appear to pad the GOP's ego-boosting ideology, rather than motivate them as problem solvers. Does anyone grasp that a young man could die due to the wild mismanagement of Obamacare --- and judging by the behavior of its leadership, my party would be content to blame the president rather than get on the phone and work for change? Loyalty is earned through risk, not platitudes.

So, I thank the Catholic mothers of these two Democratic senators. Thank you for raising sons with manners. When summarizing Rees' story, I didn't know how to end it except with a plea of sorts. I hoped that someone somewhere would simply be responsive. Maybe even someone powerful enough to effect policy change. Does the cynic in me say it could be "just to get a vote"? Sure. What are politicians, if not vessels for a vote? It's when my vote is taken for granted that I'll shake you off my shoes like so much dust. Goodbye to the Alaska Republican Party, and thank you immensely for all that I learned with you.

For Jocelyn, my hero

So, some close friends just welcomed their third son (3rd baby born in 26 months or so...) and I can't really muster encouragement that doesn't sound patronizing. Also, she's already so much tougher and more graceful than I am (my husband practically said as much!), which makes it difficult to know what to say ~ this is a good start. And this is indeed the brilliant lady who won the Sheenazing Award for Smartest Blog. I have exactly six months until I can test this theory --- that once our oldest child hit ten, life becomes easier. I'll let you know.

this is my friend Rees

Rees (in blue) and I are alike in the following ways: we love Alaska and have no desire to leave. We're also firstborn, sharing the privilege and funny insights of that role in our families. We both like busywork but sometimes question pursuing schoolwork to the exclusion of "real life". However, Rees is well into his second year of college and has impressive SAT scores under his belt, so he's already surpassed any academic merit I've sought. And speaking of belts, he has a black one, earned with persistence and grit that I do not possess. He's never known himself without that grit, since the most involuntary function most of us perform is the one that threatens him most. That would be breathing.

This is where his story diverges mightily from mine, from all of his siblings but one, and likely from yours and the people you know. Do you know anyone with cystic fibrosis? I didn't, until we met the Howells ten years ago.

A few days ago Rees came within a one week supply of the medication that keeps his lungs clear of the mucus that will otherwise overtake his organs. A few weeks ago it became apparent that his healthcare needs would not be met by the policy the family purchased in December (to the contrary of claims and paperwork provided by the selling broker). A few months ago Rees turned nineteen years old, facing all the normal excitement of early adulthood. Management of his symptoms is standard operating procedure for Rees and his family; the need for his lung drugs is predictable, expensive (we're talking five figures, monthly) and it hangs in the balance of a vacant phone bank.

Having CF isn't trendy like some diseases, forgive me for saying so ~ or dotted with unity-building tearjerkers like other conditions. It's a daily grind of maintenance and meds, a path that breeds strength and good humor. The Howells don't need aid or comfort for much of the trials CF visits upon them, they simply need the medicine required to keep Rees running after his dreams, wherever they lead him. He's most interested in wildlife sciences but must reconcile his passions with the reality of hospitalizations which sometimes last weeks or longer.

This isn't a rag on Obamacare or fluff about my BFF. In his mother's words,"...now when we try to get prescriptions, the pharmacy tells us that there's a 2500 deductible (5000 yearly max) when the plan is for a 250 deductible and 500 yearly max. So the broker at Enroll Alaska says that Rees is not properly loaded into the system. But Premera says it's not them; it's the Marketplace. And of course the Marketplace says it's not them; it's Premera. In the meantime, his meds are $11,000 a month. We should only have to pay the first 500 for meds, then the plan picks up the rest. That's why we can't get any meds; because according to the computer, we owe $5000 which we don't have."

In my GenX Millenial mind, this is the part where I link to a gofundme campaign, or launch into a pep talk for the people who care to stalk social media, litter offices with letters or march in the streets. But in this case, shows of caring and donations will only get Rees so far. He needs a well-placed responsive soul with the power to fix this.

He bought a product which has evaporated --- his family was mandated to buy an insurance plan and is now being given the runaround by three disinterested parties. Please pray for resolution that really helps them, now.

Buon Natale

Dear Pope Francis (standing, second from left), who taught me the word Lampedusa, whose smiling face I felt beaming from Time covers all over New Sagaya last Sunday, and who is celebrating Christmas Mass in Rome this day --- Merry Christmas! May your earthly mother rejoice in her work being carried to such completion and your blessed Mother ensconce you in her mantle.

This is such a humbling, overflowing time of year. The cold weather (-17 this morning as I picked up one final gift) ensures that we'll probably stay parked for the next few days. I do not sled or stroll in single digits. We wish you a Merry Christmas. May your mug overflow and your public radio stay wired. Snuggle in! The miracle isn't dependent on us doing a thing, planning or preparation-wise. God is great.

I'm always in search of a resplendent Christmas(s), and regret that an impressive strain of stomach flu will keep me home tonight. I'll light candles and remember that Mary herself knew the resplendent Soul, with no need of the trappings I'm tempted to chase. It's the warmth of love, from one soul to another, that gives us security. So at this time of year I try to balance my sensory desires with the knowledge that God alone fulfills me. I've been reading a little bit of St. John of the Cross. He rivals Augustine in threatening the allure of my own appetites. Thank you to the friends who passed the book along. The guy is hardcore and I knew little of his biography until now.

I still like sparkly stuff.

 

sthughofcluny.org

 

 

Fear

Boy, if there is one behavioral subgroup that I just pray my children don't grow up to populate, it's that of people who tell long, earnest stories about the heroism and/or psychic nature of their pets. Especially over the radio.

For the Andy Rooney in all of us

This fine tribute sums up my experience pretty well, too. I still savor the childhood memories of my parents renting the actual VCR (it came in a huge plastic suitcase for $15 per night) alongside the VHS tapes we wanted to watch. As I recall, the remote control was on a long, thin cord which allowed a viewer to sit some distance from the TV, but not far enough to reach the couch ~ it sort of hung there like a waiting tripwire or jumprope.

As a teenager, my friend Tonya worked in the local video store and visiting her was an important stop in our route of eveningtide juvenile delinquency. There was an unwritten rule that if you wanted a movie poster that was currently displayed, all you had to do was ask and it became yours once its cycle on the wall was complete. That seemed really amazing, even glamorous, to me.

As a mother, video stores were a big deal to us for awhile, too --- I remember our oldest daughter, toddling, pacing off the four yards of Anchorman cases and reciting, "Papa. Papa. Papa. Papa," to each Will Ferrell mustachioed face. (I've never seen the movie but that still amuses me, Ron Burgundy is the name, no?) The clerk at our more recent haunt would exuberantly pass out terrible "free" candy, every single time.

I guess I like the depressive tone of that Weekly Standard piece. And I'm glad that our older girls have a small piece of their life that includes the video store outings. (Our second daughter was completely stressed out to first grasp the idea of Redbox --- she asked specifically about the girl who gave her lollipops, and if she had lost her job.) That sincere (if fatalistic) perspective in a four-year-old made us proud. So time marches on, I get it.

Having to brave the elements and bump into humanity at the video store was a chore, but in some ways it was a grounding ritual. It was a simple way to anticipate coziness.

NB: Maybe I can finally get my hands on a copy of Arachnophobia...

St. Francesca Xavier Cabrini, Virgin

November 13 is the feast of one of our family's patronesses for home education. Mother Cabrini is the first American citizen to be canonized, and she established 67 schools, hospitals and missions in her 67 years. She was physically small and sickly all her life, yet a magnetic force of love and piety in all she did. The inclusion of Xavier in her religious name is a nod to her own plans & designs (she hoped to go East), yet Pope Leo XIII asked that she serve the Italian immigrants in New York City.

I think she wouldn't have much patience with me and my tangential flakiness; maybe that's why I like to think she'll pray all the harder for our family.

You know how sometimes the lives of the Saints seem inaccessible, overly pious or just foreign to our times? I'm finally reading "Story of a Family" about the Martins. It's an engrossing read, they're terribly inspiring, especially since they're laity, but overall ... slightly exotic for me. I do love the way the temperaments of holy men and women run the gamut. Something about Mother Cabrini really appeals to us, and I cry when we read this slim jewel aloud during the first week of school lessons each year. While I haven't planned anything Italian or special (our day is too packed and the biggest of the little ones are recovering from head colds) to memorialize her, my constant prayers to conform my will to God's will are boosted by her example today.

Those Dominican men

 

 

(No, not those ones....)

On Finances, Facebook and Pornography as major contributors to divorce: "...But perhaps this trilogy is no great surprise after all. Finances, Facebook, and pornography reduce to man’s three great disordered values: money, power, and sex; and these three in turn are merely the failed versions of the three true values that guide human life: faith, hope, and love."

I particularly like the way Br. Gabriel expresses the necessity of hope.

You should read the rest. It's quick.

I Have Too Many Kids

I have too many kids to buy perky cylinders of just about anything. If our family goes on a jag of enjoying certain treats, it's time to consult kitchen-savvy friends, drag out the five-gallon buckets, and start hustling ingredients. Once in awhile I get rebellious, standing bleary-eyed in the grocery near midnight, and just toss that slim dose of French jam into my basket with optimism. "Maybe I'll hide it," I think to myself. This time will be different. More refined.

A week goes by and I'm shaking my head at my silly use of seven dollars. Not because the blueberry preserves were practically chugged straight from the jar by nude, bellowing toddlers --- but because of my own short-sightedness. My fixation on this image of a delicacy, and its prudent dispensation, having some power over my mood. Ain't nobody got time for that. As R.R. Reno observes, "we must be careful of living our theories rather than our lives", a line from this bright yellow volume that recently had me fist-pumping in the midnight sun.

I find myself conditioned to desire the fruits of shiny marketing in place of substance. And I just turned 35, so I'm supposed to know better. Be seasoned and practical in my decision-making, no? Plus I dread passing on such a superficial angst to my daughters. "Enjoy Your Toast. Don't Overthink The Jam." --- maybe put that on my grave.

This revelation goes for so many other jumbo-sized tub o' products, from the hair salon to the car dealers' lot itself. We who claim the quiver's arrow more than twice are banished from the line of polite cars with a simple front seat and back seat. Not for us! The motorcar's features turn from gleaming lifestyle imprimaturs like Bluetooth or sunroofs to purely utilitarian gain: "Washable floor mats? Pish posh. How about a 100% rubber floor in your fifteen-passenger van? Get a power washer and hose this bad boy down." Our cars are so big they have aisles. More to the point, I contend there's nothing quite as cool as barreling down the highway in a motorcade rivaling a presidential lineup, with m'bes'grlfrenz at the helm of every rig. We will mess you up.

I suddenly have too many kids to last very long in public playgrounds, where parents micro-organize every tot within striking distance. Let them play. Visit with your adult friends.

I have too many kids to hitch my calendar to most of the lovely organizations that I'm drawn to. Whether it's ballet for one or a concert for many of us, I'm still learning to consider the "rest of the family" and their limitations when discerning our schedule. For real.

I finally have too many kids to move around spontaneously or hang out at the bus station in Mexico City in lieu of pre-natal care. "...Bloom where you're planted" is the most wretched, promising and elusive of clichés for someone like me. We soldier on.

Perhaps a more astute soul can figure this stuff out with the prescribed 1.7 American children in their midst, but I've always been a late bloomer. As the story often goes, there was more to be revealed.

We have too many children to view our parenting impact as sacrosanct. God imbues each person with a dignity their own. By His grace, our children may live to see decades of opportunity. They could spend much of their adult lives around people we'll never meet. Our time with them is truly just a season, and they are not ours to contain.

We have too many children to believe we can craft them in our image. Should their character be revealed in ways that stir our tears, whether of pride or despair, we know it's their character being forged. Not ours. The journey is theirs. We can shepherd them, and their formation is our duty --- but having 4 or 5 different personalities blossoming together goes a long way to expose the futility of control over another's destiny.

We have too many children to spend time driving all over tarnation for things we can reasonably (re)produce at home. This applies to meals, much of modern entertainment, and certain forms of fellowship. Heroic exceptions are made for exposure to arts and letters, tacky parades, and church stuff.

We have too many children to revel much in professional goals, whether realized or still being pursued. Kids want to feed the ducks and ride bikes and chase pigs. They want to go swimming and pick up hitchhikers and count the stars. They want truth. My husband will never ask for his (numerous) (just bragging) service plaques and production awards at his deathbed. We hope only to join their struggles and achievements in a sane and sober way --- not eclipse their young lives with misplaced ambition and easy accolades. Kids know.

We have too many children to believe in fake activism. Seriously. Let's take a risk and love someone. May God pierce our crazy, selfish egos with His peace.

We have too many children to believe that "born healthy" is the ultimate gift. Life hurts. We cry out loud and drive in circles with death metal blaring, yelling at God. And He's there.

We have too many children to labor under the illusion that sex is meaningless. It makes new people, and those people deserve a family. The heaving, aching, fussing mound of issues and persnicketies that all families are, at times, but a family. With seven years of infertility at the front half of our marriage, Anthony and I are acutely aware of the life-giving power of sex, gone inexplicably dormant. Babies aren't merely a milestone, or a delay of real milestones, they're whole new people. Life is never diminished by the addition of a baby.

We have too many children to be scared (for long) by the notion of another pregnancy. They're our only lasting gift to each other and to their siblings.